Page 10 of The Bratva King's Pregnant Bride

Just then, the door opened and Artem walked in, glancing at Natasha. He paused mid-stride, clearly hesitant to intrude.

I raised a brow, then glanced down at Natasha, who grinned and licked my pinky ring suggestively. In truth, I was relieved for the interruption; I wouldn’t have to pretend I was enjoying Natasha’s blowjob as much as I usually did.

I jerked my head toward the door, and Natasha took the hint. Her eyes widened a bit, but she got to her feet wordlessly. She left, pouting—but knowing better than to protest.

I chuckled at her obvious disappointment, then gestured for Artem to approach.

“I would have left,” Artem said, frowning. “Nothing so important. Only wanted to tell you I have all you instructed me to get.”

I shook my head, my eyes flicking toward the door Natasha had disappeared through, then returning to my right-hand man. “She can wait—this can’t. Fill me in. What have I missed?”

Artem looked at the tablet in his hands. “Our man at the airport said they caught sight of someone returning to New York. Someone you once forced out.”

I didn’t need to think much to know who it was. I grimaced, growling. “Mike.”

Artem nodded. “Yes. Mike Simmons.”

I scowled. Mike Simmons had led a gang called the ‘Red Jackets’ into our territory a few years back. They’d committed petty crimes, breaking into houses and the like; then, they’d moved on to bank robberies, careful to avoid banks and investment holdings under our protection. They’d made a lot of noise, frightened a lot of people, and even had the police force scared.

Merely a few mosquitoes compared to our organization—but annoying, nonetheless.

“I’ve asked our guys on the streets to keep eyes on him,” Artem continued as I fiddled with the signet ring on my smallest finger. “We need to know why he’s here and where he lays his head.”

“Killing him would be the better option.” I smoothed my beard, coldblooded in my logic, like I’ve always been. I had to be.

Artem pursed his lips. “That would start a war for sure, but nothing we can’t handle.” He straightened, crossing his arms and lifting his chin. “I can call the men to rally so we can have this dealt with.”

My mind swirled through all possible outcomes; finally, deciding to see how it played out, I shook my head. “No. We just formed a new partnership, and we must protect our own. Bringing all our forces to one city, all for the sake of one man… it’s not worth it. I say we put it to bed. Let it rest.”

But should I, really? Complacency nearly bit me in the ass before.

At the time, the heat on the street, added to the knowledge that getting rid of the Red Jackets would involve an army, disrupting business, financial organizations had gotten wise and signed us as partners. That, of course, was only to our benefit, giving us perfect vehicles for laundering money.

It was then that the greed had began—Mike’s greed. We had the men to push him out. We made more money than he did. He wanted to be like me. He wanted what I had, but he didn’t how to approach me—or challenge me.

Many advised him against a direct confrontation with me, and I was informed of every move he made.

It wasn’t long before Mike dumped all the advice he’d received and initially adhered to. He got bold. He began pushing drugs in my territory, attempted to steal our customers, and threatened our pushers and buyers, all while we stayed silent.

Only, not for long. I barked a laugh, prompting an odd look from Artem.

I finally had enough when Mike shot one of our dealers, injuring a buyer in the process, to send a message. The latter was taken to the hospital, the former on the brink of death when we stormed Mike’s hideout.

I narrowed my eyes, vaguely aware of Artem shifting on his feet by the door as my mind raced through the memories dredged up by news of Mike’s return.

All along, I’d known where he stayed. The move had been stupid enough that I went myself, patiently waiting for news that the pusher was dead so I could justify killing Mike, ending his brief reign of terror—not that I needed to explain myself to anyone, but there were rules about this sort of thing.

I remembered it, clear as day. I stood with a cigar in hand, watching while my men opened fire at Mike’s men all around me, dropping them like flies.

We dropped the last of Mike’s defenses, shooting his shoulder to disarm him, and then we surrounded him. I just stood waiting, blowing smoke rings while the Bratva looked to me for the kill order.

The call had finally come in, only to inform me that our pusher would survive.

I’d been disappointed. Part of me had wanted the dealer to die so I could send Mike to hell with a clear conscious. However, even the Mafia had silent codes and principles; it’s the main thing that separated us from the common criminals on the street.

I exhaled and dropped my cigar to the ground, stepping on it. Slowly approaching the leader of the Red Jackets, I’d looked the coward dead in the eye and warned him: “Should I ever see you in New York again, consider yourself dead.”

Artem coughed, drawing me back to the present. Turning my head, I stared at him long enough that a normal man would have been squirming. Artem, however, was no common man; he only stared back stoically.

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