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.
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.
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.