Page 86 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I’ve never known Anton turn down money. Just like that, the traitorous fuck has given himself away.

“The client’s name, Anton. What is it?”

He pauses for a beat too long. “Dennis Flaherty. Irish, old money. Owns bars and a mall upstate.”

It’s a smooth lie, but a lie nonetheless.

“Okay,” I say. “You certain you don’t wanna handle this yourselves?”

Franco pipes up, sounding irritable. “He doesn’t speak for me. I can cut a deal. Just give me a chance.”

“See?” I say to Anton. “You have Franco here to watch your back, and the boys downstairswon’t mind helping out if you need your hand holding.”

The motorized dinghy auto-inflates in thirty seconds, and I toss it into the water before clambering down the exterior ladder, the electric outboard over my shoulder. Anton watches me, his face twitching as he tries to maintain a neutral expression.

“Good luck, fellas,” I say as the boat engine hums to life. Anton unhooks the rope as I make an arcing turn, pointing the boat toward the harbor lights. “Oh, and Anton?”

“Yeah?”

I snatch my pistol from its holster and shoot him neatly between the eyes, an easy shot at close range. He gives a gargling snort, the surprise frozen on his face, and keels overboard.

Franco doesn’t move or speak, not daring to risk getting the same treatment. He’s smart; he knows I’m a mood shooter who prefers vibes to reasons.

I watch Anton disappear into the depths, bubbles rushing to the surface as he goes down. He sinks fast; dead weight always does.

“You’re up,” I shout, pointing at Franco. “Clean up the fucking merchandise and make the transaction. Call me when you’re through.”

45

Leon

“So this Anton guy set up a bogus deal with you to—what? Buy slaves?”

“Essentially, yes,” Roman replies, retrieving weapons from the trunk. “We just gotta catch up with The Cobra, flash the lights, and board peacefully. It’ll be me and Viktor; Dante never got a good look at us before he ran out of the wedding, but he’ll recognize you, so you gotta stay out of sight.”

“And then?” I ask.

“A good old-school pirate raid,” Viktor laughs. “We’ll rush the fuckers, lock it down, and get the innocent people out of here on Roman’s yacht.”

He points at the boat, bustling with the crew and our bratva’s footsoldiers. “This isn’t the same one you used to have.”

“Correct.” Roman slings a holdall over his shoulder, a telescopic sight sticking out of the gap in the zip. “I downsized. The super-yacht was embarrassing.”

I take in the smaller but still impressive vessel. The nameRusalkais emblazoned on the side, and I smile—it’s the nickname Roman gave his wife, Quinn.

We get the gear onto the boat, and within a few minutes, we’re sliding silently out of the harbor. We pass a couple of pleasure cruisers on their way back into the midtown dock, and tourists wave enthusiastically as we glide by.

“They’ll be watching the news tomorrow and telling people they saw us,” Viktor says as I wave back. “For all we know, those boats are loaded with spies.”

“Sure.” I throw him an incredulous look. “Dante Firenze, the no-mark king of fuck-ups, hiding spies with foam Lady Liberty hats and footlong margaritas? Get a grip,tovarishch. He’s got nothing.”

This is the only thing I’m sure of. I don’t believe Dante has anyone left who isn’t on The Cobra with him; we put the word out and couldn’t catch a whiff of collaboration on our streets.

A few guys said they’d shot pool with men suspected to be Dante’s Italian buddies, but they didn’t have sense enough to curry favor; if anything, they’d mostly pissed people off.

I have to wonder; as a stranger with no one to vouch for him, why did Dante think he would be taken seriously?

The question must have occurred to his paltry crew, too—once things began to unravel, so did they.

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