Page 2 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

I tip my head without looking at him and head to the back wall of refrigerators, pretending to scan the shelves of cheap beer. I stay there for no more than a minute, just long enough to register how many cameras are in the store. By the looks of them and the rest of the shabby shop, it’s a self-monitored security system. It won’t be hard to erase the footage of my visit.

When I’m ready to do what I came to do, I shove my hands deep into my hoodie pockets and shuffle back towards the door with my head still down.

“Nothing for you today?” the owner asks.

I don’t respond, lowering my head even further, and just like I hoped, he comes out from behind the counter and meets me at the door. His hand lands on my shoulder, jerking me back.

“I’m talking to you,” he growls in the voice he has no doubt scared countless teenagers with. Liquor store owners have to be tough. They have to be ready to confront shoplifters and underage thieves.

But even all of that experience hasn’t prepared him for the likes of me.

“No,” I say, pulling the gun from my hip and pressing it into his side. “I’m talking to you.”

The owner is middle-aged with a gut made rotund by beer and pretzels, but he still feels the pressure in his side. Confusion flickers across his face, followed by realization and then horror. His eyes go wide, and his face pales. He lifts his hands.

“On your stomach,” I order.

He drops to the floor in a second. I keep my eyes on him as I walk backwards towards the door and flip the switch to turn off the neon “OPEN” sign, then slide the deadbolt into place.

“Crawl between the aisles,” I say, walking towards him, gesturing with my gun for him to get out of view of the door.

As he scoots backwards on his stomach, I flip the light switches next to the counter until only the light in the far back of the store is left flickering.

“The cash register is full,” he babbles. “Take it. Take it all.”

I turn my head to the side, studying him. “Generous, but no thank you.”

He glances up at me, brow furrowed. Something about my expression must unnerve him because he looks back down, his nose touching the dirty tile floor. “Then what do you want?”

“I know who you are.” I pause, letting the words sit between us. “George McDougall.”

He flinches when I say his name, realizing my vendetta is personal. This isn’t about money; it’s about revenge.

“Who are you?” he asks.

I drop to one knee in front of him, my gun arm resting across my leg, the barrel pointed at his head. “I think you already know.”

He shakes his head, still looking down at the floor, but I can tell by the lowering of his shoulders that he knows exactly who I am. The nervous glancing out the front window before I even walked inside confirmed that he was nervous. He had every right to be.

“It’s been weeks,” he says in a near-whisper.

“Yeah, well, without my brother around to help out, I’ve been a little behind. Trust me, I would have come here sooner if I could have.”

“Damien was my friend,” George says. “I had to do what I could to make sure he got justice.”

“My brother delivered his justice.”

George glances up at me, and I feel the urge to look away. We both know that isn’t true. Still, I hold his gaze, narrowing my eyes until he looks away. George is a brave man, but he’s smart, too. He knows I hold his life in my hands right now.

He had to be brave to take the stand he did against the Kornilov Bratva. Anyone who has even considered it in the past received a visit from some of our enforcers. They all changed their minds pretty quickly. The only reason George slipped through the cracks was because the prosecution kept his identity anonymous until the very last minute. We didn’t know he’d take the stand until he was being sworn in. By then, it was too late to do anything about it.

I’m angry with George for putting my brother in jail, but completely separate from that, he made me look weak. It was under my leadership that a witness finally dared to come forward and testify. No one would ever have considered doing such a thing when my father was in charge. That’s part of the reason I’m holding a gun to his head.

The other reason is that the most important and difficult tasks should always be handled by the leader. My father would disagree—he disagreed with me on many different points—but I learned a lot from watching him lead. He delegated everything, sending his men around the city to do his business. They feared him, but they didn’t respect him. I want their fear and their respect alike.

If I’m not willing to get my hands dirty, then how can I ask anyone else to do it for me? So, in this matter that intimately involves my brother, I want to be the one to pull the trigger. I want to show my men that I’m not above them, but with them. For my Bratva. For my family.

“I have a family,” George says, his voice shaking. “A wife and children.”

---