Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

28. Dmitri

28

DMITRI

T he bar is dimly lit, a haze of soft amber light glowing from sconces along the walls. It’s busy, voices blending into a low hum, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter.

I scan the space before I’ve taken more than two steps inside.

My eyes are drawn to her immediately; my first mistake. She’s seated near the far wall in a plush armchair, a delicate glass of white wine balanced between her fingers.

Her hair catches the light, glowing faintly, and the black of her dress makes her look like she stepped off a movie set.

She’s stunning. And on edge.

Even from across the room, I can see it in the way she grips her glass, her knuckles faintly white. Her gaze flickers toward me as soon as I enter, but she doesn’t move.

Her composure is remarkable, but I know better. Beneath that calm exterior, she’s rattled.

I want to comfort her. Mistake two.

I walk over to her and I’m halfway there before my instincts start working again.

Two men, seated at the bar. Their postures are too straight, their eyes too sharp. While everyone else around them laughs or leans into easy conversations, these two are hyperaware of the room.

One stirs his drink absently, the other pretends to scroll on his phone. Their jackets, despite their effort to blend in, sit awkwardly, bulging slightly at the waist. Guns.

They’re Lombardi’s men. No doubt about it.

My jaw tightens. They must’ve come in through the back. Vladimir’s getting sloppy with his security detail. Four men in two days have infiltrated a Bratva hotel. That has never happened. Shows how much Lombardi wants the statue. Throwing away his best men into the lion’s den.

I push the anger down. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is Elena. Getting her to safety.

When I reach her table, her gaze locks onto mine, noticing something’s wrong even as I keep my expression neutral. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” My tone is soft but firm. No room for questions.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t argue. Smart girl.

I lean toward her chair, keeping my voice low. “Listen to me. I need you to stay right here. Don’t move. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. Just finish your drink and wait for me to come back.”

Her brows knit together, but she nods. “Why? What’s happening?”

“There are things I need to handle.” I glance at the men at the bar. They’re careful not to look in my direction, but I can feel their focus shift. They know I’ve spotted them.

Elena follows my gaze, then looks back at me. “Is it those two?”

“What makes you say that?”

“They keep looking at me. Who are they?”

I touch her knee lightly. “You’ve got a good eye, moya lisitsa . Stay here.”

“Dmitri—”

“Trust me.” My voice drops lower, sharper, cutting off any protest. “I’ll be right back. Act normal.”

She exhales, tension radiating off her in waves, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she leans back in her chair and takes a sip of her wine, as if she’s perfectly at ease.

I stand and walk away, my shoulders squared, my gaze fixed on the back of the bar.

The bartender glances up as I approach, his face unreadable, but his hands steady as he pours a clear shot of vodka without a word.

I take it, down it in one clean motion, and slide the glass back to him. “ Spasibo ,” I murmur, low and curt.

He opens the hatch so I can slip behind the bar. The instant I’m there, I duck down, now invisible to the clientele.

He nods once at me as I crawl past, his hands already reaching for a towel to wipe the counter. He knows better than to ask questions.

The Lombardi men were seated near the front of the bar, their postures tense but their movements subtle, designed not to draw attention.

Amateurs. The more you try to blend in, the more obvious you become to someone who knows what to look for.

I take my time, moving deliberately, giving them no reason to suspect what’s coming. I get to the far end of the bar, slipping through the fire exit before sprinting to the next door.

When I emerge back into the bar, I’m behind them. They’re still watching Elena. The two of them are on their feet, about to make their move.

Imbeciles.

The first man doesn’t even hear me approach. I grab the back of his head, slamming it down onto the polished bar with a sickening crack.

The second man whips around, his hand darting toward his jacket, but I’m faster. My arm shoots out, catching him by the throat and lifting him halfway out of his seat before slamming his head into the first man’s.

The impact reverberates through my arm, and both men collapse like rag dolls, unconscious before they hit the floor.

The room around us barely stirs. A few patrons glance over, curious but not alarmed, assuming it’s a drunken scuffle. The bartender doesn’t even look up, polishing glasses with practiced indifference.

Igor appears, as if summoned by some unspoken signal. He stops a few steps away, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. “Plan C again, sir?”

“Yes,” I say, brushing my hands together as if dusting off crumbs.

Without another word, he moves into action, signaling to a pair of staff members who materialize from a side door.

They work swiftly, dragging the two unconscious men toward the back exit with the efficiency of a well polished routine.

I glance down at the bar where one of the men’s heads made contact. A faint smear of blood mars the polished surface. The bartender is already moving to clean it up, his expression calm and detached.

“Send the bodies back to Lombardi,” I instruct Igor. “Make sure he knows who did this.”

“Of course, sir,” he replies smoothly, heading for the same door as the staff.

“Wait,” I say and he skids to a halt, turning back to face me.

“Sir?”

“Tell Vladimir to find Veronica somewhere safer than this or I’ll have his head.”

“At once.”

I roll my shoulders, exhale, and adjust my cuffs, ensuring I’m presentable before making my way back to Elena.

She’s still seated where I left her, her posture as composed as it can be under the circumstances. But when her eyes meet mine, I see the tension in her gaze. The faint tremble in her fingers as she lifts her glass.

“Let’s go,” I say, my voice steady, the command clear. “There could be more.”

She doesn’t hesitate, sliding off the stool and stepping toward me. Her fingers brush mine as I take her hand. It’s warm, soft, and trembling slightly. I grip it firmly, a silent reassurance.

“What about Veronica?” she asks, her voice low but urgent.

I nod, steering her toward the back exit of the bar. “She’s safe. I’ve made arrangements.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you?”

The hallway is dim, quiet, and empty, just as I prefer it. My hand on Elena’s back, I guide her toward the rear of the hotel. Vladimir appears at the end of the corridor, his posture sharp and composed as always.

“Veronica?” I ask.

“She’ll be on the move in three minutes,” he replies. “I must apologize, Dmitri, for this appalling breach of our rules.” He holds out a car key. “A gesture of apology. The Bentley in bay seventeen.”

I take the key. “Forward our things to the address I’ll send you. Keep my car here.”

Vladimir nods. “Of course.”

We shake hands, a quick exchange of respect before I turn my attention back to Elena. Her eyes dart between me and Vladimir, tension written across her face. I don’t give her time to ask questions.

“This way,” I say, urging her forward.

The service exit leads to the alley behind the hotel. The night air is cold, sharp, biting against my skin as I scan the surroundings.

Four figures linger near the parking lot entrance, talking in low voices. They look dressed for a bachelor party, loud shirts, too much aftershave. It’s a front. They’re here for us.

Elena opens her mouth to speak, but I shake my head, pressing a finger to her lips. Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods.

I scan the area again, my mind calculating the quickest and safest route. The men are too close to the Bentley. A direct approach isn’t an option. I need a distraction.

Spotting a nearby sedan, I pull a penknife from my pocket, crouch low, and approach the car.

The blade is small but sharp enough to get the job done. I jam it into the door’s keyhole, twisting until the alarm erupts in a blaring, ear-splitting wail.

The men whip their heads toward the noise, their attention diverted as they move toward the source.

I don’t waste a second, gripping Elena’s hand tightly as I lead her in a low crouch around the edge of the lot.

We reach the Bentley undetected, and I open the passenger door, ushering her inside before sliding into the driver’s seat.

As the engine purrs to life, I glance at her. She’s pale, her lips pressed into a tight line, but she doesn’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed out the window.

I pull out of the lot, the car rolling smoothly into the street. In the rearview mirror, the hotel grows smaller.

The silence between us is heavy, thick with unspoken thoughts. I focus on the road, my grip on the steering wheel tight as my mind turns over the events of the night.

Elena finally speaks. “Is this what dating you is like?”

I glance at her, my jaw tightening. “I’ve never dated before.”

Her fingers curl into her lap, her knuckles white. “Should I be honored or scared?”

I reach over, placing one hand over hers. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t look at me, either.

“You’re with me now,” I say quietly, my voice firm. “You’ll never need to be scared ever again.”