Page 34 of Scarred Bratva King

I don’t even look at them.

They’re nother.

My eyes scan the room, skipping over bare skin and hungry smiles, cutting through the smoke-filled haze to find the booth in the corner. Marco’s reserved spot. Except Marco isn’t there.

Disappointment flickers, but I shove it down. A few men are lounging in the booth instead, wearing smug expressions and sharp suits. They’re Lombardi men, all arrogance and misplaced confidence. They notice me before I reach them, their gazes narrowing. They don’t know Dmitri has me well covered.

One of them leans back, arms draped over the booth like he owns the place. “Maxim Stepanov,” he drawls, his grin sharp. “Heard you were in Moscow.”

I stop in front of them, my cane tapping once against the sticky floor. “Where’s Marco Gorlami?”

The man grins wider, showing teeth. “What makes you think we’d tell you, limpy?”

“Because I asked nicely,” I reply, my voice even.

Another man pipes up, a stocky guy with a buzzcut. “You do realize where you are, right? This is Lombardi territory. No guns allowed past the door. You’re alone. No one here to save you. Go back to your hammer and your sickle, boy.”

The men chuckle, a low, ugly sound that grates on my nerves.

“I’ll ask one more time,” I say, taking a step closer. “Where is Marco?”

The stocky one stands, barely reaching my chin. He leans in, his breath reeking of garlic and cheap whiskey. “You got a death wish, huh? Fuck off before I take your cane off you and shove it up your ass.”

In a blur, I grab his wrist and twist. There’s a sickening snap, followed by his scream as he drops to his knees, clutching his mangled arm.

“Wrong answer,” I say coldly.

The booth erupts. Three more men charge at me, but they’re slow. Predictable.

The first swings a fist, and I sidestep, driving my cane into his ribs. He crumples, wheezing. The second lunges, aiming for my throat. I block him easily, my elbow smashing into his nose with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays as he stumbles back.

The third tries to grab me from behind. I drop low, sweep his legs out from under him, and drive the heel of my boot into his shoulder. Another snap. Another scream. I ignore the pain in my hip, adrenaline keeping me going.

The stocky one, still cradling his broken arm, glares up at me. “You’re insane,” he spits. “Lombardi will kill you for this.”

“Tell Marco,” I say, my voice like ice, “that I’m coming for him. And next time, I won’t bother asking nice.”

I turn to leave, the room deathly quiet except for the groans of the men on the floor. A few strippers press themselves against the walls, their wide eyes tracking my movements.

Just as I near the door, I feel the tension shift. Someone’s pulled a gun. “Stop right there. I’m going to fuck you up, Ruski.”

The faint click of a safety being released is the only warning I need. “You sure about that?” I say as I turn to face him.

His head explodes as a rifle fires high above me. I nod up toward the skylight. The shadow of Dmitri nods back.

The room erupts into chaos, but I’m already gone.

Outside, the air is crisp and biting, a welcome change from the suffocating heat of the club. Ivan is leaning against the SUV, smoking a cigar. He raises an eyebrow as I approach.

“I don’t see blood,” he says dryly, exhaling a plume of smoke. “No Marco?”

I shake my head.

Ivan chuckles, opening the car door for me. “You owe me twenty.”

“Dmitri took out one of them.”

“Shit, that means I owe you twenty.”

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