Page 1 of Bratva Sacrifice

Chapter One

Alexei

There is a dead body at my feet. This is nothing unusual. I have created many bodies.

But this one in particular annoys me. His name—before I put a bullet in his skull—was Nicola Russo. It is only the surname which is important. The Russos are Italian mafia. Nicola, however, is unimportant. Was unimportant. Only a foot soldier, and he would never have advanced further despite his father’s hopes for him. Nicola came from only a small branch of a much more powerful family. But it is a weak one; an idle one.

His father, Giulio, has never advanced beyond capo. His laziness has always outpaced his ambition. It is a trait inherited by the son, who carries every bit of his father’s weakness and was a thief besides. This would ruin them if the larger Russo family were to learn of it. It is one thing to be a thief, but it is another to steal from family.

Unfortunately for Nicola, it is another thing entirely to steal from me.

“Search him, and then return him to his papa,” I say to the two enforcers with me. “Tell him to expect a call.” My boots are now splattered with his son’s blood. I will want payment for this, as well as for what Nicola stole from me. Perhaps I will wear these boots to our meeting.

I tuck my gun back into the waistband of my jeans, and wait by the car. I told my second, Anatoli, to expect me half an hour ago, and now I am annoyed all over again that dealing with Nicola Russo has made me late.

Piotr, one of my enforcers, offers Nicola’s personal effects to me. There is a small amount of cash and a phone. A burner. Probably Anatoli can break into it. I shove it in my pocket along with the cash.

“How do you want him delivered?” Piotr asks.

The question is meaningful. Really, what he is asking is how much respect I choose to show this man, who raised a son like Nicola.

“I don’t give a fuck. Throw him on the steps,” I answer. “Let the father know he has one week to make amends to me.” I do not bow to men like Giulio Russo, even for the pretense of courtesy. Even meeting with him is beneath me.

I want him to know this. He thinks I will allow his son to steal from me. He thinks he will not answer for this trespass against me. He sends his son scurrying like a rat through my streets.

My phone chirps, two obnoxious beeps.

Anatoli says, “You’re late.”

“Bullshit, I am late,” I tell him. “Business waits for me.”

He grunts. “You resolve this thing with Russo?”

“Something like that.” I nudge the body with the toe of my boot. “Giulio will be angry.” I am looking forward to it. “Piotr will send the body back.”

Another grunt. Anatoli is a man of few words. “I have his records,” he says. “Idiot kept them on his computer. Not even encrypted. You want me to send them?”

To the rest of the Russos, he means. I am not the only one from whom Nicola has been stealing. I could topple Giulio Russo’s entire connection to the rest of his famiglia with these. Make him and his entire pathetic branch into hunted men. But I think it will be more enjoyable to watch him squirm.

“Just bring them to me,” I say.

My men are already rolling Nicola Russo’s corpse into a plastic liner, which will contain the blood. I do not want bits of brain to ruin my upholstery. This is not worth the cleaning cost.

“You think they will go to war?”

I scoff. Giulio’s branch is a small one. There is not enough manpower within it for a war against me. He will not risk rallying the more powerful ones when I could so easily turn them upon him. “Nyet.” Already I have Giulio Russo by the balls. However furious about the loss of his only child he might be, he will be more worried for his own skin. “Russo is a coward. He has done nothing worthwhile in his life. He would be a fool to cross me.”

Just like his pathetic son.

∞∞∞

In the early morning hours, there is a long beeeeep that rouses me from a sound slumber. It is the sort of cheap, tinny chime that comes from a burner phone, and I remember—I have Nicola’s burner tucked away in my pocket still.

Who the fuck is texting a dead man? News travels fast in this world. Mafia men gossip worse than old women, especially the Italians.

A text flashes across the lock screen.

Papa hasn’t answered me yet. What does he want for his birthday? And then, Sorry. I know you don’t like me to text you.