Page 7 of Dark Bratva Christmas
But the certificate was never signed. It was never official. Her fathershould’vejust taken her home for fuck’s sake. But no, here I am, being the one who’s doing all the goddamnedhonoring.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to come up with some sort of answer to this dilemma. I want nothing more than to avenge my brother’s death. I also want nothing more than to rid my house of the woman who caused it.
Fucking hell.
My phone rings and I pull it out of my pocket to see Boris Petrov’s name on the caller ID. I feel every muscle in my body tense, fighting the urge to ignore it. I swear to God, if he calls one more time tocheckon his precious little daughter, I’m going to shove this phone right down his Petrov throat.
“We need to talk,” Boris says as soon as I answer, not bothering with pleasantries. “It’s important, and about our alliance in the future. Strictly business.”
“Meet me in Red Hook in an hour,” I say before hanging up the phone. Boris knows exactly where to go without giving him any more explanation.
I grab a leather jacket from the coat closet and leave the manor, keys to my motorcycle in hand. I carefully remove the tarp covering it in the garage, eyeing the blacked-out Ducati. I alwaystold myself I’d never own an Italian bike, but some rules are meant to be broken.
When it comes to what I ride, anyway.
I swing a leg over and rev the engine, savoring the way she purrs as she comes to life. It’s about the only thing that could ever put anything close to a smile on my face. Something about knowing the adrenaline rush coming hits the spot.
I shift it into first gear and ease off the clutch, jetting out of the garage. Hopefully, this meeting is beneficial, and not a fucking waste of time. Because ever since the wedding,everythingfeels like a waste of time.
We’re getting nowhere.
The cold air bites at my exposed skin as I cut through it, leaving Kings Point to go all the way to Brooklyn in the dead of night. My heart rate quickens with every turn and lane split. Motorcycles and good pussy are about the only things that can get me going.
In a car, obeying all of the rules of the road, it would take about an hour and a half to get there. But it's a quiet night in the sleepless city, and I glide along the roads like a magnet is pulling me where I need to go.
All my thoughts vanish for the time it takes to get to Red Hook. I slow down as I enter Brooklyn, though, eyeing the streets. Even though it's 2:00 a.m. on a Thursday, people are straggling out ofbars drunk and singing Christmas carols on the curb as they wait for taxis to take them home.
Holiday bullshit.
Red Hook is an old shipping district that has undergone rapid gentrification, transforming it into one of the trendiest neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Fifty years ago, it was mostly populated by people in my circles, but times have changed.
Now, many of the old, abandoned warehouses for shipping companies that have died off over the years are being converted into luxury loft spaces.
Have I had to bribe a few developers to keep them out of my spaces? Yes. But business is business, and I’ll be damned if I hand off my warehouses to a bunch of fucking hipsters.
I catch sight of Boris when I pull into the dead parking lot. He’s standing by a pier when I arrive. He’s got his gaze focused out across the waters, and oddly, I happen to recognize the strange way that his daughter has that thousand-yard stare as well.
It must run in the family.
I park the bike and head toward him, noting the man has his hands shoved in his pockets. I adjust my tie and remind myself of the Glock tucked safely away. It doesn’t make much sense for a Pakhan to take out another Pakhan—not like this.
But nothing about this whole fucking mess is making any sense.
Boris doesn't turn around when he hears me coming, instead he moves further away from the building and the surveillance cameras lining the public spaces.
“Ballsy to come on your own,” I grunt out from behind him. “I figured you’d have your enforcers trailing.”
“Same to you,” he spits back, still not bothering to meet my eyes like a man.
I follow him onto the pier, and we stop between two empty freight vessels. I recognize the logo on some of the nearby shipping containers, immediately identifying them as Boris's shipments.
“Catarina swears she doesn't know anything about what happened,” I begin, my voice short as I try to hide the distaste. “She’s also made it clear she no longer wants to reside at my estate.” I throw that out there, expecting to see some kind of reaction, but there’s none.
He wouldn’t show his cards like that.
“I would say she’s being truthful. I've been questioning everyone in my family, and no one seems to know anything either.” Boris huffs and shuffles his hands in his pockets before running one through his thinning gray hair. “I’m thinking it’s someone else objecting to the union.”
“This could’ve been the Vitale family,” I offer, shrugging my shoulders. “But until I have solid proof one way or another, youwon’t see me pointing fucking fingers. That’s how I get my guys offed.”
