Page 47 of The Bratva King

The hostess sees us first. Fear fills her eyes.

"Table for two?" she manages.

"No," I say.

I walk past her, tightening my grip on the Glock. Her running footsteps are all I hear behind me.

Pasha moves on my left.

An older couple deep in conversation falls silent. The man’s fork stops halfway to his mouth.

I hear my name whispered. Sinatra is still crooning, but no one is talking or eating.

I see my target. Low-level. The kind of guy who would be sent in to fuck with my building.

He sees me before he sees the gun. By the time he sees the gun, it's already done its job. He goes down screaming, clutching his hand, blood running between his fingers and onto the white tablecloth.

His eyes lock on mine like he can’t believe I’m standing in front of him.

“Sokolov!”

I move swiftly as the second guy reaches for something under his jacket. I put one in his thigh before he gets there. He drops, swearing and grabbing at his leg.

I hear a shot and feel a bullet whip past my ear. Another shot rings out less than a second later. I don’t have to look to know it’s Pasha hitting the guy who just shot at me.

Neither shot was meant to kill them. Dead men don't deliver messages. Wounded ones do.

Someone comes through the kitchen door with a gun raised. Pasha puts a round through his shoulder before I fully register the threat. One shot. Clean. The man howls. I already know Pasha will brag about that one later.

A fourth one steps out from behind the bar with his hands up, not stupid enough to reach for anything, but still stupid enough to start shouting.

“You’re in the wrong fucking restaurant.” A man steps forward. “You’ll pay.”

“I’m returning the favor. Tell your boss the next time he fucks with my property, I won’t be shooting his goons. I’ll be visiting him at his hotel and his fucking house.”

“You don’t run this city. We do,” he snaps.

Pasha scoffs. “A bunch of old, fat Italians living in the twentieth century, pretending they have power. Slow learners.”

“This is your final warning,” I tell him. “I so much as suffer a broken window, and I’ll be back. Your boss would be wise to pay attention. I’m not the one.”

There’s shouting as we walk out, but nobody is brave enough to stop us. The hostess presses herself against the wall like she's trying to disappear.

Pasha holsters his gun and rolls his shoulders like he’s just finished a light workout.

"Now, I'm hungry," he says.

“Casino,” I tell him.

“I’m behind you.”

I put the Glock back in the console and briefly think about the weapons placed around my house. I’ll need to have a talk with Luke about gun safety. And I suppose we’ll need to secure them better.

I park in the garage and enter through the back of the casino.

“I called ahead and brought in the extra security we’ll need after that.”

“You think I should have let it go?”