The Bratva King (The Sokolov Empire #3)

1. Gabby

Gabby

My eyes sweep the dining room, searching for the threat I can feel but can’t see. The warning prickles at the back of my neck before crawling down my spine.

No one is looking at me, but I already feel caught.

I pull the envelope from my oversized purse and place it on the table. Everything feels too loud. Conversations hum around us. Coffee drips into another pot. The smell of greasy bacon and pungent eggs turns my stomach.

I swallow the nausea and stare at the man sitting across from me in a restaurant that feels far too exposed for the conversation we’re about to have.

“You’re sure about this?” Greg asks. His reading glasses are pushed into his gray hair, and he has a tired, fatherly look on his face. The dark circles under his eyes are proof he’s not sleeping any more than I am.

“No, I’m not sure, but I’m doing it anyway.”

I slide the envelope another inch toward him. Everything inside is a death sentence. The only question is who kills me—my husband or his family?

I’ve kept the paperwork hidden for three months. Every day it stayed in my possession was another chance Matteo would find it.

Greg opens the envelope and scans the first few pages. He looks up at me over his glasses when he reaches the statement about the murder I witnessed two weeks ago.

Now, he understands why I risked asking for this unscheduled meeting.

“I see,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry, Gabby.”

Tears burn my eyes.

I’ve known Greg for less than six months, but he’s been more of a father to me than mine ever was. If I could have chosen my father, it would have been Greg.

"This is good, Gabby." He closes the folder. "This is more than good. This corroborates everything our other informant gave us."

"So, what happens now?"

"Now you go home." He says it like it's simple. Like home is still a word that means something safe. "You go home; you play it normal. Dinner, television, whatever you two do. You don't act differently. You don't act nervous."

"I am nervous. I’m terrified. If he finds out—”

“He won’t,” Greg insists.

“Matteo has people everywhere,” I whisper.

As if to remind me of that fact, my phone buzzes with a text from Matteo.

Your location is off. Turn it on.

But I don’t do it. I can’t. I have a terrible habit of “accidentally” turning it off. I hate being tracked like a fucking dog. It’s only a matter of time before he places one under my skin like a prized piece of property he refuses to lose.

“You’re brave, Gabby. You can do this.”

I nod because I have to. My hand settles over my stomach before I can think about the gesture.

"Greg, what if—hypothetically—I were pregnant."

He looks up, concern flashing across his face.

"Are you?" he asks.

"I don't know. I think so. I can't walk into a pharmacy and buy a test without him finding out."

“I understand.”

“Am I still allowed to go into witness protection?” I ask. “What about a baby?”

He offers me a comforting smile. “It doesn't change anything about the program, Gabby. New identity, new social, new birth certificate for a baby when it arrives, same as you. You'd have the kid like anybody else does. Hospital, pediatrician, the whole thing. We've done it before."

I’m not going to cry. "You promise?"

"I promise." He almost smiles. "Kids change the math, but they don't break it."

Relief washes over me. I don’t need a test. I know I’m pregnant.

If Matteo finds out, I’ll never get away.

It’s been the reason he forces me into his bed every week.

I avoided getting pregnant until now, but it finally happened.

There were nights I wished it had happened sooner. It would have kept him off me. Maybe.

"Go home." Greg slides the folder into his bag. "I'll be in touch through the usual channel. A week, maybe two."

I pick up the bag from the luxury boutique I often shop at that has a back door. I’ve been shopping there once a week for the past three months. It’s the easiest cover. I grab a couple of items and head to the changing rooms that are in the same hall as the back door that does not have an alarm.

I sneak out, meet with Greg for five minutes, and sneak back in without Matteo knowing. But last week, Matteo questioned me. I’d been gone seven minutes. He noticed. I glance at the Cartier watch on my wrist. Three minutes.

“Don’t forget me, Greg,” I say.

“I would never.”

I leave first, the way I always do. The store is two blocks away. I jog back and sneak in the back door that I’ve left propped open. I smile at one of the customers and carry my bag through the store without making eye contact with the saleswoman.

Then, I push through the front door and onto the sidewalk. My guard looks up from his phone, eyes roaming over me in a way that Matteo would kill him for.

“Your husband is on his way.”

My stomach drops. I tell myself it’s fine. It’s normal. He sometimes insists on picking me up to take me out to eat. He doesn’t know what I’ve been doing.

I stand on the sidewalk and watch the street. I’m calm on the outside. I pretend to be bored, looking at my nails and tapping my foot.

The guard stands a little straighter, and my eyes follow his gaze. The black Mercedes has turned onto the street. I brace myself to deal with Matteo. My husband is cruel. He’ll insult me. Maybe he’ll hit me. I never know what kind of mood he’s in.

I step forward, ready to hop into the passenger seat so he doesn’t have to park for more than thirty seconds. The guard moves to the curb, putting up his hand in case Matteo doesn’t notice us.

I feel the percussion before my brain registers what’s happening.

The Mercedes launches into the air. A fireball. Scorching heat. I’m knocked to the ground. I drop my bag. Someone screams. I realize it’s me. The sound doesn't feel like it's coming from somewhere outside my body.

I feel the heat on my skin and the pain in my hip and along my arm. Little pricks of pain rain down on me. I put my arm over my face when I realize it’s glass. Glass is raining on me. Glass from the storefronts and the car.

I stare at a ball of flame twenty feet away. My ears are ringing. And then, I see my guard. His body is partially in the street. Blood pools beneath him, and his legs are contorted at unnatural angles.

“Miss! Are you okay?”

I stare up at the man standing over me with his phone to his ear.

Car alarms fill the air when the ringing in my ear finally quiets.

More screams and shouts. I look around and see other bodies littering the sidewalk.

A bloody shoe is abandoned in the street.

The smell of rubber and gasoline hits me hard, and I nearly vomit.

And then I look at what’s left of the car Matteo had been driving. It’s nothing more than a burning shell. I search for him in the wreckage, but all I see is fire.

I scramble to my feet, ignoring the glass that dug into my palm. I try to run. My legs don’t feel like they’re attached to my body, but I manage to make them move. I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to get away.

The restaurant is ahead. Maybe Greg is still there. My head spins, and I stagger through my dizziness. I bump into a man with his phone out, recording the carnage behind me.

He pushes me off him, but I keep moving, one foot in front of the other. My purse with my phone is gone. Greg’s number. My only hope for salvation is back there.

“Gabriella!”

Arms grab me from behind. I scream and fight, my nails raking down a forearm.

“Gabriella, it’s me.”

My body sags when I recognize Greg’s voice.

“He’s dead.” My voice is raspy, my throat painfully dry.

Greg reaches down, and in a move that belies his age, he lifts me and starts walking. I hear him talking, but I feel like I’m floating.

When I open my eyes again, I’m lying in a bed in a dark room.

“There she is,” Greg says from a chair next to me.

“Where am I?”

“Boston.”

“What?”

“I had to get you out of the city. We’re in a safehouse for now.”

And then I remember everything. Matteo. The explosion. He’s dead. I’m free.

But it doesn’t feel real.

Pain rolls through me. “Ow.”

Greg gets up, moves to the bed, and sits on the edge. “You’re okay,” he says. “You have a concussion. Some bumps and bruises. A few cuts. One on your arm required a few stitches.”

My hand moves to my stomach.

He notices. “The doctor checked, and things appear to be fine. He assures me that at this early stage, the baby is well protected. He checked for a heartbeat.”

“He did?”

He smiles. “You’ll need a full exam. I got to hear the little nugget’s heart pumping along. He or she is very strong. We’ll make sure you get all the prenatal care you need. Doctor said to watch for signs of bleeding, but he didn’t see any issues.”

A tear slides down my cheek. He pats my leg under the blanket.

“How did I get here?”

“I heard the explosion,” he says. “I had a feeling… I found you on the sidewalk. Do you remember?”

I look at his arm and see the gauze. “Sorry.”

He smiles. “No worries. You were fighting. I loaded you in my car and drove away. Called my doctor friend to check you over. We’re off the books here.”

“What about wit sec?”

“We’ve had to change plans.”

“What?”

“They know.”

My head hurts so damn bad. I can’t think straight. “What do you mean?”

“Someone leaked,” he says. “My source tells me the don found out about the RICO case. He was afraid Matteo might flip, so he had him taken out. They’re looking for you. My source will be getting out soon.”

“How did they find out?” I ask.

“I don’t know, honey. But I had to get you out of there. You’re officially dead.”