Page 99 of Stolen By The Bratva King

“Emery?Moya zhena, my love, speak to me, please.”

“I deactivated her phone tracker,” Dante says. “Wasn’t difficult. I was gonna run, but I thought I’d take a minute to indulge myself.”

Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be her, but it still hurts.

“I couldn’t bear to pull off a masterstroke like this and not take the credit,” Dante says, his sneer audible in his tone. “So, in case there was any doubt—I have your fat slut bride and that worthless kid. You’ll never see either of them again.”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Roman is staring at me, beseeching me with his eyes to calm down, but I’m beyond that. “You must have demands. I ruined you, so is that it? Do you want money? Take whatever you want and the rest, but if you harm my wife, I swear I’ll?—”

“I don’t want money,” Dante spits. “A man like you looks but never fucking sees. There’s something fundamental that you’ve missed.”

“I don’t care!” I cry. “Fuck you and your games. Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Respect? My fucking dues?” He laughs mirthlessly. “Too late. You took my life apart piece by piece, and while I can’t do the same to you, I can take the only piece that matters.”

“I’ll find you,” I hiss. “I will hunt you down. And when I have you cornered, you’ll beg to die, Dante Firenze. Do you think you’ve felt pain before? Not like I’ll inflict if you hurt my wife. I have ways and means that your worst nightmares can’t touch.”

“She’s my seed capital,” Dante says. “My start-up investment. You wanted me out of your hair? You got it. But Emery will be a whore, and Desi a slave.”

He laughs. “When I shoot her up with heroin, she’ll finally lose some weight.”

“Dante, you?—”

“I hope you live a long life, Leon. Just so you can relive this agony every single fucking day.Ciao.”

A click. And then—nothing.

No sound, no voice, no taunts. Just silence, stretching into eternity.

All I get when I call back is the drone of a recorded message saying the number is no longer in service.

I may never hear her voice again.

I want to rage, set something on fire, kill someone in cold blood, anything. Anything to feel more than this weighted, suffocating numbness that pulls me to the ground like an anchor.

I sink to my knees, but Roman won’t have it.

He drags me to my feet and gives me astarshiy ofitserslap to the face. It’s what a leader does to recalibrate the senses and pull a broken man back on track.

I wouldn’t let anyone else do that, but he’s my friend, and God help me—I need him.

“That’s your desperate moment over,” Roman says, grabbing my shoulder. “We’ll find her, Leon. Let’s get moving.”

51

Emery

Icome around slowly, aware of pressure on my face and a rolling sickness in my gut. I’m on my side, hands and ankles bound together, and my mouth gagged with a strip of tape.

I’m in the trunk of a car.

The motion does nothing to help my aching head, and the vibrations hammer through my skull, each jolt setting off another deep, relentless pulse in my temple.

I’m spooning a smaller figure, his fragile body curled into mine. Even though I can’t see his face, I know it’s Desi. His breathing is deep and steady, but his skin is ice-cold, so I tighten my arms around him.

The faint chemical tang of ether lingers in the air, sharp and cloying, burning the back of my throat. My eyes sting, and I squeeze them shut, forcing back panicked tears.

Who took us?It wasn’t Dante. Now that I think about it, why would it be?

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