Page 4 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

Ready. Aim. Fire.

The shot gives me away, but the first falls, then the second topples right behind him. One bullet in the throat, the other through the left eye. The Tomas Dubrovsky Special. A message to Totti that I’m coming for him. There’s nowhere he can hide from me. His fear will keep him up at night while I’m peacefully sleeping next to my Bratva princess.

Let him fucking choke on it.

* * *

Fifteen minutes of driving leaves the dock in our rear-view. Sirens pass us, headed to the docks we just left.

“Have fun cleaning up a bunch of greasy Italian meatballs,” Alek laughs, offering the cop cars a mocking wave.

We cross the bridge where the harbor turns toward Mystic River. The night out here is quiet, still.

I pull through the wrought-iron gate that marks the entrance to the estate. It swings shut behind me with a clang. Driving up to the circular courtyard at the front of the house, I put the car in park. Alek climbs into his own car without saying a word and drives off, no doubt in search of something warm to keep him company for the evening.

I have other matters to attend to.

The house looks dark, but my father is home. I know that he’s entertaining, though no visitor cars can be seen anywhere near the house. That is by design.

It’s auction day. The monthly sale of women shipped in and snatched up. The cream of the crop of this country’s scum travels east to our territory each month to bid high-dollar because this is prime meat, hand-picked, and worth every penny.

My father, Bogan Dubrovsky, doesn’t suffer the details. He certainly won’t care that Totti might come looking for him. He socializes. Entertains. Keeps his hands clean and leaves the details and worrying to me. It’s one of the perks of being the don—others do most of the dirty work.

I stride up the front steps and slip in through the massive doors. Inside, I can hear the murmur of low voices seeping through the stone walls. There is a chill in the air in here—always has been, since the day I first crossed this threshold and met my father.

Winding my way through the labyrinth of the halls, I find the source of the voices. They are in the ballroom, as is customary. Here, too, I slip in through the grand doors, intent on drawing as little attention to myself as possible.

The sale on stage has not yet begun. The curtains, thick and blood-red, are still drawn, and the men here to bid are circulating around the room, drinks in hand.

It is a who’s who of the North American underworld—mob royalty as far as the eye can see. I find my father stationed at the back of the room, overseeing the proceedings. There is much to be learned from who talks to whom and which little cliques cluster together.

He’s talking to a tall man with dark hair and broad shoulders, dressed impeccably in a navy suit. I hang back, but when my father spots me, he ushers me towards him.

“Tomas, you remember Mayor Vaknin, don’t you?” he says. “We visited him in Toronto recently.”

I turn to him. “Yes, of course. How are you?”

Gavril Vaknin shakes my hand and nods. “Doing well, son. I’m in town for a little event and thought I’d stop by to pay my respects to you and your father.”

“We appreciate you coming,” I answer smoothly.

“Your father tells me you have a wedding on the horizon.”

“It’s about damn time,” Bogan drawls.

Gavril’s eye twinkles. “Well, you can’t rush these things.”

“Tell that to my father,” I reply.

He chuckles. “I did. He didn’t want to listen anymore than you do. But,” he says, clapping his hands, “I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer. My wife and son are back at the hotel, probably wondering where I ran off to.”

“A pleasure to see you, as always, don,” Bogan says to Vaknin. The men hands once more.

“Please,” he answers, “just Gavril. My don days are almost behind me.”

“That will be a loss for the Syndicate indeed,” my father tells him. The Bratva Syndicate was Gavril’s idea in the first place. A loose organization of Bratva leaders across the continent. We help each other out from time to time as needed and do our best to keep Italian fucks like Roberto Totti in the gutters where they belong.

“Something tells me it’s in good hands,” Gavril says with a strange glance at me. “Have a good evening, gentlemen.” He turns and strides away, going out the same doors I entered through.

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