The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

We’re in an old, abandoned warehouse, likely still in Desolation.

No… not a warehouse. A slaughterhouse. Huge meat hooks hang from the ceiling, and the concrete floor’s stained with blood. Through broken windows, I see a rusty chain-link fence surrounding paddocks outside. My eyes come to rest on the bloodstained floors.

I don’t like to think of whose blood that could be.

With my eyes adjusted to the light, I stifle another gasp. There are dozens and dozens of men standing around. Large, bulky, tattooed men, some brandishing knives and others, guns. Some wear harnesses with multiple guns secured in place. They stand in small groups, dressed in faded clothes and hoods, as if to make a quick getaway or hide their identity if necessary.

One thing is very clear to me. They're here for a reason, and they're not happy that I'm with Constantine. They shoot furious looks my way, and if Constantine wasn't standing right next to me, I'd be dead, or worse. Some of them I'm sure would be happy to use me well before they did me in.

Constantine speaks in Russian, words I don't understand, but I hear my name. He says my father’s name.

No. Oh, God. If they know who I am… And they do. I can tell by the look in their eyes, probably half of them have had a run-in with my father, and they didn’t part friends.

I’m dizzy with fear. My eyes come to rest on a massive metal table. I look away. I imagine back when this was a slaughterhouse, what they’d use that table for. I can imagine what they use it for now.

I look back at Constantine when I realize he’s speaking English again. For my benefit? But no, not all the men here are Russian. For some reason, he wants me to hear this.

“No one touches Clare. She’s mine to deal with, mine to bargain with. I want her father to know I took her and why, because he’ll answer for what he’s done.”

What has my father done?

“Are we clear?”

A large man with longish, graying hair comes up to Constantine and gives him a huge bear hug, then smacks his back so hard I wince.

“Welcome back, brother.”

Constantine hugs him back in a fierce, manly hug that makes a surprising lump rise in my throat. He’s been separated from these men… his brothers… for how long? It’s like he’s a prisoner of war returned home. Greetings all around, and someone produces a case of beer. They pop the tops, slamming the cans into each other in a cheer, and beer and froth slosh onto the floor. Constantine closes his eyes, throws his head back, and guzzles like he’s dying of thirst. I imagine that’s his first drink in a long, long time.

“Petrov’s at Yama,” a slight blonde Russian man says to Constantine. “He’s kept the Irish out of there since you were locked up.”

“Yeah, brother,” a man with a shaved head says from the back. “We all fucking knew you were framed. All of us but the Irish knew it.”

Now there’s a wrinkle I hadn’t uncovered yet.

He’s telling them he was framed?

It’s the first time I’ve considered the fact that he may not have done what he served time for. And he thinks that somehow… my father… is involved.

A heavy, dark haired man with tattoos everywhere there’s skin steps to the front of the crowd.

“Your name’s Clare,” he says, scowling. “Related to DA Valencia?”

I nod shakily.

He shakes his head from side to side, his eyes narrowed to slits. “You fucking know who your father is, bitch?”

Constantine tightens beside me, his grip on my arm painfully tight.

I don’t respond. I don’t breathe.

The man takes a step toward me. I’ve never seen such fury before in someone’s eyes. “Your father killed my brother.”

What?

My father didn’t kill anyone. Of course he didn’t. I can’t respond or defend his honor because of the gag, but I look away as if to dismiss him. With a grunt, he raises his hand, steps toward me, and I flinch, prepared for the blow. Constantine spins and tucks me against him, putting himself between me and the other man’s fist.

“Touch her and you’ll lose that fucking hand.”

The other man backs down.

“She’s mine to bargain with. You want to get to Valencia, find your own fucking daughter.” There’s a tense silence, then the gray-haired man barks out a laugh. The man that threatened me shakes his head and walks away. In the distance, I spy a younger man with wide, vacant eyes, watching me. I stare at him until he turns away.

Constantine finishes his beer like he’s on a lunch break, crushes the can, then tosses it into a pile of smashed cans behind one of the brick walls. The men scatter with promises of meeting at a place called “Yama” tonight after the sun sets.