Page 16 of The Bratva Sinner

I see the tiny bit of satisfaction that gives her. Her choice to have the door closed.

“She’s allowed to roam the grounds,” I tell the guard stationed just down the hall. “Give her space but keep an eye on her.”

I don’t believe she’s a plant working for the Albanians, but one can never be too careful.

“Maksim,” Damien calls out just when I’m about to head into my office.

He walks toward me with a look on his face that says my day is about to get very violent.

“Where?”

“Southern port. Sergei’s man called. Fucking Italians are trying to charge a tariffon one of his shipments.”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously? When will they learn that my brother doesn’t put up with that shit.”

Damien smiles. “I guess we’ll have to teach them another lesson.”

“Slow learners.”

“Sampson is waiting,” he replies.

I hate coming down here. It’s always a bullshit power play. My brothers are the main bratva guys. The heir, the spare, and then there’s me. They don’t need me until something like this comes up, and I have to step into the role of bratva prince.

So fucking annoying.

Two guys stand outside a warehouse that isn’t ours, but the tracking on our shipment says the product is here. They’re young, maybe mid-twenties, wearing expensive leather jackets that scream new money. Definitely Italians. Probably nephews or cousins of someone who thinks they can muscle in on Sergei’s territory. They’re not dumb enough to hijack Sergei’s shit, so they have expendable minions standing out here.

I step out of the car and adjust my jacket. The weight of my Glock in the shoulder holster rests against my ribcage.

“Gentlemen.” I flash an easy smile. “I hear we have a misunderstanding.”

The taller one, his dark hair slicked back with too much product, crosses his arms. “No misunderstanding. Your brother’s shipment goes through our territory now. Twenty percent tariff. That’s the new arrangement.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” I keep my voice pleasant and conversational. “There is no new arrangement. There’s the arrangement my brother made with your boss three years ago, and that arrangement stands.”

“Things change,” the shorter one says. He’s got a scar running down his cheek that he probably thinks makes him look dangerous. “New management, new rules.”

I feel my patience wearing thin. Usually, I can do this dance for hours. Negotiate, charm, and threaten politely until everyone walks away thinking they won something. But today, all I can think about is getting back to the house.

What if she leaves while I’m gone? What if she walks out the door and disappears into Miami with no money and Bekir’s people hunting her?

“Listen.” My smile slips. “I don’t have time for this. You will release my brother’s shipment, apologize for wasting everyone’s time, and then go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and tell your boss that the Sokolov family does not negotiate with children.”

Slick Hair laughs. “Or what? You’re outnumbered, Sokolov. We got ten guys inside that warehouse.”

“And I’ve got my brother, who will burn this operation to the ground if his shipment doesn’t arrive on time.” I take a step closer. “More importantly, I’ve got shit to do today, and you’re really starting to piss me off.”

“Tough talk from?—”

I pull out my gun and shoot him.

The sound echoes across the dock. Slick Hair drops, clutching his shoulder, screaming. It’s not a kill shot; I aimed low on purpose. But it gets the point across.

I turn to Scar Face, who’s gone pale. “I have shit to do. I am not in the mood. Are we going to have a problem, or are you going to be smarter than your friend here?” I aim my gun at his knee.

His hands go up immediately. “No problem. No problem at all. The shipment is yours. No tariff.”

“That’s what I thought.” I tuck my gun back into the holster. “Damien, make sure it’s all there.”