Page 4 of The Bratva King

“I don’t know, honey. But I had to get you out of there. You’re officially dead.”

2

Nikolai

FIVE YEARS LATER

The SUV stops under the covered entrance that has just been finished at my forty-story hotel. I step out and feel the Vegas heat. The front entrance isn’t finished. That pisses me off. We’re behind schedule. I don't tolerate delays.

Pasha, my best friend and right-hand man, falls in beside me.

I step inside and look at the massive area that will be the casino floor. My eyes track the changes from my last visit. Not enough progress. This place is supposed to be open in four months, which is already a month later than originally planned.

“I like the floor choice,” Pasha says.

I don’t look. I already know it’s stunning. My gaze is ahead where Frank, the foreman, is waiting for me.

He looks scared.

“What is it?” I ask.

"They hit the east wing again," he says. "Whole spool of copper, gone. Maybe two hundred feet. They left something."

I'm already walking toward the east wing, with Frank jogging to keep pace. I take in the progress on the areas that will be the luxury stores I’ve contracted with. My hotel will offer anything and everything a guest might need.

I'm giving MGM a run for its money. Not accurate. The minute my hotel opens, I'll rule Vegas. I’ll have a better location. Better margins. A high-roller room no one can match.

But there's some serious pushback from my competitors. And it isn't the property groups. It's the fucking Italian mafia. They still think this is the seventies, and that they run the show.

They haven't accepted the inevitable.

They’ve been fucking with me since I put in a bid on this property. They tried everything to stop it, but when I set a goal, I make it happen. I’ve run right over the top of them, and I’m not about to stop.

This is the fourth incident in six weeks. A stolen generator before that. A water main "accidentally" cracked by a backhoe operator who quit the next day and hasn't been seen since. They’re bleeding me slowly, one wound at a time, hoping I won't notice until it’s too late.

But I notice everything. That's the problem with people who think my lack of reaction means I’m oblivious.

Frank gestures at the box on the floor. It’s leaking. Blood.

“Horse?” I ask.

Frank grimaces. “Goat.”

“Original,” I mutter.

"You think it's the same people as the truck?” Frank asks.

"I think it's the people who've been losing this city to me for years and don't know how to lose gracefully." My gaze moves across the area that will be the home to three massive ballrooms. I look up and envision the chandeliers that I designed. Hand-blown Venetian glass, every piece. I waited eight months for their arrival. There will be twenty-three of them in this room alone. A designer has put together some mock-ups for weddings and galas. The chandeliers will make the space. People will pay big money to dance in my ballroom under my chandeliers.

"Tell the crew we're back on schedule by Monday, no matter what it takes."

Frank nods and walks away, already on his phone.

"They're getting bold,” Pasha says. “This isn't subtle anymore. This is somebody making a point."

"I'm aware."

"You want to hit back?"