Page 89 of Stolen By The Bratva King

Her eyes are doll-like in her gaunt face, and she clutches her moth-eaten cardigan, wrapping it around her body to fend off the cold.

“Please,” she says. “He wants my daughter. She’s only seven years old.” She wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Don’t let him touch her!”

I take off my jacket and wrap it around her. Viktor is behind her, his large hand pinching the back of Franco’s skinny neck as he frog-marches him my way.

“You left out a lot of the story, Franco, I say.”

I hold my hand toward Viktor, and he gives me his pistol. I sigh.

“Give me your goddamn knife. I know you have one.”

He passes me the blade. “I thought you said knives were too personal?”

“Thisispersonal.” I glance at the shivering girl. “What’s your name? And your daughter?”

“I’m Tereza,” she stammers. “My little girl is Sofie.”

I nod and give Franco my attention once more. “This is for Tereza, Sofie, and everyone else you treated like they were less than human.”

This isn’t justice. It’s not vengeance, either. It’s just necessary—like breathing or loving my wife.

Emery is the only person whose forgiveness matters to me. I won’t repent for what I’m about to do.

Killing this piece of shit will reduce the evil in the world, and who knows, maybe it’ll help balance the books.

I press the sharp edge to Franco’s quivering throat, and he begins to gibber and flail, but it’s too late.

A line of crimson gives way to a waterfall. Viktor dumps the dying man onto the deck, and we watch him for the few seconds it takes him to bleed out.

To my surprise, Tereza doesn’t look away; her eyes glitter with satisfaction as her tormentor’s life force pools on the wooden floor.

Strong girl; I like her.

Roman holds up the grenade belt, and I nod.

“You read my mind,bratan,” I say. “Blow this shit-heap to kingdom come.”

I raise my arms and my voice. “See that, Dante? You’re out of men. Out of moves. All your spare lives are gone—and you better believe I’m coming for the last one.”

46

Dante

Fuck.The Cobra is burning.

Fuckingfuckit. I didn’t see this coming, not tonight.

Anton didn’t just screw me over; he betrayed me to the greatest extent possible. When this is over, I will personally see to it that his beloved family dies screaming, women and children first.

That boat was a highly specialized vessel, designed and kitted out for its purpose. It took months to build trust with potential clients, gather incriminating footage for blackmail purposes, the works.

Now it’s all gone.

It seems ludicrous now, but I always thought the safest place for that stuff was onboard my ever-moving secret base, unfindable, always manned and guarded.

No one could sneak up on us out on the water except for a bratva boss masquerading as a client, aided and abetted by one of my own. Anton deserved to get his throat slit, but I wish I’d been the one to do it.

There’s nothing left. No money, no assets, no last-minute plays. I was gonna sell some merchandise, pay over the odds for more men, and regroup, but no.

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