Page 38 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I should’ve known better.

The car weaves through traffic as I replay the day’s events. Anger consumes me, clawing at my insides as I remember the burning humiliation, the pieces falling into place too late.

The wedding should have been my triumph, the moment Emery became mine in front of everyone who doubted me.

It was the first step toward taking my rightful place in this city and reclaiming everything stolen from my family.

Instead, it turned into a spectacle. A goddamn farce.

LeonfuckingVasiliev.

I never concerned myself with the bratva; my organized crime interests lay with the mafia, not the goddamn Russians, so I never asked any questions. How could I have been so stupid as to not find out the name of the bratva king?

I’d heard the rumors, but I knew better than anyone that kings fall. They fall all the time.

Still, there’s no getting away from it. I messed up bad.

That fucker attacked me at the hospital, then got his hands on my investments and destroyed them right under my damn nose. It all came together at the church today, and my humiliation was absolute.

The bratva pakhan. The shadow that looms over New York’s underworld. The man no one dares cross.

And like an idiot, I barreled into his city and drew a giant red X on my back.

I clench my fists, staring out the window as Manhattan blurs past. What does Leon know? That’s the question eating at me now.

Does he know about my operations in the docks and across the rivers?

And most of all, does he know whoIam?

Anton interrupts my train of thought. “What about our real business, boss? You’ve always got that.”

By “real business,” he means the human trafficking. It’s a lucrative little sideline, made more so by the absence of other flesh-for-sale enterprises working out of barges. It seems obvious to keep the premises moving and avoid detection, but no one else thought of it.

“Anton, it’s because of you and Franco that we lost so many men the other night,” I say.

“We tried to save Billy,” Franco says. “When we were cleaning up after the raid, we saw he was still breathing, but his breath gave out before we could get him to the ER.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I ask. “Why didn’t you just drown him?”

Franco sounds appalled. “He was one of us, boss. He wouldn’t have snitched on anyone.”

“Bullshit. I’m glad he’s dead. Now, did you find out who got the drop on us?”

The two men go quiet, and the penny drops. “You pair of fucking idiots. It was Leon, wasn’t it? And was it also him who took the kid to the hospital?”

Franco clears his throat. “Something like that, yeah. Only figured it out when I saw him today.”

They don’t even look ashamed. Useless fucks. But good help isn’t just hard to find in this line of work—it’s nonexistent, especially for an outsider.

After a long pause, I exhale through my nose. “Take the boat upriver. New Jersey side.”

Franco frowns. “That’ll tank our profits, Dante.”

“How much do you think your cut will be if you’re a corpse? Take it upriver and lie low for a while. That’s an order.”

Fabrizio is wisely silent, but he whistles softly under his breath. There’s a beat of silence before Franco speaks up again.

“And what about the kid? The one Leon grabbed?”

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