Page 2 of The Bratva's Secret Baby

I took another sip of coffee. How odd was it that I was in my brother’s favorite café, nine years after his death, drinking the exact same coffee, his murderer loved?

The jingling of an old-fashioned bell reeled me back to the present. Snapping my eyes open and twisting my head toward the door, I noticed a male figure entering the café.

His hands were in his trouser pockets, and his huge, strong physique was well displayed in the fitted black suit he wore. And with his thick, raven-black hair touching the collar of his jacket, he looked very mysterious. Like a grim reaper.

I wonder whose soul he has come to reap.

As if noticing the intensity of my stare, he turned his head in my direction.

My stomach flipped as his icy-blue eyes met mine, and my insides felt as if a knife had shredded them. A shiver ran down my spine and my muscles froze. The almost full cup of macchiato slipped from my hand and hit the floor with acrank.The ceramic shattered into a tiny million pieces; the macchiato splattered all over the white flooring.

The man standing just a few feet away from me was no angel of death. No. He was Damien Varkov, a member of the Bratva and head of The Circle.

He was Death himself.

Chapter One

Damien

Six years ago…

Two things I hated: people who didn’t know when to shut the fuck up, and people who didn’t know when not to snoop around into other people’s business.

Unfortunately, I was dealing with both tonight.

I looked ahead, the headlights of oncoming cars and the glow from the streetlights illuminating the dark alley ofDe Angelo.

My right-hand man, Fyodor, sat beside me, going on and on about a bunch of nonsense I had no interest in listening to. Fyodor was a big furry guy with eyes as brown as his long curly hair. He was the best of my men and the only person I could completely trust. That was the only reason I would put up with his bullshit.

“Get to the point, Fyodor,” I growled. “I don’t want to hear about the whores you fucked last night.”

He finally took the cue and stopped talking. “Sorry, boss,” he said, his gruff voice sounding more serious.

“Any news on the shipment?” I asked, getting straight to the point.

“Da [Yes], boss,” he answered with a subtle nod. “The shipment arrives at the dock tonight. Our men are prepared to manage any emergencies.”

The Circle was a secret organization within Bratva, and since I had this business idea, I was entrusted with its management all by myself. Money was the language of the world, and I came to understand that from an early age. With money, I could buy whatever connections I wanted, have politicians at my feet, and own this city.

And I did just that.

Our business included arms dealing, underground casinos, and smuggling luxury goods. We were expecting a shipment tonight, and I was worried that our deliveries had inadvertently attracted the attention of the police lately. And it wasn’t good for business to say the least.

“And the cops?”

“We did our part. Paid in full to keep them off our asses for a little while.”

“A little while isn’t enough.” Once the rats started to sniff around, there was no stopping them. “Meet Marco, talk with him, and secure a new route through the docks.” I could buy my way out of trouble, but I preferred not to run into trouble in the first place.

“Yes, boss.” He paused, and I knew something else was on his mind. “The shopkeepers in Little Italy are late on their payment this month. They must think they no longer need our protection. What should I do with them?”

Anger coursed through my veins. “Jesus, Fyodor. Use your fucking head for something other than fucking whores for once, will ‘ya?” I contemplated for a moment. “Have Lucas visit them. A friendly reminder of what it means to resist us.”

“One more thing, boss.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolled through it, and handed it to me.

The screen displayed a dimply lit bar when I tapped on the play icon. It was a recording from the security camera. A woman in blue jeans and a black top caught my attention. Her brunette hair was tied in a neat ponytail, and her body language radiated confidence. A man sat on the chair across from her, and he looked oddly familiar, I recognized him as Alex Russo. Alex worked with the organization, mostly documenting the shipments we received.

I couldn’t hear their voices, but I could tell whatever conversation they were having wasn’t a pleasant one. There was a mixture of determination and distress splattered on the woman’s face.

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