Page 23 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I spot Dante at the front of the church, flanked by a couple of his buddies and laughing as if today is nothing more than a routine business transaction. He’s brimming with counterfeit confidence, exuding that swagger he thinks makes him seem intimidating.

He’s another one who doesn’t keep a close enough eye on his surroundings. That characteristic alone makes him and Emery well-suited.

As I approach, one of the lackeys grins and claps Dante on the shoulder.

“You’re doing the right thing, boss,” he says. “The girl needs a firm hand to shape her. She’s soft. A bit of a mess, honestly.”

“Don’t worry. I’m working on it.”

Dante’s chuckle turns my stomach. “Once she’s mine, she’ll be on a strict regimen. No more of this indulgent nonsense. A little starvation and plenty of gym time, and she’ll learn to fit my standards. She’s got potential. Just needs discipline.”

The rage that burns through me is almost blinding. The thought of Emery being reduced to some malleable, frightened thing makes my blood boil.

I step closer, making sure he notices me. He glances over, surprised, and his expression falters as the dumb shit recognizes me.

“We need to talk, Dante,” I say. “In private.”

The goons drift away, sensing the danger, and I’m gratified to see that Dante doesn’t command much real loyalty. He smirks, feigning nonchalance, but I can see the uncertainty in his eyes.

His nose is still messed up where I punched him, and his hand flies to it for an instant before he steels himself.

“No can do, asshole.” He pulls himself to his full height but is still eight inches shorter than me. “Take a seat at the back or, ideally, in the road outside. I’m busy.”

It takes a special kind of arrogance to come to my city and make waves without doing any due diligence. This cunt has no idea who he’s dealing with.

I step closer and press the cold metal of my gun against Dante’s ribs.

“I said we need to talk,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Do you still think it’s a request, you fucking moron?”

Dante’s eyes dart around, checking if anyone’s noticed, but I’ve angled us so we’re hidden from most of the congregation. His hangers-on are too distracted, assuming he’s handling some last-minute wedding detail.

He knows better than to push it. With a barely restrained snarl, he mutters, “Fine. Vestry. Now.”

He walks, and I follow close behind until we reach the vestry door. I close it behind us, and as I turn to face him, Dante’s back straightens, and he gives me a look of pure venom.

It’s all for show, though, and he doesn’t dare reach for the pistol he thinks is well hidden beneath his jacket.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.

I smile, savoring the flicker of fear that flashes in his eyes. “Just thought I’d drop by. Funny—you’re not the type I’d expect to be settling down. Then again, you’re not marrying for love, are you?”

“What do you care?” Dante scoffs. “Emery Bright will be my wife, which makes her my property. And I’ll do what I want with her.”

I step closer, my gaze locking onto his. “She’s not yours, not anymore. As of today, she’s mine.”

He sneers, but I can see the cracks forming. “Who are you to waltz in here and take her?”

“I am Leon Vasiliev, pakhan of my bratva. That makes me a king, you whining little shit. And if you make a scene, I will end you. Right here, right now.”

Dante pales. “You’re bluffing.”

“No, Dante. I don’t play around because I don’t need to. I screwed up all your investments, too, because I don’t fucking like you.”

I lash out and slap his cheek. “Get the picture? You can walk out of here on two working legs, or I can break them both and hurl you out head-first. Decide before I make your mind up for you.”

God knows I want to kill him, but letting him live with the humiliation is more satisfying. He’s no threat to me anyway.

Dante doesn’t say another word. Instead, he straightens his jacket and storms past me, not daring to look back. Emasculated rage rolls off him in waves, but he knows better than to defy me now.

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