Chapter 6
SCORPION
“Here we are,” I announce to Ekaterina as I slide my Navigator into park in an underground garage. “Home sweet home.”
We’re not near her apartment, but we are deep in Bratva territory, at the pin Saint dropped me when he texted that I needed to bring my Russian package back to the city, ASAP. I don’t like coming in without backup, but I didn’t have a choice.
Ekaterina’s response is muffled by duct tape, which is just as well, because I’m reasonably sure it’s an insult or another threat to my anatomy.
About half an hour ago, I made a pit stop on the way back into the city at one of our warehouses to cuff and muzzle her.
I wasn’t about to take her into enemy territory making it look like she had me wrapped around her little finger and she’d been on a vacation for the last two days.
It was bad enough I’d allowed her sufficient leeway that she’d nearly unarmed me and used my own Glock against me at lunch. A few seconds, a distraction, a reflex that was too damn slow, and she’d have pulled it on me.
Truth is, I’d been distracted. First by her lips.
I’d been standing there, watching her consume her salad and bread with gusto, wishing it were my dick instead.
Then she’d choked, and I’d been concerned for her welfare.
Like she was mine to take care of and protect instead of a hostage I’d taken to use as a pawn against her asshole of a brother.
It hadn’t been one of my finer moments.
Cazzo, I’d deserved to get shot.
Fortunately, I’d caught her little game at the last second, before it was too late.
Two days of watching her every move, making sure she didn’t so much as blink an eye without my approval, and I’d almost slipped up right before I had to take her back to her piece-of-shit brother.
The order, when it had come from Saint and Priest earlier, had shocked me, not going to lie. I’d expected to keep her longer, to use her as leverage against Mikhail Sidorov. To drag this out and make him pay.
But somewhere along the way, the Bratva had gotten their hands on Saint’s girl, Isla.
When word came to me from Saint and Priest that I had to return to the city, bringing Ekaterina with me, I had packed up like I was on fire and threw together a salad and the frozen bread I’d baked this morning, courtesy of Zia Maria.
I realize I’m tense as I roll my shoulders, taking stock of my surroundings.
There are no signs that someone is lying in wait, preparing to clip me.
But I wouldn’t put it past those Bratva bastards to try something.
Especially after what went down when they blew up one of our restaurants.
Not long ago, there had been a truce between us that we’d worked hard to build.
A pact I’d made with Dmitri Sidorov, the middle sibling, not the youngest hellcat or the oldest batshit-crazy motherfucker.
We had an understanding. More than that, I’d counted Dmitri a friend. But then Mikhail Sidorov had been crowned Pakhan, and everything had gone to hell in a handbasket.
“Mrrrrfffrrrr,” Ekaterina protests from the back seat.
“Look, I need you to stay calm and do what I tell you,” I order her sternly. “If you do that, you won’t get hurt.”
Her eyes are wide and raging with angry fire.
Even in the dark shadows of the parking garage, I can see that.
She’s not happy about being cuffed and having duct tape on her mouth again.
I won’t say it didn’t kill me to cover those fuckable lips with shiny silver.
But she’s a means to an end. Blood comes first. The family comes first. And when it comes down to it, I’m another Andriani soldier, willing to do anything my brothers ask of me.
I get out of the Navigator, holding my piece.
I’m not stupid enough to believe I’ll be able to get it past the first set of doors we enter, but I’m not leaving it until I have to.
Still keeping an eye out, I open the back and haul out my hostage, who’s still yelling unintelligible protests at me like it’s going to get her anywhere.
Spoiler alert: it’s not. The only place she’s going is back to big brother’s side. Let him be her keeper instead of me. I’m fine with it. Ekaterina Sidorova is a colossal pain in the ass, even if she does have a body I could worship for days on end.
We make it halfway across the parking garage before she starts digging in, trying to get away. I don’t know why she bothers. She’ll never outrun me, and she’s no match for my superior height and muscles, even if she is strong as fuck with the spectacularly honed body of a ballerina.
Annoyed, I bend and catch her midsection with my shoulder, hauling her over it in one efficient motion.
She hangs there like a rag doll for a second before it sinks in, and then she starts flailing.
I don’t give a fuck. She can kick and scream all she wants.
I’m not dragging her into this goddamn meeting by her hair.
True to my suspicions, a pair of Bratva goons greets us at the first door.
“Andriani,” I tell them. “Here to deliver the package to Pakhan.”
They are expressionless, unsmiling. One of them takes my gun, while the other pats me down to check for additional weapons.
Ekaterina lands a kick in his gut, and he grunts but otherwise acts like nothing happened.
The other gets on his phone and says a few terse words in Russian.
We’re given the all clear, and they guide us deeper into the building.
We make it past checkpoints until we finally reach the inner sanctum, Ekaterina fighting me every step of the way.
She’s even landing some solid blows.
Bratva guards are stationed on either side of the door, along with two Andriani guys I recognize. The angry ballerina slung over my shoulder isn’t any more impressed with me now than she was on the car ride back to the city.
I nod to our men, then turn back to the Bratva muscle. “I come bearing gifts.”
Ekaterina starts protesting even more fiercely, no doubt cursing me or threatening my balls, legs starting to kick. She doesn’t want to go through this door any more than I do. But like me, she doesn’t have a choice.
“You’re expected,” bites out one of the Bratva goons, and then the door opens.
I stride inside, my eyes instantly going to my brothers across the room. Their expressions are carefully neutral, but I can read them both well enough to know that shit’s gone sideways and not at all according to plan. Also that they’re both furious with me.
Fine. We’ll deal with that later. For now, I have a Russian hellcat to deliver.
She’s still wriggling and squirming, her shouts muffled by the duct tape. I spank her ass soundly, something I’ve been wanting to do since I first laid eyes on her. Unfortunately, we aren’t alone in my bedroom, and this is all for show.
“Behave,” I warn her harshly.
Sidorov is presiding over everything like a despotic king, looking entertained. I fucking hate the bastard.
“I have a present to deliver,” I tell him before depositing a still-thrashing captive into an empty chair in this makeshift meeting room.
It’s not her brother she’s pinning with a glare as she shakes the silky, dark hair out of her eyes. It’s me. I have no doubt that if she could disembowel me here before everyone, she would.
She may be a gorgeous, elegant ballerina, but Ekaterina Sidorova is made of thorns and teeth and claws. Reluctantly, I look away from her, prepared for whatever comes next.
Sidorov chuckles. “She is a wild one. Perhaps you’ll be man enough to handle her, Andriani.” His accent is heavy, tinged from the years he’s spent in exile in Russia. He gives me a disdainful once-over. “But then again, perhaps not. We shall see, da?”
Everything in me goes cold as I turn to Priest.
“What the fuck is he talking about?”
My eldest brother doesn’t answer me. Just stares back at me with an unforgiving expression, revealing nothing. I have a sick feeling I’m not going to like whatever fucking bargain it was that he had to strike with Sidorov to get Saint’s woman back safely.
Sidorov rattles off something to Ekaterina in Russian, his voice like the lash of a whip. She goes pale, the fight seeping out of her, eyes wide.
What the hell did he just say? And why should I care?
Easy. I don’t. I stare back at Ekaterina, the woman I’ve been holding hostage for two days, and I feel what I’ve been trained to feel, what this life has taught me to feel.
Fucking nothing. Whatever happens to her doesn’t have anything to do with me.
Even if Sidorov decides to kill her. That’s his prerogative. She’s his problem, not mine.
“I believe you owe us four people,” Priest addresses Sidorov then, his voice hard.
Pakhan nods and instructs one of his guards to bring out their “guests.” The door to the meeting room opens, and Isla and three of our guys, including Priest’s driver Rocco, come pouring through it.
Holy shit, no wonder they were emphatic about my returning Ekaterina to Sidorov.
They had three of our best men along with Isla, and from the looks of them, they must have put up one hell of a fight to defend themselves.
Saint is out of his chair in a blink, rushing across the empty space and hauling Isla into his arms.
“Alessio,” she chokes out, clinging to him.
Saint is worrying over her, demanding to know if she’s hurt.
I look away from their reunion, uncomfortable with the outpouring of emotion.
It’s so fucking unlike Saint. He must be gone over this woman.
I meet Rocco’s gaze. He looks like shit, pale and ashen, but he’s standing on his own two feet.
I give him a nod, relieved it’s not worse.
I feel Ekaterina’s eyes on me, watching, shooting daggers, but I don’t look in her direction.
“I’m fine.” Isla is reassuring Saint, dragging my attention back to her. “But Rocco got shot. And Santino and Giovanni got into it with the men who took us. I think they all need to get checked out.”
She has to tell him more than once before he’s willing to accept it.
“We done here?” Saint asks Priest, his voice tense and edged with tightly leashed fury.
I glance back at our eldest brother. Priest is in the middle of signing a contract of some sort.
“All we need is Sidorov’s signature,” he says.
Sidorov is still looking faintly amused by all this.
He takes up a pen and scribbles out his signature on both copies of the document. “It’s done.”
Priest picks up his copy of the agreement. “We’ll be in touch to hammer out the specifics—the when and the where of the wedding.”
Wedding? Jesus fuck, that’s not what I expected.
Apparently one of the sorry bastards in our ranks is going to be sacrificed to matrimonial bliss with a Bratva princess.
Marriages have been used to ease tensions in the past, but I didn’t see this as Priest’s play to get us out of a war with the Russians.
“Agreed,” Sidorov purrs smugly, extending his hand. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Andriani.”
Priest takes it, shaking with him. “I wish I could say the same.”
“The wedding?” I repeat, not liking the idea of aligning ourselves with these shifty bastards through blood ties. “Who’s getting married?”
My older brother looks straight at me. My older brother whom I love, whose wedding I just stood up in not long ago, the don I would lay down my life for. And what I see in his eyes is fucking chilling.
“You are,” he says to me.
“The fuck? I’m not getting married.” I look around the room, feeling like I just walked into an ambush and I’m about to go down in a hail of bullets. “No fucking way.”
Something dawns on me. My eyes go to Ekaterina. The answer is there, staring back at me.
I jab a thumb in her direction. “Her? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’m not marrying that spawn of Satan.”
“You have some time to acquaint yourself with the idea,” Sidorov says, sounding pleased with himself.
I’m going to kill this bastard. I’m going to hunt him down and slit his throat myself. Watch him gasp for his last breath as he bleeds out.
“We’ll talk soon,” Priest says curtly, signaling that it’s time for us all to get the fuck out.
Fine by me. I can’t wait to leave this place. The only way they’re going to get me back here is if I’m fucking dead. I toss the keys to Ekaterina’s cuffs on the table before I go.