Page 66 of Stolen By The Bratva King

“I think you’ll regret following her a lot more.” The shooter is wearing a bandana over the lower half of his face, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, and I know he’s grinning. “You know, for the seconds of life you have left.”

“If I wanted my own comeback, I’d wipe it off your mom’s chin,” I say.

I smirk at his look of disgust. “You have fucked this up royally, my friend. Failed at sniping, ran out of ammo, so had to finish the job face-to-face. And now—what? We’re fucking chatting? You handled this job with the precision and finesse of an epileptic violinist. Wearing boxing gloves.”

He bristles at the insult. Guys like him are so easy to provoke; street-level wannabes with big talk, big guns, and no skills.

I don’t know where Dante got this loser, but I wouldn’t hire the cunt in a million years.

“My boss will be thrilled when I tell him how this went down.” He cocks his head at me. “Do you think I’d be stupid enough to come alone?”

“I did, actually. But?—”

A scream I’ve heard before rings through the air. Emery is not far away; Alec is yelling her name.

Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck do I do?

Our man on the High Line is sick of my shit. “Toss the gun, you Russian fuck,” he says. “It’s over.”

No time to think it through.Do it.

I release my weapon and immediately drop to the ground, smashing my hip into the concrete.

The pistol lands neatly back in my hand, and I fire two quick shots, destroying both of the man’s kneecaps. He howls as he collapses, blood streaming down his shins.

I don’t care. Shots are being fired somewhere, and Emery is still screaming, a keening peel of pure terror that sears me to the bone.

I’m talking to myself as I run toward the sound.

Bozhe, pomogi mne, pozhaluysta.

God, help me. Don’t take my girl home, not today. I need her.

A streetlight illuminates a scene that is straight from a Goya painting.

A man lies facedown in a puddle of blood, and beside him, Emery cradles her father’s head on her knees, sobbing wretchedly.

“Emery!” I crouch before her and pull her close, pressing my forehead to hers. “Moya lyubov’, I’m so fucking sorry. Is he?—”

“No,” she replies, already pulling herself together. “But we gotta get to a hospital so I can?—”

“Emery, we can’t take him to any hospital, let alone yours.” I pull out my cell phone and tap the screen. “Don’t worry. I have a contingency plan for things like this, and his name is Demyan.”

Viktor shows up within ten minutes, and we load the delirious Alec into the back of the car.

The would-be killer with the blown-out knees is in the trunk, a strip of duct tape keeping his whining to a minimum.

As Viktor drives, Emery wheels around from the passenger seat to glare at me.

“So you’re serious?” she asks. “We’re going to Dad’s house—my family home—where your bratva doctor will do everything I could do and more without the authorities getting involved?”

“That’s the gist, yeah.”

Alec is asleep or passed out. The bleeding in his thigh is throttled by a tourniquet made from my belt, and although he’s pale and breathing rapidly, he seems to be doing okay.

Emery leans back to touch his wrist. “He’s cold. Serious shock.”

I had already put my jacket over Alec when he was lying on the road. I pull it over his shoulders and lean him against me so he can leach some of my body’s warmth.

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