Page 4 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva (Tarasov Bratva #12)
The vehicle pulled up outside the warehouse, tires screeching to a halt under the awning. My blood was already boiling with rage, my face contorted into a frown. We’d received intel that one of the Bratva drop points had been hit last night.
Those Italian savages were behind this attack—it was clear as day. Marco Moretti was starting to bite more than he could chew, and one of these days, the idiot would choke to death. Literally.
It was one thing to interfere with our business and pull some low-level stunts to get my attention. Spilling the blood of my men, on my turf…that was an entirely different thing altogether, and there was no way in hell I was going to let this slide.
The car door opened, and I stepped out, flanked by my heavily armed men, their watchful eyes scanning the environment. They accompanied me into the warehouse, our footsteps thumping against the hard concrete.
It was a mess inside—bullet holes in the walls, two dead bodies sprawled over the floor, blood pooling beneath them. The dead guys were our own, as was the burned cargo in the warehouse. The whole place was stripped bare—charred crates, shattered pallets.
Scorch marks licked up the walls like black tongues. Every single merchandise was torched, burned beyond recognition.
“Ivan and Nik,” Max murmured, his voice laced with fury, eyes darting to the two lifeless bodies. “They were loyal.”
“And now they’re dead,” I said, clenching my jaw, fingers curling into fists. “For what, a fuckin’ warning?”
“Those fucking bastards just declared war,” Maxim said, his expression darkening.
I turned to face him, struggling to keep my rage in check. “Summon every Bratva elite in New York City. We have a war to plan.”
He nodded, his eyes blazing red.
***
The air was heavy with the scent of whiskey and several pricey colognes. Smoke wove around serious-faced men seated poised at the long mahogany table that filled the dimly lit room.
The tension was palpable, heavy enough to bring the fuckin’ roof down.
I sat in my chair, eyes shifting across the high-ranking Bratva officials gathered here today. My fingers drummed absently on the table as I listened to my younger brother, Egor, laying out the situation.
His black hair caught in the light, those piercing dark eyes shining as he spoke, his voice deep and venomous. “The hit happened around two. Drop point on 31st. Those sneaky bastards moved fast—in and out. Torched everything. Ganked two of our guys. Shot them in the back like fuckin’ cowards.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I said, meeting his gaze, voice low and even.
“Moretti’s street rats,” he said, revealing a file he slid across to me. “One of them has a snake tattoo on his neck. You might remember the son of a bitch.”
I picked up the file and opened it, my gaze settling on the photo of a young Italian crook—green eyes, buzz cut, and some ratty facial hair. My expression darkened, jaw tightening. “Franco.”
“Yep. The gutless bastard from the dock fight last year,” he answered, leaning back in his chair.
An elderly elite chipped in, shifting his attention to me. “I thought he died, alongside everyone on his crew.”
“He didn’t,” Maxim replied to the elder. “He ran like the coward that he is.”
I set the file on the table, my eyes narrowing at the photo of Franco with ill intent. “Those Italian swine burned our warehouse to prove they aren’t afraid to play with fire.” I raised my head, my gaze darting across my men’s faces. “Let’s show them what an inferno really looks like.”
They nodded, exchanging glances amongst themselves.
***
Later that evening, Max received intel from one of our moles in the streets that Franco and a few Italian goons were carrying out an operation down an alleyway.
At first, Max thought it was a reckless move to confront the bastard alone. He believed it was better to sit this one out or perhaps take my brother Egor with me. But Egor had some business he needed to take care of, and I, for one, needed to blow off some steam.
Max and three of my most trusted men tagged along with me, each one ready for whatever the evening would bring.
The narrow alley, boxed in by bricks and shadows, reeked of piss and rot. The painful grunts of someone being beaten up mercilessly a few feet ahead filled the stinking air.
Four men, huge and broad-shouldered, threw heavy punches and kicks at their victim, a skinny man with a disfigured face. One big guy trapped the vic’s arms from behind while the others beat the hell out of him.
“Hey, asswipes!” Max called out, standing flanked by my side. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
They paused, letting the vic’s bruised body fall to the ground, deep groans escaping his lips.
“My, my, my,” Franco said, turning to face us, wiping his bloody hands with a white handkerchief. “Look who we have here, boys.” His lips curled into a cocky grin. “If it isn’t the Chicago prince himself. Wonder what brings him around these parts.”
Those Moretti mutts exchanged glances, a glint of fear flickering in their eyes the moment they realized who I was.
Good. They should be afraid.
Franco let out an arrogant chuckle and then stepped forward, flanked by his men. “I don’t suppose this is a social visit. It never is when a Tarasov’s involved.” He halted in front of me.
“I won’t ask you again, Franco; back off,” I said, my voice calm and collected but laced with venom.
“What, you mean literally?” the idiot joked, flashing that stupid smirk in my face.
Maxim glanced at me, then chipped in quietly. “You’ve been warned: you and your boss. Stand down before things get bloody.”
“Shoot first, ask questions later. I thought that’s how you boys roll. Yet, here you are….” The sarcasm in his voice couldn’t be more glaring. He looked me dead in the eyes and said mockingly, “If you ask me, I’d say you’ve gone soft.”
The statement was barely finished when my fist connected with his jawbone. His head turned dangerously at the impact, a bloody tooth flying out of his mouth. Franco stumbled backward, nose and mouth spraying red across the alley wall.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Maxim warned Franco’s men before they could withdraw their weapons, his pistol pointed at one of them. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He cocked his gun, as did the others with him.
Two more heavy punches in the right spots had the lazy-ass Franco already on the ground, struggling to breathe. He groveled at my feet, bleeding and wheezing, too weak to stand.
“Not so arrogant now, are you?” I asked, calm and gentle as I crouched beside him, fingers tangling in his hair before yanking it backward.
He winced, his head jerking up to face me, my eyes, cold and hollow, boring into his. “Tell Moretti to back off. I won’t ask a second time.” I let go of his hair and slowly rose to my feet.
The others looked terrified, unsure of whether they’d leave this alley alive or dead. I shifted my gaze across their faces. Pathetic.
Without another word, I turned around and left, my men doing the same without turning their backs on the enemy.
***
Back at the club, I slouched into the leather chair in the dimly lit office like nothing had happened. I wiped the blood stain on my knuckles with the back of my hand as a thread of smoke curled around me.
I lifted my eyes, meeting my brother’s gaze. “What?”
Egor sighed, rubbing his forehead, and reclined in the chair across from me.
“You and I both know that this thing’s only gonna escalate—especially now that you’ve put Franco in the hospital.
” He paused, letting the words sink in for a moment.
“Yeah, my guy in the street said the bastard got messed up real bad. It appears his nose is severely damaged.”
“He should be grateful his nose is the only thing he has to worry about,” I said, my words slow and deliberate.
“You should leave the city, brother,” Egor said, “before shit gets blown into an all-out war.”
I raised my brows, shocked by his suggestion. “Wouldn’t be my first battle, Egor.”
“True,” he said, locking eyes with me. “But we need you back in Chicago. I can handle those rascals.”
I was quiet for a while, then a slow, charming grin lined the corner of my lips.
“What?” he asked, tilting his head slightly to the side, his face showing confusion.
“I’ve got a hot date tonight,” I said, suppressing my smirk as I lit a cigarette.
“A hot…?” He yanked his brows up, eyes wide with shock and surprise. “You’re kidding.”
I cast one of my serious looks to clear the air.
“Gotta admit, I didn’t see that coming. But Ian, now isn’t the time—”
“Relax, little brother,” I cut him off. “I’m leaving first thing tomorrow morning. I hate it here anyway.”
And with that, I let my mind be consumed by the thoughts of the tattoo lady, Ester. Her gorgeous smile, small and mysterious, flashed in my head, her sweet voice still echoing in my mind.
She said she liked to leave a permanent mark on people’s skins. I guess she wasn’t kidding because she hadn’t just marked my body; she marked my soul, too. Now, there was no way in hell that I’d leave New York City without seeing her one more time.