Page 1 of A Bride for the Mafia King

Chapter One

Tolya

Chicago, Italian Territory, 1:43 AM

“Three minutes in total. One to get in, one to hit and one to get out. We go in hard. Clean. Fast. No Mistakes.” My voice cuts through the thick air of the space in the SUV. My Russian accent isn’t thick but there is no mistaking my origins.

For all intents and purposes I am the Bratva in Chicago, the one Russian to be feared above all others. Born Burcov Anatoliy Ivanovich, my reputation precedes me and now I’m simply known as Tolya. I pride myself on my ruthlessness, the swift and cruel manner by which I rule my territory. It’s rare for me to lead my men in the field. But this is a special occasion.

I rose to the position of Pakhan at only 19 years of age, building my reputation on blood and legacy. I took no time establishing my worthiness as the leader of the local Bratva faction, and I’ve held it for more than a decade and a half. Now my name alone strikes fear in the hearts of my enemies.

“They’ve been pushing into our territory, all while giving the pretense of negotiations. Now they are attempting to make deals with our vendors and our business associates under our noses. It stops now. It’s time we send a message; it will not be tolerated,” I instruct the men. My voice is strong, calm, lethal as I give the orders.

No one else speaks. My presence on this mission is all the indication they need to understand the seriousness of the situation. My glacier-blue eyes sweep over the crew one by one: Yaro in the driver seat, Vlad, Sacha, and Artyom in the back. Five men in total, including myself, each built like a tank, stone faced and deadly in their own right.

Turning slightly in the passenger's seat, I address the three in the backseat directly. I have dozens of men I trust within my organization but these ones, they are the ones I wanted at my back when things go wrong. I trust them implicitly.

“You three take the front, push through the guards and detain the Don. You hurt him. But you don’t kill him. Am I clear?” A trio of grunts and nods come from the back of the car. “You call me and Yaro when you have him. I want to deliver this message personally.”

Yaro shifts in the driver's seat beside me, the leather of his coat creaking. As my second, and my oldest friend, he doesn’t have the same qualms about asking questions as the others.

“Do we have any idea where in the house the Don will be? A layout perhaps? Any point of reference?”

I don’t answer right away, shifting back around and settling in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield. The house is in sight now, its dark windows and wrought-iron perimeter discernible under the light of the streetlamps ahead.

With a deep breath, I take a moment to check my watch.

1:45 AM. Right on time.

“This house is for business only, for the Don and high ranking members of the family. No wives, children, sisters or other family members are allowed here. A good portion of his men are away with the Sotto Capo this evening, leaving the house lightly guarded. The Don will be in his office. Upstairs corridor. Third door on the left,” I finally answer, my voice matter-of-fact.

“How do you know all that?”

Only Yaro would dare to ask such a question. My second-in-command has been with me too long to shy from such open inquiry.

“Someone inside have a big mouth?”

The men in the back exchange a look. My eyes shift to the rearview mirror at the movement. None of them would dare to ask how I’ve gleaned that particular piece of information. They all simply accept that I have my ways, as I always do. One of many reasons I’ve succeeded in so many ways when others have failed before me.

“Let’s just say someone owed me a favor,” I say, pulling the pistol from inside my coat pocket, sliding the mag out to check it then locking it back into place. “And if they lied, they’ll wish I would have put a bullet in them instead of the penance they will pay at my hands.”

Silence falls. No one, absolutely no one, would want to be on the wrong side of the Russian Pakhan.

I crack my knuckles as the SUV slows on approach, “Remember, this is not a negotiation. It’s a message. Let’s make it a clear one.”

Sliding parallel to the curb Yaro throws the shifter into park and the locks click open. The back doors fling open an instant later. I am the last one out of the vehicle, slipping from the passenger’s seat with my eyes trained on the house with cold, calm calculation.

Yaro is there in an instant, beside me, clearing the path around us with precision as the others surge ahead. The five men move like wraiths in the night, decades of combined experience in this life making them more than effective. They are downright lethal.

Artyom and Vlad reach the door first, reaching for the latch, the knob turning without resistance. Unlocked, just like I arranged for it to be.

They exchange a glance, looking to me for affirmation. At my nod everyone explodes into action. Artyom is the first through the front door, taking down the first Italian guard with a strike to his throat. A muffled gurgle and the man collapses in a heap on the floor.

The second guard comes rushing at us, reaching for his weapon. But Vlad is faster. He has the man disarmed and on the ground in a matter of moments. It's clear the Italians weren’t expecting company. There are only two guards posted in the foyer, granting us easy access to split up and search the rest of the house.

I follow the men closely, the fabric of my long black trench coat billowing around me like a cape. Yaro stalks close at hand, like a nightmare coming to life. All the men are armed but the instruction was clear—non lethal force unless utterly unavoidable.

I'm still hopeful that I will be able to muster a mutually beneficial agreement with the Italians. Since becoming Pakhan I’ve been able to get all the major players in Chicago to get onboard with a more organized underground. Everyone except the Italians. I wasn’t eager to continue hunting down their operations. Putting more blood on the street would only make it harder to get all the underworld houses inline to sign the accords. No, it was time to go after the head of the snake itself.