Page 89 of Brooklyn Bratva

“Grigori Menshikov, put your hands above your head. You’re under arrest for defrauding the state.”

For threatening Mama, he was going to get what was coming to him in the cells. I’d make sure he was shipped to a prison where he had no friends, and we had plenty. He would learn exactly what happened when you crossed the Bratva.

Panic entered his eyes, and he tensed as though he was about to bolt.

“Don’t run, Grigori. I will shoot.” Out of shape and greying, I had no real concern that he would. For once, I wasn’t going to have to give chase.

This had all been a matter of appearance for him, and I understood that to some degree. The man was living in a bygone age, where it was enough to throw your weight around to take control of an area. But the time for Brighton Beach having a king was over. There was no crown to wear, but there was money to be made if you helped things along.

That’s all I’d ever done, and all I was put here to do, but Grigori wanted more. And he signed his own arrest warrant when he got my family involved. Ruslan had played him as much as anybody, making him think all it would take was a bit of brute force to get control back. He should have been ecstatic I was here as a cop.

Ruslan hadn’t been so lucky. He’d taken the brunt of a Russian revenge first hand. Grigori’s fate was going to be much more drawn out behind bars.

“Cuff him.”

CHAPTER 48

Ivan

Outside the airport, I handed Maxim an envelope thick with the cash from the Bravta’s funds, and he folded it into his jacket pocket, clasping my hand in his in a firm handshake. This time, we hugged each other like the brothers that we were. Whatever our accents and our outlooks, the Bratva was a bond we couldn’t deny.

Becca was leaning against the passenger side of the car, smile brimming over, and I had no idea what was going through her head. “Goodbye Max. Have a safe flight.”

I fought the urge to growl as he ducked down to press a kiss against her cheek, clenching my fist by my side. I doubted I was ever going to get over the murderous urge that threatened to take me over whenever another man touched her.

“I’ll see you again, I hope.”

“Of course you will. You’re always welcome to come stay.” Her eyes darted to mine and that smile of hers peaked again. “With us.”

Toropov nodded, and turned away, patting me on the shoulder as he hefted up his bag like it weighed nothing at all. Once again, he looked like an ordinary man and I knew as soon as he touched down on the runway at London Heathrow, he would disappear into the crowd like the ghost that he was so used to being.

He looked to the side, checking the proximity of the people closest to us, and his voice lowered a notch.

“Listen to me, Ivan. I’ve been talking to Valentin. He wants to bring you back into the fold. You don’t have to be on your own out here. When he makes a move, he wants to know he’s got your support.”

I nodded slowly. There was no doubt that Maxim was an intelligent man. He understood the way of things, and he’d clearly seen the same writing on the wall I had. But he’d been in a position to talk to Timoshenko’s understudy directly.

“You’re a good man. You’ve been loyal this whole time. He appreciates having men he can trust. Would you want to go home, Ivan? To Moscow.”

I eyeballed him, trying to determine whether or not he was telling the truth. Not so long ago I would have grabbed the opportunity he was offering with both hands. But now it was different.

The reality of leaving would be giving over this place to someone else, it would be taking Becca to a place where she didn’t speak the language and the medical degree she wanted to work towards would be as good as useless. Our children would grow up speaking a language she didn’t understand. She wouldn’t get to show them all the things that had made up her childhood, or share them with her father.

I drew in a deep breath and shook my head. I didn’t need to look back towards the car to know my answer. “Brooklyn is my home now. I belong here. You’re always going to need a man here.”

Maxim patted me on the shoulder again and nodded. A man like him knew the sacrifice I was making in never going back, of choosing to continue to stay in the post of exile. Always to be seen as the untrustworthy outsider in the land I lived in. He must have made the same choice, in a way.

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