Page 3 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

Aleksey laughs. “Only four? What do you plan to do with the rest of your time?”

“Get to work on the three daughters.”

His hollow laugh echoes in the car. “Seven’s a good number. And yet, Bogan only has you.”

I feel the irony of his jest. Alek continues to remind me that I’m still new to this underworld, to this Bratva. It used to be Aleksey that my father cared for. Who would’ve married her and taken over the business if anyone had asked him to.

But then I came home and changed all of that.

“He only needs me.”

That’s another fact Aleksey needs to remember. I’ll be the one who marries her, who forges the alliance, who runs the family. And I need a straightforward marriage, where the rules are clear and the lines are unblurred by petty complications like passion or love.

I’ve had the other kind of relationship and it’s messy. It made me weak. A slave to emotion. A pussy. A fool.

That won’t happen again.

A don shows no affection. His only allegiance is to the business. To the Bratva.

“Check it out.” Alek taps the car window with the muzzle of his Ruger. Two Italians step out under a light. One is pounding his fist into the gut of Sergei—the main Bratva contact at the dock—while the other man holds Sergei’s arms behind his back.

I wait a second. Last week, Sergei got greedy and demanded a raise. Maybe he needs a minute before his rescue to remember who takes care of him. And, but for the glint of a knife, I would let it continue.

But I can’t let him die. Not tonight.

Instead, I slip out of the car and fire a quick shot. It hits the knife-wielder between his eyes as Sergei falls to the ground holding his gut, blood dribbling from between his fingers.

Goddammit. Those idiots stabbed him.

“Go!” I bark.

Aleksey goes right. I go left. One Italian down, one to go. But then two more appear like fucking cockroaches. My blood burns with adrenaline. I crouch low, check my mags, and click off the safety.

I was hoping to be home in time to catch the boxing match on pay-per-view. Instead, I’m going to end up freezing my dick off on a dock, gun-battling a bunch of greasy goodfellas.

Steam rises into the night air with each shallow breath I take, but sweat rolls down my back. I slip off my leather jacket and toss it down. I need to move freely. Quickly. A half second can be the difference between life and death.

A shot zings over my head. Another ricochets off the concrete next to me. I have a Glock in one hand, a Smith & Wesson in the other, and about a three-second window to roll to a better position. But they’re going to expect me to move. I never do what they expect.

Instead, I stand, arms straight out, and fire. Deliberate. Dead-on. Fearless.

As soon as I squeeze off a round, a hail of return fire comes my way. I roll to the edge where cargo that’s been unloaded for transport provides cover. Alek is on the flank, shooting, as a car—big, black, tinted—pulls between us.

The passenger rolls out and I put a bullet in his throat before he can even lift his assault rifle.

Now, this is a firefight.

There can be no shoddy mistakes tonight. I tamp down the adrenaline rush in my veins and listen. Heavy breathing to my right, closing in. The fall of boots to the left, also moving toward me. I let them approach, because I want to see the life fade from beady eyes after I shoot their owners.

Three.

Two.

One.

I erupt from my position, trigger fingers strong, aim on point. Two bodies go down and two of those big black rifles clatter against the concrete. I move around the Italians’ Escalade, behind the men who have Aleksey pinned down between two shipping containers.

I’m silent. Stealthy. A trained assassin. And the day I can’t get these two with one shot is the day I quit and let Alek have the Bratva all to himself.

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