Page 106 of Stolen By The Bratva King

My wedding ring is on the table. I planned to leave it behind for Emery, but the thought of going to my death without it on my finger seems wrong.

Without breaking my stride, I pick up the ring and slide it into place, the gold warming with my body heat.

We should have had our whole lives together.

It’s okay. I’ll die, but she will live.

It’s enough.

55

Emery

Desi is asleep again. How he can rest on this cold floor, I don’t know, but I guess he’s used to this kind of thing. I hate to think of his blameless life ending in this horrible way.

The steel collars around our necks are fastened to chains of the kind used to tether livestock. They are securely tied to a thick ceiling beam, and after a week of wear, the welts on my skin are sore beneath the metal.

Dante asked me yesterday if I wanted breakfast, and I chose that moment to be sarcastic and ask for pastries. He gave me a backhand that cut my cheekbone and served the usual lumpy cream of corn. I don’t know why I baited him, but I’m not the same Emery he bullied and belittled.

Bernio Reggiani returned earlier with supplies, including croissants. He handed me the paper bag, and Dante’s thunderous expression was almost funny as I shared the food with Desi.

Don Reggiani never misses a chance to undermine his son; pettiness could be his defining characteristic without his sadistic cruelty. Dante and his father despise each other with a bone-chilling level of commitment.

Bernio flat out refuses to explain where he went today, but neither will he return Dante’s car key. The old man sits in his chair, the only pistol nestled in his lap, ruling over his son without saying a word.

Something bad will happen tonight. Dante wants to leave, but his father won’t have it, so the missing element can only be Leon.

We all know it. Don Reggiani has told Leon where we are, and there’s gonna be a reckoning. We will not all survive it.

Desi’s quiet snores break into a hacking cough, and I frown. He has what doctors call rales: a crackling sound in his chest caused by fluid building up. The kid is sick; something in his lungs is screwing with him.

“Dante.”

He glances up at the sound of my voice. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Desi isn’t doing so good,” I say carefully. “That’s why he sleeps so much. He’s no use to you. Why don’t you ask your father to take him to the roadside somewhere and call an ambulance? They’d take him away, get him some care.”

Dante scoffs, but it’s Reggiani who speaks. “Do you think I give a fuck?” He takes a swig from a bottle of theaperitivohe favors. “If he dies, he dies. Not my problem.”

“That’s my Papa all over, Emery,” Dante says. He’s not looking at me; his gaze is fixed on his father, his lip twisted into a sneer. “He is always out for himself, even if he says otherwise. And he still can’t kill a kid.”

Reggiani’s tone is freakishly calm. “What does that mean?”

“You failed to kill Leon when he was a boy. By killing his parents, you turned a rich brat into someone capable of leading the fucking bratva.”

Dante grins. “We could never have run this city. Three decades is enough time to wash away most sins, but not yours.”

There’s a minute of silence. Then Dante speaks up again.

“Papa, give me my fucking keys. I don’t know what you did, but I’m not staying here to find out.”

“You’ll stay, son, and see the consequences of your stupidity play out.” Reggiani meets Dante’s glare with one ten times more venomous, and Dante wilts. “You’re right—I want what I want, and no one will take it from me, especially not a loser like you.”

“Leon Vasiliev will unleash Hell if we?—”

“He won’t. Not while we have his woman.”

Dante buries his head in his hands. “Dammit, Papa. That’s exactlywhywe’re screwed.”

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