Page 88 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I can’t sit here like an idiot; people might be hurt. People who shouldn’t be here in the first place.

My thoughts flash to Desi, small and pale in his hospital bed, grief leaching the vitality from him more than his gunshot wound ever did.

I don’t care if I die as long as I take out Dante and save the people he was trying to sell into slavery.

Emery would be okay; safer without me, in fact, as she wouldn’t be a target if her Russian mafia boss husband was killed.

My gun is clean and fully loaded. I click off the safety and emerge from the cabin, climbing the stairs two at a time.

The deck is deserted. Someone tiedRusalkato The Cobra to stop them drifting; on the other boat, it’s mayhem.

Roman has some luckless idiot on his knees, a gun pressed to the man’s eye socket. I can’t see Viktor, but sobbing and wailing drifts into the night sky from somewhere in the bowels of the vessel.

I vault the gap and board The Cobra, several other men in tow, just as Viktor appears.

“We tried to take prisoners, but there were literally three guys down there,” he says. “Shot them all dead. We had no choice; they didn’t think to take hostages, but we caught them on the hop, and they opened fire as soon as they saw us. A girl got winged, but she’s alright.”

“Where the fuck is Dante?” I ask. “Was he down there too? He’s dead?”

“No.” Viktor looks exasperated. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s not fucking here.”

I turn to Roman. His face is twisted with anger, and he’s bearing down harder on his mark, a man with lank hair and a scruffy beard.

“Who’s your friend?” I ask.

“This is Franco,” Roman says. “As soon as he realized who we were and what was happening, he folded. I’m almost annoyed at how easy it was; I haven’t had a good scrap in ages.”

He nods at me. “Tell Leon your story, and we’ll see what he thinks, shall we?”

Roman withdraws his gun. Franco slides a jaundiced eye my way, fixing his gaze on my face.

“Madonna, lo giuro con la mia vita.” His voice is steadier than I expected. “I swear on my life,capo. Anton never said a word to Dante, but thestronzoguessed he wasn’t on the level and shot him. Poor guy is fish food.”

I’d think he was full of shit if it weren’t for the cadence and strength in his delivery. The man has a lot of confidence for one who’s at imminent risk of death, and it gives me pause.

“Tell me what was supposed to happen here,” I say.

Franco swallows and composes himself. “Anton set up a deal with a client. Dante thought it would give him a fresh injection of cash—he was running low—and then he could marshal his forces and make a fresh assault on your territory. We all thought he was deluded, but he wouldn’t listen.”

He closes his eyes as the truth dawns. “Ah. There was no client, and Antondidscrew Dante over. I can’t say I blame him.”

“Where did Dante go?”

“He took his dinghy and went ashore. He’s probably watching us right now—the boat is bugged to fuck.”

“So if Dante can see and hear us, why are you telling me this?” I ask with a frown. “Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll do to your family? Anton was terrified of him.”

Franco’s shoulders sag. “I got no one left. That’s why I came here, to start again. Helping you get to Dante is my last play, so I’m doing that.”

He lifts his head, staring into the lens of a camera mounted on the lower mast. “You listening to me, Firenze? You fucked up bad. Leon Vasiliev won’t let you scurry away like a rat!”

“Shut up,” I say. “You wanna survive the night? Go help Viktor get the women and children onto our yacht.”

Franco reaches his feet and scrambles for the stairs with Viktor at his heels. I’m about to confer with Roman when a cry comes up from below.

“Get him away from me!”

A girl appears in the stairwell doorway. She’s young, twenty-five at the most, and her limbs are thin as matchsticks.

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