Page 164 of The Bratva King

40

Nikolai

I can’t stay in this house. The walls are pressing in, and I feel Gabby’s fear everywhere. It’s suffocating. I’m not a man of inaction. Luke’s absence has left a hollow ache in my chest that I can’t fill. Only violence will help.

“Let’s go,” I tell the men gathered around me.

Sergei returned an hour ago with nothing.

We head to my armory. It’s got an extra layer of security now that Luke’s in the house. We’ve removed some of the weapons placed around the house and locked them up in here. After entering a code, scanning my fingerprint, and unlocking one final lock, we step into the small space. We load up, strapping on holsters and Kevlar. We all have someone waiting for us. For once, no one gives anyone shit about it.

It’s time to go to the top. I want blood. I need someone to feel the pain that’s threatening to take me to my knees. I can’t stand to watch Gabby suffer. It’s making me crazy.

Pasha falls into step beside me as we head for the door. “You sure about this?”

“I can’t sit here and wait for reports. Every second that piece of shit has my boy is another second he breathes.” My voice is raw, stripped of the control I’ve spent years perfecting. “The Italians have been circling long enough. It’s time one of them talked.”

We take four SUVs, adding a few of my most trusted men to the army of cousins and brothers at my back. The city blurs past in streaks of neon. Vegas in the summer still scorches the night, but I don’t feel it. All I feel is the fracture spreading in my chest.

Our driver knows where we’re going. We’re headed straight to the fucking don. Sergei doesn’t want me to kill him. I understand the ripple effect, but if it comes to his life or Luke’s, Sergei can fucking deal with the fallout.

This is me breaking. The man who never loses control is gone, replaced by something feral. Pasha got intel that Don Castellano is holed up at his estate. Luke isn’t here. There’s no chance the don would make the mistake of keeping a kidnapped child on his property. Pasha’s information is solid, and I trust it. Luke isn’t on the property. It would be easier if he were, but that doesn’t mean Castellano doesn’t know where he is.

“Are we knocking?” Maksim asks from the front. “Please tell me I get to be the knocker.”

“Blow it,” I tell him.

He lets out a squeal and pulls the case of grenades forward. They’re not something we use unless we have no other choice. This is one of those situations, and since the Italians are fond of blowing shit up, it’s only fair we return the favor.

Pasha is on the radio with the rest of our army trailing behind us. Maksim rolls down the window, grinning like it’s Christmas morning.

The gate sits far enough from the house that a blast won’t reach it. I trust the intel, but I can’t risk Luke.

“Bombs away, motherfuckers!” Maksim pulls several pins and tosses one after another.

Shouts erupt a second before a series of explosions light up the night sky. Twisted metal flies through the air. Pieces rain on the SUV as our driver guns it through the gap where the gate and fence once stood. Men scatter across the grounds. The compound lights up all at once: spotlights blaze, and guards pour out of the main house with weapons raised.

Gunfire erupts. I’m out of the SUV in a flash, using the door as cover. Bullets ping off the armored plating. My men fan out behind me in a formation we’ve drilled a thousand times. Muscle memory takes over while every thought I have remains fixed on Luke.

“Cease fire!” I roar over the chaos. My voice cuts through the gunshots. “I’m here to talk to the don!”

More bullets answer. One ricochets off the doorframe inches from my head.

“Your choice!” I shout back. “Let me talk to Castellano, or we kill every last one of you!”

Pasha is beside me, firing controlled bursts toward the house. Sergei and Kirill have taken position near the fountain. Maksim is somewhere to my right. I hear his laugh over the gunfire. He’s enjoying this too much.

“Stand down!” A new voice cuts through the noise. Older. Authoritative. “Stand down, goddammit!”

The shooting slows, then stops. My ears ring in the sudden quiet. Smoke hangs in the air, acrid and thick. The hot air presses down on us. Sweat beads my skin.

The front door of the estate opens. Don Castellano steps out, flanked by six guards. Gray hair slicked back. Not a wrinkle in his suit. He moves with the measured confidence of a man who’s survived decades.

“Sokolov.” His voice carries across the courtyard. “You have some nerve coming to my home like this.”

I step out from behind the SUV door. My gun stays in my hand, pointed at the ground, but ready. “Where’s Matteo Castellano?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”