Page 103 of Stolen By The Bratva King

Desi was working on eating a bologna sandwich, but the angry voices had put him off. I pull him under my arm and shield his ears from the bad words, but he’s shaking.

He remembers Dante from when he was on The Cobra, and I know he’s afraid he’ll be thrown back into the life he endured with his mom.

The conflict between our captors is simple enough: Don Reggiani believes that Dante is the biggest fuck-up in history.

He was supposed to establish himself as a wealthy member of the New York elite, infiltrate the underworld, and bring his father’s name to the top of the pile where it was almost four decades ago.

He failed spectacularly, partly due to the meddling of a certain Leon Vasiliev, bratva boss and the most powerful man in the city.

Leon stole me from Dante, ruined him financially, and humiliated him in every way he could, but he did all those things to free me from my shitty life and punish my ex-fiance for his treatment of me. Naturally, Leon assumed that’s what the whole mess was about.

As it turns out, it boils down to an almost laughable coincidence.

As a six-year-old child, Leon shot Reggiani in self-defense when the man broke in and murdered his parents.

But the cops lied to the young Leon; Reggiani survived. He sold out all his mafia cronies in return for a faked death and a new life in Italy. The mafia in New York were chastened by the crackdowns, their relationship with law enforcement eroded, and chaos sank its teeth into the city.

The bottom line is simple: Dante doesn’t care anymore. His father was pulling strings, waiting to make his glorious return, but he didn’t realize how unsuited Dante was to build a criminal empire.

Now, Reggiani has a new goal: Leon’s death. He doesn’t care how many bodies stack up—even if it includes his son’s.

Reggiani isn’t happy about Dante’s choice of insult. He picks up his empty coffee cup and hurls it at him, missing by a foot, and the ceramic smashes against the wall above our heads. Then he’s standing over his son, his hand outstretched.

“Give me your car keys,” he says, his voice unnervingly measured. “Now, or I’ll break your nose in front of your girl.”

I’mnothis girl. I never was.

Don’t think of Leon, Emery.Now isn’t the time.

Too late.Fat tears roll down my cheeks, dripping into Desi’s hair.

54

Leon

God help me. I recognize him now. His jowls are saggier, his eyes duller, but it’s him.

Don Bernio Reggiani.When I last saw him, he was flat on his back, a neat hole puncturing his sternum.

They told me he was dead. Everyone said so. How could I have never heard otherwise in over thirty years?

“Don’t look so shocked,” Reggiani says. “Faking a death is easy, and the cops are professionals at it. Witness protection does it all the time.”

He shakes his head as I reflexively reach into my jacket. “I wouldn’t,piccolo stronzo. I have a proposition for you, and it’s in your wife’s interests for you to hear it.”

Piccolo stronzo.After everything went wrong, I asked a friendly Italian-American officer what it meant when I was waiting in the precinct.

He wouldn’t tell me, but I found out later that it meant, ‘little fucker.’ I remember Reggiani calling it in a sing-song voice as he crept through my house, looking for me.

Josef is crying quietly. I want to comfort him, but I can’t take my eyes off this apparition before me.

Is he real?Why?

For years, my only consolation came from knowing that Reggiani was dead, shot by me when I finally found my stones.

Now I discover I didn’t even get that right.

I want to square my shoulders like the man I am, but I find myself retreating, taking small steps backward.

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