Page 111 of Stolen By The Bratva King

“Yep. He had quite the head start, or we’d have gotten here sooner.” Roman furrows his brow and peers into the back seat. “Who’s this little guy?”

“Desi. He’s with us.”

Desi gives Roman and Viktor a shy wave. He seems comforted by them, and I realize it’s because they’re clearly cut from the same cloth as Leon.

“Okay. I’m driving,” Roman says. He points at Desi and smiles. “Keep your seatbelt on, kid.”

Roman takes my hand and helps me out of the car. “Don’t worry, Emery. Reggiani has died twice already. Third time’s the fucking charm.”

58

Leon

The two halves of me are at war.

On one side stands the man who knows what he’s losing. The husband who loves his wife.

That man wants to beg, claw, scream, debase himself, anything to make this stop. My soul on a platter, even, served up to The Devil like a fuckinghors d’oeuvreif it meant I could have a future with the woman who dug my heart from beneath a landslide of pain and nursed it back to health.

On the other side is the bratva boss, the coldly pragmatic creature who knows exactly how this will play out.

Movies lie; in a situation like this, both parties are gonna eat lead, and beyond that, you can only hope Lady Luck gives you the glad eye.

Reggiani can take a good headshot when he wants to; he shot my father in the face from twice the distance, so I’m betting I’ll get the same treatment.

No point beating around the bush.

“I should have killed you thirty-four years ago,” Reggiani says.

“And I thought I’d killedyou.” I shrug. “So it’s about as fair as it gets. Anything to say before we do this?”

“Actually, yes.” Reggiani arches a brow. “I’m surprised and impressed to see how far you went. Your parents are no doubt rolling in their graves to know what a lawless bastard you became.”

My grip tightens on my gun. “This city is safer under me than it was during the bad times. And you, a so-called mafia Don, brought everyone low by not only murdering innocent people but seeding suspicion and paranoia. Who would have guessed that the great Bernio Reggiani was a filthy snitch?”

“You think I should be ashamed?” Reggiani laughs. “Think again,piccolo stronzo.”

“And Dante?” I ask. “You made him believe he was meant for something, but he didn’t have a prayer. Did you really sit in some olive grove in Italy, dreaming of the day when your weasel of a son would be the second coming of the Reggianis?”

His nostrils flare; I’m getting to him.

Good.It’s all I have left; a chance to stick him where it hurts.

“I wishyou’dbeen my son,” Reggiani says ruefully. “It kills me to say that, but no one else will ever hear it, so I may as well speak it aloud.”

“I don’t blame you, but I would rather be six feet under.”

“Good job that’s where we’re both headed, then.”

We’re playing now, trading insults and stalling the inevitable. He and I both know we’re dead men.

Emery is gloriously, vitally alive. My fears were never about myself; I wanted to know she would be safe. Anything else was a bonus; if my life was forfeit, that was no big ask. I never wanted to live without her.

I didn’t anticipate how bad it would feel to know she would have to live without me.

She will grieve, cry, wring her hands, and hurt like never before. Perhaps she won’t eat, fading away as her broken heart starves her body and soul.

Will she remember who she is, for my sake?

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