Page 16 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

Matvei

It’s even worse than I expected.

The laundromat is a burnt-out blaze of charred machinery and blackened brick. Little is left of the legitimate business that once was there. Even less remains of the cocaine production and packaging facility that we’ve spent years secretly operating behind the laundromat’s back wall.

I toe down the kickstand of my bike and swing off. Another shot of pain lances through me when I try to bear weight on my injured knee, but I shake it off. There’s no time for me to feel the hurt. That will have to come later.

The smell of smoke and acrid chemicals fills the air and makes my eyes water. I spy Timofei crouched at one corner of the building.

He stands when he sees me and offers a slight bow. “Matvei,” he greets. His eyes look droopy and dull, but he’s as sharp as they come. Nothing escapes my lieutenant’s notice.

“Tell me what happened.”

He spreads his hands wide. “You know about as much as I do, sir.” We both look around and survey the damage. “We know it was the Albanians, thanks to descriptions from a couple people who said they saw it go down. But not much more than that. I don’t know how they knew the location, how they knew to time it with the changing of the guards. Don’t know none of that. But they knew, alright. They definitely knew. None of this was an accident. This was a sign.”

I sigh. He’s right, of course, as he usually is. Nothing in my world is done accidentally. There’s always a purpose, always a message. The message here is: You are weak. And we are coming for you.

Even a day ago, that would have seemed insane. I was Matvei Morozov, don of the Morozov Bratva, king of the most powerful criminal empire in the whole fucking city. No one dared fuck with me. They were too scared of what I could do. Too awed by everything I’ve done.

But now, mere hours later, I don’t feel anything like that. I’m taking more losses in a day than I’ve taken in a year. A dead brother. An orphaned nephew. Enemies brazen enough to attack me straight-on.

It all makes me very fucking angry.

And when I get angry, people die.

I rub the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger, desperate to squeeze out the migraine brewing there. “How many hurt?” I ask without looking up.

“Four dead, two pretty banged-up. We got ‘em all loaded up and out of here, and paid the beat cops to delay their call to headquarters for another fifteen minutes. But there’s nothing here to salvage, Matvei. It’s gone. All of it.”

The business losses were obvious and complete, like I’m sure the Albanians intended. But six men down hurts us. We’ll have to make adjustments.

I start issuing orders. “Shift this facility’s production quota to the sites on Washington and the one over the river. Promote three street boys to runners and have them keep the dealers in this neighborhood loaded up. We can’t afford to lose the revenue for too long.”

Timofei nods. “Consider it done, boss,” he says quietly.

I look him dead in the eye. “And one more thing: put out this message. If any Albanian puts so much as a toe into my territory… kill them all.”

Timofei nods once more, looking as solemn as ever. He watches me as I turn and leave.

Exhaustion is hitting me like a ton of bricks, and I can’t ignore the pain in my head and my leg for much longer. I mount my motorcycle, the same thought running through my head over and over again.

I’m always too late today. Never there soon enough to protect what’s mine.

ONE WEEK LATER

I could burn down this whole fucking building and smile while I did it.

Every one of these do-gooder social workers deserves nothing less. They all wear the same vanilla expression on their faces and scramble around with the same fat fingers, good for nothing more than tapping away at keys and picking away scabs while they hem and haw and tell me that formally adopting Niko will be “quite difficult, quite difficult indeed.”

“So I’ve been told,” I growl at this one when she repeats that line to me. She’s a middle-aged black lady with talons for nails and eyes as flat and cloudy as pond water. “And yet, I’m persisting, so tell me—what needs to be done next?”

The fact that I’m here in person at all is a testament to how irritating this entire process has been. Envelopes stuffed with cash have been handed around like I’m fucking Santa Claus, countless ears have been whispered into, and yet this rusted little cog of the justice system seems to continue grinding on without notice. It appears that the Bratva’s influence stops at the door of the city’s Child Welfare department.

So here I am, on a cold Tuesday morning in autumn, trying to coax yet another hapless moron into giving me custody of the last family member I have left.

“It’s just… well, your living situation. And your presence in the police database. They’re very, how shall we say—concerning, for a prospective parent.”

To her credit, this lady has been better than several of the others I’ve waded my way through over the last few days. I sense a vulnerability here, a weakness that may yet allow me to get what I want: my nephew, back with family where he belongs.

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