Page 38 of Ruthless Bratva King

When I reach her table, her gaze locks onto mine, noticing something’s wrong even as I keep my expression neutral. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” My tone is soft but firm. No room for questions.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t argue. Smart girl.

I lean toward her chair, keeping my voice low. “Listen to me. I need you to stay right here. Don’t move. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. Just finish your drink and wait for me to come back.”

Her brows knit together, but she nods. “Why? What’s happening?”

“There are things I need to handle.” I glance at the men at the bar. They’re careful not to look in my direction, but I can feel their focus shift. They know I’ve spotted them.

Elena follows my gaze, then looks back at me. “Is it those two?”

“What makes you say that?”

“They keep looking at me. Who are they?”

I touch her knee lightly. “You’ve got a good eye,moya lisitsa. Stay here.”

“Dmitri—”

“Trust me.” My voice drops lower, sharper, cutting off any protest. “I’ll be right back. Act normal.”

She exhales, tension radiating off her in waves, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she leans back in her chair and takes a sip of her wine, as if she’s perfectly at ease.

I stand and walk away, my shoulders squared, my gaze fixed on the back of the bar.

The bartender glances up as I approach, his face unreadable, but his hands steady as he pours a clear shot of vodka without a word.

I take it, down it in one clean motion, and slide the glass back to him. “Spasibo,” I murmur, low and curt.

He opens the hatch so I can slip behind the bar. The instant I’m there, I duck down, now invisible to the clientele.

He nods once at me as I crawl past, his hands already reaching for a towel to wipe the counter. He knows better than to ask questions.

The Lombardi men were seated near the front of the bar, their postures tense but their movements subtle, designed not to draw attention.

Amateurs. The more you try to blend in, the more obvious you become to someone who knows what to look for.

I take my time, moving deliberately, giving them no reason to suspect what’s coming. I get to the far end of the bar, slipping through the fire exit before sprinting to the next door.

When I emerge back into the bar, I’m behind them. They’re still watching Elena. The two of them are on their feet, about to make their move.

Imbeciles.

The first man doesn’t even hear me approach. I grab the back of his head, slamming it down onto the polished bar with a sickening crack.

The second man whips around, his hand darting toward his jacket, but I’m faster. My arm shoots out, catching him by the throat and lifting him halfway out of his seat before slamming his head into the first man’s.

The impact reverberates through my arm, and both men collapse like rag dolls, unconscious before they hit the floor.

The room around us barely stirs. A few patrons glance over, curious but not alarmed, assuming it’s a drunken scuffle. The bartender doesn’t even look up, polishing glasses with practiced indifference.

Igor appears, as if summoned by some unspoken signal. He stops a few steps away, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. “Plan C again, sir?”

“Yes,” I say, brushing my hands together as if dusting off crumbs.

Without another word, he moves into action, signaling to a pair of staff members who materialize from a side door.

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