Page 165 of The Bratva King

“Bullshit.” I step forward. My men shift with me, a unified wall. “Your nephew, cousin, or whoever the fuck he is kidnapped my son this morning. I want him back. Now.”

The don’s expression doesn’t change. “Your son?”

I feel the silence. I feel the eyes on me. My brothers’ included.

“The boy he took is mine.” The words come out flat. Final. “I want him back.”

“I heard about a kidnapping on the news.” Don Castellano spreads his hands. “Terrible thing. But I don’t know anything about it.”

I raise my gun and point it at his head. Six weapons train on me. I don’t flinch. “I will put a bullet in your head before your men get the first shot off.”

“Nikolai.” Sergei’s voice carries a warning. He’s moved up beside me. “Think about what you’re doing.”

I don’t take my eyes off the don. “I’ve thought about it. Luke comes home, or everyone dies. Simple.”

The don studies me for a long moment. I see him weighing options. Risks. Benefits.

“Lower your weapons,” he says finally. Not to me. To his guards.

They hesitate. He waves his hand impatiently. “Do it.”

The guns lower. Not holstered but pointed at the ground.

I keep mine where it is.

“I told you on the phone,” Don Castellano says. “We are not targeting your family. Whatever Matteo is doing, he’s acting alone.”

“You expect me to believe you don’t know where he is?”

“I expect you to believe I have no reason to lie.” He takes a step forward, ignoring the fact that I have a gun pointed at his head. Ballsy; I’ll give him that. “Matteo came to me two months ago. Wanted back in. I told him no. His wife gave the FBI enough to dismantle more than half our East Coast operation. Bringing him back would put us all at risk. He’s a liability.”

“So, you cut him loose.”

“I told him to disappear. Go back to Italy. Stay dead.” The don’s jaw tightens. “He didn’t listen.”

“Where is he?” I ask again.

“I don’t know.”

I cock the hammer. The click is obscenely loud in the quiet courtyard. “Wrong answer.”

“You wouldn’t,” Castellano says.

“I would.”

“Wait!” One of the guards steps forward. Younger. Maybe thirty. “I might know something.”

The don whips his head toward him. “Tony.”

“Don Castellano, this isn’t our fight.” Tony looks at me. “Matteo approached me last week about a safe house. I told him no, but he had already scoped it out.”

“Which one?” I demand.

Tony glances at the don, who nods curtly.

“Near the old rail yard.” He rattles off an address.

Pasha is on his phone, feeding the address to our people.