Page 22 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I zoom the camera until it frames Emery’s tearful face. She looks so defeated, so broken, and I can’t stand it.

“Don’t worry,” I say, touching the screen with my thumb as though I’m wiping her tears away. “No one will hurt you ever again, I swear.”

17

Six days later…

Leon

Ipause at the bottom of the church steps, taking a moment to center myself. It’s been a long week of meticulous planning and careful maneuvering, but it’s also been a week of watching—and waiting.

I’m making her mine, and I’ll be damned if anyone stands in my way.

Emery may not have realized I was there, but I could tell, more than once, that she sensed me.

The way her head turned just a fraction when I walked past her café window. The slight widening of her eyes when she caught my reflection in a car window outside her apartment.

I’m sure she blamed an overactive imagination brought on by the stress of her upcoming marriage. But her shoulders stiffened whenever I was near, as though her body knew something her mind refused to accept

I’ve shadowed Emery too much this past week. It was an indulgence I shouldn’t have allowed myself, but I couldn’t help it.

With endless duties and responsibilities calling me, I dumped it all to track her like a man hunting a beautiful, endangered animal.

And shewasendangered until she met me. Anyone who touches her now will lose their hand and possibly other parts they value even more.

This whole scheme—uprooting her life, intercepting her wedding, making her future my business—isn’t something I ever planned for. But once my obsession took root, I stopped wanting to resist.

Emery needs someone who understands her better than she understands herself, who can see past her walls and insecurities and show her what it means to be valued. And I’m her man.

A sleek black sedan pulls up beside mine, and Roman and Viktor step out.

I’m glad to see my oldest friends and allies; although I have everything lined up and ready, there’s always a chance this could go to Hell, and they always have my back.

“Gentlemen,” I say.

Roman inclines his head slightly. “You good to go?”

“More than ready,” I say. “But you could have dressed up for the occasion. It is a wedding, you know.”

Roman gestures incredulously at his twelve thousand-dollar suit. “I missed you too, you fucking reprobate. I can’t remember when I last attended a wedding that was not so much arranged as forced, but I like it. Positively medieval.”

“On that note,” I say, taking my gun from the holster under my jacket, “are we all tooled up for trouble? I’m not expecting it, but Dante is a wildcard, so better to be prepared.”

Viktor produces a pistol and a butterfly knife, and I frown.

“Tovarishch, why are you such a savage?” I ask. “Knives are sopersonal.”

He shrugs. “I like to have the option. You know, if someone pisses me off enough that I have to get nasty.”

I think of Dante’s smug face, my chest flaring with rage, and I hold out my hand. “You know what? You convinced me. Hand it over.”

Roman opens his jacket to show me his semi-automatic. “Spetnaz special, just for you,” he says. “Great for crowd control.”

We check our weapons, a formality more than anything else. We’re not here to start a bloodbath, but we’ll sure as Hell end one.

The church is filled with guests, none with the faintest idea of what will happen.

But before the fun starts, I need to take out the trash.

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