Page 47 of Stolen By The Bratva King

Leon’s face is unreadable. “And do you think you deserve good things now?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

Leon closes his eyes. “I get it. My parents died too, and I’ve been running from it ever since.”

We fall silent for a while, adrift in our memories but increasingly aware of what we have in common.

The room is subdued, and several low lamps cast an amber glow.

Outside, Manhattan twinkles and bustles, the flash of lights almost manic against the surge of people and cars below us. It’s snowing lightly, a smattering of flakes twirling in the wind, but we’re cozy here, wrapped in warmth and a deepening atmosphere of intimacy.

For all his bravado and confidence, a part of Leon seems lost—wounded in ways that no amount of wealth or power can heal.

“I can’t imagine losing both my parents,” I say. “What happened?”

Leon crosses the floor to his drink cabinet, pours a measure of vodka, and downs it. I wonder if he’ll shoot another, but he returns to his seat, bringing the bottle and two glasses.

“I’ll need to blur the edges if I’m gonna tell the whole tale,” he says, half-filling the glasses. “Have one,moya zhena; it’ll help. And if you hate me after this, I’ll understand.”

I take the glass but hesitate. He’s done terrible things, things I still don’t fully understand, but the idea of hating him feels wrong.

I pick up my drink and settle down, ready to listen. Leon takes a deep slug and wipes his face with his palm.

“My parents were wealthy too,” he says. “My father made a fortune in real estate after inheriting an investment portfolio. My parents were good people, you know—philanthropists. They wouldn’t play nice with the morally bankrupt scum that plagued the city back then. That was a mistake they paid for dearly.”

“I don’t understand,” I whisper, riveted by the strain in his voice.

“The powerful always have long memories,” Leon says darkly. “When they’re riled, they go after what matters most.”

His hand tightens on his glass. “The first thing I gotta say is this.” He raises his eyes to mine. “It was all my fault.”

28

Leon

The memory spills out too fast, like the dam that held it back for years has finally crumbled to dust.

Something about Emery’s honesty and goodness makes me feel safe in a way I can’t explain. Just as Desi collapsed tearfully into her arms, the frightened child in me trusts her too.

I woke suddenly, and my clock said it was three a.m. Typically, I slept deeply, so I was confused until I heard a sound.

Scraping, like a sharp object on glass.

“Mom?” I shouted. “Papa? Whatcha doing?”

Silence, and I wondered whether I imagined it. Then voices and motion came thick and fast, all at once.

“George!” My mother, her words drenched in fear. “Don’t go down there!”

“You!” my father yelled. “Reggiani, you don’t scare me. What makes you think you can?—”

The gunshot rang through the house, deafening, and Mom screamed, her feet thundering back up the stairs as another, heavier set followed her. My parent’s bedroom door slammed, my mother’s hysterical begging muffled.

I ran from my room and down the stairs, tears running down my face. I rounded the corner and saw Papa lying face-up on the kitchen floor, a pulped mess where his face should have been.

My breath came in sharp gasps as I ran past and into the second lounge, my thoughts running a mile a minute.

Papa is dead. Papa is dead gun cabinet I need to find a gun and shoot the man like Papa showed me I can’t I can’t I can’t?—

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