Wicked Rebel

WICKED REBEL Brooklyn Bratva Book One NESSA GRAYE Contents Also by Nessa Graye Reader discretion advised Join my mailing list and receive a free bonus short story featuring Viktor and Diana! Prologue 1. Viktor 2. Diana 3. Viktor 4. Diana 5. Viktor 6. Diana 7. Viktor 8. Diana 9. Viktor 10. Diana 11. Viktor 12. Diana 13. Viktor 14. Diana 15. Viktor 16. Diana 17. Viktor 18. Diana 19. Viktor 20. Diana 21. Viktor 22. Diana The story’s not over just yet… Join my mailing list and receive a free bonus short story featuring Viktor and Diana! Also by Nessa Graye The Azarov Bratva series Savage Heart Brutal Temptation Sinful Vow Twisted Prince Cruel Desire Vicious Promise Reader discretion advised This novel features scenes and themes which some readers may find disturbing or upsetting. Reader discretion is advised. Join my mailing list and receive a free bonus short story featuring Viktor and Diana! Sign up now: http://eepurl.com/h-KX-v Prologue Viktor It is a night I’ll remember forever, I tell myself as I don my tuxedo. Little do I know then that my suit will be drenched in blood before the night is over. The Brotherhood Ball—the biggest event in Brooklyn’s underworld. A gathering of all the crime families that call this overpopulated sliver of America home. For one night, we set aside our differences. We set aside our strife and our conflicts. We come together to celebrate what makes us different from all of them— Normal people. Civilians. The working stiffs who toil themselves to death, always imagining a better life and never seizing it. We, though—we imagine, and we take. We conquer. Of course, there are risks. Of course, there’s a good chance you’ll never live to see your kids grow up—if you even survive long enough to plant your seed in a fertile field. But those are all risks we’re willing to take. Because we’re thugs. Criminals. Bandits. Gangsters. Call us what you will. The media, the newspapers, they sure do. I’m Bratva. My name is Viktor Yezerov. I came to this country as a teenager, looking for a better life, and I found myself yet another one of those working stiffs, the armies of immigrants who populate New York City, hoping for a brighter future for themselves and their families. I am nineteen years old, and this is the first time I’ve worn a tuxedo. “Look, bratok,” Oleg says, taking my sleeves in his hands. “The cufflinks go like this. The little black nub on the outside.” He clucks his tongue in disapproval. “Where’s your cummerbund?” Wordlessly, I gesture to the closet. The thickset gangster lumbers across the room and finds the silky black garment. “You wear this instead of a belt.” “But it wasn’t comfortable,” I protest. “And my holster—” “No guns,” he growls, his face a sudden and disconcerting study in anger. “Belov was very clear about that.” I swallow hard and nod. I detach my holster and shut it up inside the hotel dresser. I feel naked without it, and I’m not about to give up the gun without a fight. “But we’re wading into a meeting with every other gang worth mentioning in New York—” I continue to protest. “Sure, we won’t have guns, but can we trust the others?” “Of course, we can. What would that look like, if they started shooting?” he snorts. “You’re new, but listen: it’s all about respect in this business.” I flush. I’ve only been Bratva for two years. And I was only made a vor v zakone—literally, a thief-by-law, bound by the Bratva’s codes, last month. The intricate tattoos indicating my loyalties still smart. “They don’t respect us on the street.” They—they are the Sicilians, the Italians (different, I learned, from the Sicilians, and you’d be in trouble if you confused them), the Turks, the Triads, the Yakuza, and the Irish mob. And then there’s the Bratva. Easily the most powerful of the seven gangs. Nothing happens in Brooklyn without our permission. In fact, little can be done anywhere on the East Coast without a polite word to the local pakhan, our word for the Don of a family. We’ve only grown in prominence since the end of the Soviet Union, since Europe became a sort of training ground for the riches and wealth to be found in America. The other gang despise us, of course, but what can they do? We hold them by the throat, and we don’t let them forget it. According to tradition, each gang enters the ball together. Not all the members of the gang are present, of course—even the beautiful old 19th century Masonic temple in the heart of Brooklyn, where the Brotherhoods Ball has always been held for as long as anyone can remember, massive as it is, couldn’t hold that many gangsters. So, it’s only a select few from each tribe who attend. By tradition, in the Bratva, all newly initiated thieves-by-law attend, and unless you distinguish yourself in the gang, that’s probably the last time you’ll ever be there. There are six other new vory-v-zakone this year, all around my age. We bring up the rear of the procession through the Romanesque arches of the Masonic temple, jostling and elbowing each other, cracking jokes, making eyes at the wives and girlfriends of other gangsters—cocky and young, we are. “So,” Mikhail, to my right says. “What do you say we make a game of it? The Irish girls are the easiest, I bet. Then the Sicilians, the Italians, the Triad girls and the Yakuza girls, and the Turks’ girls. One point if you bring home an Irish girl. Two if you bring home a Sicilian. We’ll see who has the best score by the end of the night.” Another of the young guns, Arkady, guffaws. “What about a Bratva girl?” We all exchange nervous looks. Considering who’s in attendance—the Bratva leadership—the Bratva girls present would be their wives, girlfriends, daughters, sisters—in other words— “Bringing a Russian girl out of