Page 2 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

The killer steps out after the man and fires an extremely unnecessary shot into the poor bastard’s back. Then he turns to see if anyone else is watching. It’s just enough that his face catches a distant streetlight and I can finally see him clearly.

Tall, gaunt, pale, face tattooed with a trail of tears. His cheap gold necklace reflects the moonlight.

Albanian for sure.

Alek sits up straighter to get a good look, then, after a moment, falls back against the seat. “Not our guy.”

I nod in agreement. We’re looking for Italians, but this guy is too pale, too sneaky. This is low-level gang shit spilling into our turf. Tonight, that’s not our concern.

We stay put as the Albanian tucks his gun into the back of his sweatpants and disappears into the shadows.

The man he killed is growing colder by the second, blood pooling underneath him. The back of his jacket saysPort Authority. I curse under my breath at the sight of it and hope like hell that none of the man’s coworkers raise the alarm. The last thing I need at the moment is cops or the Coast Guard breaking up my private little party.

Part of me wants to go and drag the corpse out of sight. But I also can’t give up my position.

So I stay in the car. Waiting. Always fucking waiting.

We’re out here because, next Wednesday, this end of the dock is scheduled to receive five million dollars’ worth of uncut diamonds. Before that can happen safely and discretely, the area needs to be cleared of the Italian Mafia who’ve been stupid enough lately to set up shop here.

Morons.

The Dubrovsky Bratva—my family—works this section. We own the dock here. So tonight, I’m reminding the Italians to get back where they belong.

It’s going to be a bloody reminder, too. Because I am Tomas Dubrovsky and that is just how I fucking operate.

Even though I know the Italians will be here shortly—they’re punctual, which is about the nicest thing you can possibly say about them—I don’t know exactly which direction they’ll be coming from. That’s why I’m sitting in the car in the shadows with Aleksey on lookout. And, unfortunately for me, it’s why my best friend thinks we have time to chitchat like schoolgirls.

“I saw the rock on Katerina’s finger.” He mentions it casually while staring out the window, but there’s nothing relaxed or easy about it and the undertone is there.

The Dubrovsky and Kuznetsov Bratvas uniting is hard for any member of either organization to get behind because, until the family hierarchy is reestablished and everyone knows their place in the pyramid once more, no one is safe. Plus, too much change upsets Alek. He doesn’t want me to marry Katerina any more than I want to marry her.

“It’s family business.” I shrug. My marriage to Katerina is arranged. Expected. Planned. Something my family needs so we can leverage the combined might of both families to get rid of the Italians for good and resume business as usual.

“She isn’t your type.”

He’s not wrong about that. But in Katerina’s defense, she’s classier than the silicone-implanted strippers I tend to lure off the pole whenever the mood strikes.

Whether she is “my type” is also debatable. Katerina Kuznetsov, daughter of the boss of the Kuznetsov Bratva, is not bad-looking by any means. She has green eyes, blonde hair, DD tits, and a pussy. And I’m not so picky about the hair and eyes.

So in that sense, she’s “my type” as much as any other woman is.Fuckableis my primary pre-requisite. Alek knows me well enough to know that. The fact that she’s a mob princess is her own problem. It doesn’t really change anything.

“Does that mean she’syourtype, Alek?”

He doesn’t answer. He knows damn well when I’m fucking with him. He says, “All I’m thinking is that, just because you’re getting married and will have the Kuznetsov Bratva backing you, doesn’t mean that Italian fuck Roberto Totti is going to go away.”

No one but Aleksey could ever get by with implying that the Dubrovsky Bratva needs Leonid Kuznetsov’s support. I’ve killed bigger men for less. And, had he not been the one to teach me about the Bratva, I would do the same to him. But, friend or not, he can’t continue to speak this way. I’m only giving him one pass, and he just used it.

“Alek …” I warn.

He nods once and turns back to the window. Message received.

He’s wrong, though. Totti’s men won’t want to go against our combined forces at the behest of a weak leader like that slimy bastard Roberto. They’ll either retreat back to Little Italy or they’ll turn Totti over. A win for us. Even if it costs me personally.

“Did Bogan tell you how many sons you have to give the family?”

Now, he’s the one fucking with me. I want to wipe the smirk from his face, but I can’t do it right now. Besides, he’s right about my father. I may not have known the man growing up, but it didn’t take long under his tutelage to understand that Bogan has iron-clad expectations for every man in his orbit.

“Four.” Four sons. Enough to repopulate and ensure that the Dubrovsky Bratva survives and maintains power for another few decades at least.

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