Page 5 of The Bratva’s Monster

“I’ll stop by her place,” I say out loud. “Maybe later this week, when things calm down some… maybe.” I look around the cemetery. It’s deserted, no one but me and these staggered rows of headstones for at least a mile…

Or not.

I happen to look over my shoulder just as a car cruises by. Black sports car, at least five guys inside, from the looks of it.

“Looks like I’ve got some company,” I say as I watch the car keep going, driving until it reaches the turnaround a little way away and starts making its way back.

I’m about to get jumped. Great.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Geddy.” I kiss my fingers and touch the gravestone, bidding him goodbye. Then I turn around and face the incoming trouble.

The car’s now parked behind mine and the doors are opening. It’s five of them. They’re all pretty mean-looking. Three big ones, almost as big as I am, and two lean-looking motherfuckers. Under their casual dress shirts and jackets, I can see tattoos on their neck and chests. Irkutsk. Looks like Slavik’s sent his boys to kick up a little trouble.

They all walk across the grass toward me as I approach, sinister smiles on their faces and a certain cockiness in their walks. One of the smaller ones is leading the pack. As soon as I’m a couple of feet away, he says, “Adrik Molotov.”

Calling me by my Christian name must be his way of trying to rattle me. All it’s doing is pissing me off. I stop and stare at him, waiting for him to say whatever it is that he’s got to say.

When I don’t answer, he cocks his head toward me. “That is you… right?”

I don’t respond. I’m analyzing. The biggest of them is standing next to him, and judging by his slight lean, he’s hurt his knee recently. That’s good. I can take him out quickly.

“Slavik Sokolov sent us,” he says. “He’s got a message for the new Pakhan and his lovely wife.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Five of you to deliver a message. Must be important.”

“It is.” The three in the back start to flank the rest of them. “Smert Rodu Rostovykh.”

The hairs raise up on the back of my neck and the next thing I know, the two big ones that were flanking close in with fists balled up, ready to pummel me to death.

Let’s see if they can.

The first one that gets to me takes a swing, and I duck it, hitting him hard in the space between his chest and stomach. I immediately feel the bone of his sternum crack as he makes a strangled yelp of pain. Doubled over and leaning, I help him down the rest of the way, grabbing the back of his collar and throwing him to the ground.

The second big guy opens with a kick, catching me off guard and hitting me in the center of my chest. I stumble back a step but keep on my feet. He barrels toward me, looking to tackle me to the ground. When his shoulder connects, hitting me in the stomach, I dig my heels in to stay standing. Then I wrap my arms around his torso and squeeze, breaking his ribs.

He pulls at me to free himself, but I swing him, tossing him aside like a rag doll. The big bastard’s lifted off his feet an inch before rolling away on the grass.

One of the smaller ones runs off to the car, retreating. The last two left—the leader and his bodyguard—come at me. I sweep the leg of the big one, sending him to the ground, then, while I’m kneeling, I swing a fist up, catching the leader’s chin. He flies up, leaving the ground and flying back several feet. He hits the grassy cemetery ground with a dull thud.

Big, bodyguard guy is rolling to get to his feet. I’m already on him. I stomp the shit out of the back of his head, sending his face into the hard soil.

Before I can give him another good kick, I hear footsteps running up, right behind me. I turn in time to catch the business end of a metal baseball bat, right above my eye. It misses my temple by inches, but it stuns me for a moment.

I stumble to the side and I’m hit again in the ribs… but the hit isn’t hard enough to break them. The retreater, who, as it turns out was just going to get a weapon, takes another swing at the same side. This time, I catch the bat as it hits my side, tucking it under my arm.

For a split second, he’s confused. He pulls at the bat futilely before finally letting it go and taking a swing at me with his fist. I take one hit to the jaw, then I drop the bat and grab him by the throat with one hand, squeezing it while he scratches at my arm, his eyes bugging out and his mouth open in a soundless scream. I don’t stop until I feel the bones break under my hand, then I let him go.

He flips and flops on the ground like a fish out of water. His mouth is moving, trying to take in air as he grabs his throat. I could just shoot him, put the poor bastard out of his misery…

I don’t. I straighten my shirt and walk to my car. Let the son of a bitch suffer. Smert Rodu Rostovykh echoes in my mind. Death to the Rostov Bloodline, he said. Nobody threatens my fucking family or my brotherhood. I’ll see them all dead before I let any harm come to them.

As I get in the car and start driving, the adrenaline wears off… and my senses come back to me. The beast inside me has pulled back, and now I’m left in a lot of fucking pain and the knowledge that Slavik is coming for all of us.

I press the call button on my car and the monitor on my dashboard lights up. “Call Alex,” I say as the wind starts to constrict on me. Shit… I might be really fucking hurt here. When Alex picks up, I can barely respond. I finally get it out.

“Got jumped. I’m headed your way. Just got… just got back from the Upper West Side.”

“What’s your ETA?” he asks.