Page 131 of The Bratva King

Another name. Another city. Another life.

Luke would have to leave his dinosaur room. The routine he’s finally comfortable with. The therapy that’s helping him. Kylie, who understands him. Mila, who makes him laugh.

Nikolai.

I know how to disappear.

But I don’t know how to leave him.

30

Nikolai

I’m done playing defense. I should have acted earlier. The Italians think I’m weak. They tried to blow me up, and they will pay. Pasha walks into my office, moving better than he was yesterday. The stitches on his head are still an angry shade of red, but his eyes are clear. Sharp.

“Your mom let you out of the house?”

“Very funny. I knew you’d be running right into trouble. I’m here. What’s the plan?”

I shrug. “Fuck some shit up.”

He smirks. “I’m surprised you waited this long. Thought maybe you were going soft.”

“I prefer to strike when they’re not expecting it.”

“Sure it’s not because you’ve been preoccupied?”

“Don’t start.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a bad thing, Nik. You can enjoy yourself. Spend time with people you care about.”

“Let’s go,” I say. “Or stay. I’m going either way.”

I check the Glock at my hip. Pasha does the same.

We take two SUVs. Six men total. All armed. All loyal. All pissed off about our driver. About Pasha nearly dying. About someone thinking they can come into my territory and blow shit up without consequences.

The underground gambling den is in an industrial area off Boulder Highway that the Italians have run for years. It’s not their main operation, but it’s profitable. A steady stream of degenerates who can’t get credit at legitimate casinos anymore. Drugs. Women. Whatever you want, you’ll find it in this shithole.

We pull up at 11 p.m. The lot is half-full, which is perfect. I want witnesses.

I kick the door in, not bothering to knock first.

The room falls silent. Twenty people, maybe twenty-five, freeze mid-bet. Cards stop halfway to the table. Dice roll to a stop across the felt.

The pit boss, some greasy fuck in a cheap suit, takes one look at me and reaches under the counter.

I shoot him before he gets there, and he goes down screaming.

“Everyone out.” My voice is deadly calm. “You have thirty seconds.”

“Sokolov!” Someone shouts.

A volley of gunfire erupts. The sound makes my ears ring. My men are using silencers, which means it’s the other guys. Chairs scrape. People scramble for the exits. Someone knocks over a stack of chips, and they scatter across the floor like confetti.

Someone slams into me on their way to the exit. More footsteps charge at me. I raise my gun and fire twice before the man rushing me gets off a shot.

My men fan out. One goes to the back office. Another to the cashier cage. They know what to do. This isn’t a warning; I’m here to kill.