Page 18 of Bratva Hunter

“Yes, Papa. I didn’t mean to disrespect.”

He waves his hand at me. “Go in the morning.”

I stand from the dismissal. I know better than to show my feelings to my father. He’s hard… but fair. He loved my mother and treats those in the bratva fairly. My mind drifts to Rosa. Did whoever sent the shooter track her down, or is she just that good hiding out?

I’ve been working with Johnny, a putz my father invited to join the Bravikov Bratva three weeks before. He’s hopeless. He was hired to take on some of my smaller jobs and give me time to work on more lucrative contracts. Contracts. I chuckle. Papa has an assassination list acquired from other criminal organizations. Other leaders pay him to fix their problems.Nine out of ten times, it’s someone they want murdered. My specialty. Assassinations provide an effective way to make ourselves indispensable to other organizations. Not to mention the skeletons we can dig up, so to speak, when we need to hold things over the heads of another group. I chuckle to myself. Who knew I’d be the Jay-Z of murder?

My phone rings as I drive back to my father’s estate. “Hello?”

“She’s running again.”

“Hello, Fingers. Where?”

“She’s been outside of Albuquerque for a while. Someone tracked her down and tried to kill her again.”

I blow out a big breath. “It’s got to be the cartel. I just don’t get why they want to kill their kin.”

“I can’t explain it either, but they’ve been on the phone with Cynric and your father.”

“Text me what you’ve got. I’ll head back to the area in a couple hours.”

Eight hours later, I’m driving into the asphalt parking lot of the establishment our girl ran from. I step out of my stolen SUV and strut across the parking lot. There is minimal activity, but I need to stay on my game and scan my surroundings. Pushing open the two wood doors, my nose is bombarded with the smell of Cajun. My mouth waters, reminding me that I haven’t eaten in a long time. The restaurant looks like an old barn with homey, country touches spread around. A massive mirror sits behind the counter with bottles of liquor reflecting the light. On the far end of the long counter, a large glass lighted container shows off various baked goods. I’m taking in the eclectic décor with hard metal surrounded by country charm as a sweet voice welcomes me.

“Good evening. Dinner or the bar?”

My eyes scan to the direction of her hand pointing to a doorway leading into a large dark room.

“This is the restaurant. Good food and bright lighting. That door is the passage to the dark.” She giggles. “Seriously, it’s the bar. They’re open until two, and we close at nine.”

I flick my watch. It’s twenty minutes to nine. I grab a seat at the bar. “What’s the spectacular Cajun dish I smell?”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, that’s jambalaya.”

“I’ll take a bowl of that, a cup of coffee – black, and a slice of the berry pie in the container.”

She beams. “Well, aren’t you sweet, choosing items I already have in hand rather than have to make. Coming right up.”

Boisterous noises in the bar area catch my attention as she walks back with my coffee. “Do you get a lot of trouble ‘round here?”

She shakes her head, then stops. “Not usually.” She leans down to whisper. “We had an incident the other day with some bikers. They roughed up our owner and scared the bejesus out of the rest of us.”

I sip my coffee. “That’s awful. Does that mean they’ll be coming around again?” I turn my head back and forth with a concerned look.

“I don’t think so. The server they were looking for isn’t here anymore.” She clicks her tongue. “Poor little thing. She’s got some nasty boyfriend chasing her or something. I guess he hired the biker guys to find her. She barely got away.” She moves away to head around the counter and into the kitchen. After a few more sips of coffee, she and a man, wearing a long white apron, step out of the kitchen. The man’s jaw is tight as he wipes his hands on his partially clean apron.

“You nosy or something?”

I pretend to startle from his question as I shake my head. My long sleeves cover my tattoos. No one would suspect I was anything but a traveling businessman. “Me? Oh, no. Just asked about the ruckus in the bar next door and the server shared that you had some issues with bikers.” I lean in. “I stay away from bikers.”

He crosses his arms across his chest as the server sets down a large bowl of brown liquid with vegetables and meat. Nodding, he flicks his head to the bar. “They’re trouble. You’d be wise to stay away.”

I dive my spoon into the aromatic dish and scoop out a bite. Nodding before I take the spoon between my lips. “Oh. This is divine. Reminds me of Mulate’s in N’orlens.”

His mouth shifts into a slow smile. “You’ve been to N’orlens?”

“Yes. Sir. Spent a few years in the Navy there. Loved it, but couldn’t work out enough to keep trim. I love my Cajun!”

The man beams from the compliment as he skips off while I devour my food. The server sets down my pie. “Forgive Marcel, he’s crusty.”

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