The Priest: Bratva Blood Five: (A Dark Mafia Romance)

by SR Jones

  Priest gives me a new one every three days, which is insane, because they cost thousands a time, but he’s one paranoid man when it comes to safety.

  At least it means I have a way of talking to people. He also says it’s important I have it in case I need to call him if we were to be separated, or I need to call my father, or Andrius, if anything happened to Priest.

  I’ve only spoken with my father once. It was tense. He asked me where I was, and I told him I couldn’t say. Priest says that until my father has re-established total control, and the threat is neutralized, it isn’t safe.

  My father didn’t take too kindly to that.

  He threatened to sack Priest. Priest laughed, and said he worked for me now, and he’d only leave if I told him to.

  I wrap the blanket around me, tighter. It’s so chilly but I love sitting out here watching the water.

  My phone buzzes and I look at it. It’s my father calling. He doesn’t have this number. He has one of Priests. The man has more phones than I have shoes. Priest seems to use a different phone for each person in his life.

  Unsure, I answer hesitantly. Why is Father calling me on this number? “Yes?”

  “Roze,” my father says in his achingly familiar voice.

  “How did you get this number?” I ask in English.

  “Speak Albanian,” he orders. “Listen, to me, Roze, I need to see you. This is not right. The men I paid to protect you are now keeping me from you.”

  “Only until the threat is neutralized, Papa,” I tell him.

  “Child, you are my only flesh and blood and I don’t know where you are in the world, and you’re with a man who I know nothing of.”

  “I know enough of him,” I say. “How did you get this number?”

  “I got it from a friend of yours. Or rather, one of my men did. She was drunk, in a club. Do you know how dangerous that is? Anyone could have taken it from her. You’re not being protected properly.”

  I don’t tell him that in a day this number will be useless to anyone, and that it can’t be tracked.

  “Are you and he in love?” he asks, blindsiding me.

  My head reels. Why would my father ask that? How could he know? My father has always been strict about me dating anyone. He has an old-fashioned idea that one day I’ll marry one of the men from back home in Kosovo. I won’t. He’s talked about it before, when we’ve met for one of our meals together and Papa drank too much wine. He’d talk about how wonderful it would be if I could make a match with one of the old Albanian families and we could start a new lineage of Kosovan royalty as he put it. I believe it is one of the reasons he has been so against me dating, as well as for my safety.

  “I want to see you,” he says.

  “You cannot. I am halfway around the world.” I don’t tell him where I am, but he knows it is far away, surely.

  “Child, are you in love with him?” He presses me again.

  “Who?” I play dumb.

  Father sighs. “He has a family,” he says.

  “I know. His brother, his mother—”

  “No. He has a woman, a partner, and children.”

  His words hit me like a brick. They knock the air out of me and steal my ability to speak.

  No. It cannot be true. He hasn’t. Priest wouldn’t lie to me that way. He’s all about trust.

  “I-dashur,” he says, using the Albanian for beloved, or precious. “I can prove it to you. I will prove it to you…if you come home. He is no good for you, this American man. He is too old for you. He is not Albanian, not of our heritage. You need your own people around you. I was hoping that one day, when I have taken my rightful place as head of all that is mine, you can be at my side with your husband.”

  “What husband?” I say stupidly, shock and doubt making me numb.

  “The one I want for you. I want you to find a good man. A good Kosovan of Albanian descent who you can have proudly by your side. You want children, no? You don’t want them to carry on the line? They tried to wipe us out as a people. We must stick together and re-grow our culture.”

  It’s a worn line from my father, but normally I take it as nothing more than an opinion, not a roadmap for my life.

  “No,” I say.

  “Ask him. Ask your precious bodyguard, Priest, if he has a family. Ask him about the woman. About his children. Her name is Rebecca, and he sends her money every month. A check. For two thousand dollars. Why would he do this? She is his responsibility. I am angry because I felt when we spoke that you were in love with him, it was in your voice, all awe-struck, so I investigated him. A deep dive into this man who is worming his way into your life, and he has another woman he provides for. I am not lying to you, my darling daughter.”

  I hang up. I can’t listen to another word. I head inside, my heart pounding. Stopping short when I see Priest asleep on the sofa in the living area, an open book over his chest, I’m about to question him, when I pause. A check, my father said. Sent every month.

  Priest moves around all the time; he’s told me as much. So, if he sends a check, he must have his checking book on him.

  I tiptoe past him and into the bedroom. As silently as I can, I take out his two bags. One is a clothing bag, and I rifle through it as quickly as I can but see nothing. Then there’s a washbag. I open that, expecting not to see anything there, either. As I thought, nothing.

  Then I spy a zipped compartment. With shaky fingers, I open it and see a blue checking book. I take it out, open it and a small cry escapes me.

  Stub after stub with two thousand dollars writing on it in a neat hand, all made out to a Rebecca Prince. Is that Priest’s surname?

  Holy fuck. I don’t even know his real name. It hits me then so hard that I’ve been living in a complete dream. I don’t know Priest’s last name. I laugh, and it turns into a soft sob. I didn’t ask him something as fucking basic as his last name. I most certainly didn’t think to ask him if he were married.

  There’s something behind the checking book, and I take it out. It’s three photographs. One is of a dog, a German Shepherd. The next is Priest with a man who looks like him, their arms slung around one another’s shoulders. The third one is Priest with a woman, and two young boys. Hands shaking, I flip it over. Thank you, Priest, love you, Rebecca x Nausea hits me so hard I drop the photographs and rush to the bathroom. I have the presence of mind to close the door quietly before I drop to my knees and vomit.

  He’s married. Or at least with a partner. He lied to me. He tricked me. He’s a cheat. A liar.

  The man who told me I was safe with him is a lying, cheating piece of shit.

  I’m not safe with him. He hurt me in the worst way you can hurt a person. He broke my heart.

  Fuck him.

  Not sure what the hell to do, I clean my teeth and stare at my pink-haired reflection.

  I laugh to myself. “You got played, Roze,” I say. “I bet he does this to all the vulnerable women he does close protection for. Gets to fuck them, make them all gooey eyed for him, and then he breaks it off and goes back to his wife.”

  I think back to all our conversations. He spoke in lovely words, all his “You’re mine” and “you’re safe here” bullshit. He never told me he loved me though. And all through these two weeks, he’s never talked about us having a future together.

  Not once.

  I’m such a fool.

  I can’t think on this boat. I need air. Space away from Priest. I don’t think there’s any danger. Even my father doesn’t know where I am, I doubt the now broken up Polish faction can find me.

  Rifling through the drawer by Priest’s side of the bed, I find his wallet. Opening it, I find bills. I grab a handful, and stuff them into the pocket of my jeans. I pull another sweater out of the wardrobe and put it on over the light one I’m wearing already. Without the blanket, it will be cold out.

  I pat my pocket to make sure I have the burner. Then I crack open the bedroom door. Priest is still sleeping.

  He told me
last night that he slept well because of me. Lying fucker. I bet he never has trouble sleeping. Lying, cheating psychos tend to not suffer with insomnia.

  Walking silently past him, I climb out onto the deck, and step off the boat.

  Standing on the sidewalk, alone without my massive shadow for the first time in weeks, I look left and right, and choose left.

  Chapter 26

  I wake up and blink a few times. It’s getting dark outside. Shit, how long did I sleep for? Glancing at my watch, I realize it’s time for some food. I’ll go hunt out Roze and then make us something to eat.

  Tonight, we need to talk. I’ve been putting it off for the last few days. Three days ago, Roze said something that made me realize it’s time for me to be honest with her, and upfront. I want to be with her, for real. Beyond this crazy, lust-filled dream we’re living in right now, I want myself and Roze to make a go of it. A proper relationship.

  I’m in love with her. I’m scared to tell her because I have no clue if she feels the same. I need to tell her though, put it out there because I want in on what she’s wanting to do. I want to help her set up her charity and make it work. Not only because I want to be with her but because it is a brilliant idea. It makes sense. It would be wonderful. A way to give back.

  Giving back, doing something good is what I’ve been searching for so many years. Ever since I failed to stop my best friend getting his head blown off all over me.

  And that’s the other thing we need to talk about. When my friend, Allan died, the one thing I could do to help was take care of his partner. They hadn’t been married, and he’d not got the divorce through from his wife because she’d been blocking it. Then he got killed. Rebecca’s two children weren’t his biologically, but he saw them as his. She’d uprooted herself, moved across the country to be with him, loved him with all her heart, and on his death, she got nothing.

  Then, she got sick. Multiple sclerosis hit her hard, and she couldn’t work. She went from being a professional woman earning a good wage and looking forward to spending her life with Allan once the divorce was finalized and instead found herself back to being a single mother, only this time with a broken heart, living in a strange place, and with no job.

  The one thing I could do to help was send her money. Every month, without fail, I send her and the boys two thousand dollars. I rarely see them. It hurts too much. I send the money though, and always will unless she finds herself financially settled once more. I don’t know how Roze will feel about that. It means I don’t have the same amount of money I’d like to spend on anyone I end up with. But, I have a lot saved up. I’ve never been a big spender and I’ve earned good money and benefits in my life. Roze wouldn’t go without, but she wouldn’t be rich in the way she would if she went for a man like her father.

  I need to man up and lay it all out there. Things are moving fast. Soon Gezim will be able to ensure the world is once again safe for Roze, and then she’ll need to make some decisions. I’m hoping I’ll be part of those decisions but for that to happen, I need to tell her how I feel.

  Yawning, I step into the bedroom, and frown. The bathroom door is open and there’s no Roze. She’s not out on the mid-deck or I’d have seen her. Maybe, she’s gone onto the top deck. I told her not to but perhaps now she thinks things are calming down, she feels it is safe.

  I storm out of the room and onto the mid-deck and climb the stairs to the top deck. Frowning at the empty space, a sinking feeling hits me. Where is she?

  Racing back into the living area I look wildly around me as if she might be hiding behind the potted plant or a chair. Then I rush to the bedroom. She’s not fucking here.

  My bag is open on the floor, some of my clothes spilled out. Did I sleep through someone getting in? No way. I’d have woken. I see the washbag open, the checkbook, and the photographs.

  Oh, shit.

  She saw the checks and the pictures, and she jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion.

  Why was she looking through my bags?

  Trust. I thought we had trust. Seems I was wrong.

  Rage fills me.

  I’m going to find her, and I’m going to fucking tell her to go. Run back to her father and her life because if I thought we could start something up, something real, I was sorely mistaken. The spoiled, bratty side of her isn’t a charming addition. It seems it’s her core.

  She rifled through my things, without any reason, and then when she found something she didn’t like, instead of talking to me about it, she did the one thing I’d forbade her to do. She went out alone. Without protection.

  Screw her.

  I ought to leave her out there. I won’t. My sense of professional duty is too strong for that. Once I recover the asset though, she can either be returned to her father, or someone else can take over my role.

  I’m done.

  I grab the phone Cole gave to me when he handed me the encrypted phones for Roze and turn on tracking. Her phone might have end to end encryption and be untraceable to everyone else, but to myself, and Reece back at HQ, there’s a linked tracker. It’s supposedly accurate to within ten feet.

  Pulling some running shoes on, I stare at the tracker, waiting for it to pick the signal up. When it does, I sigh in relief. She’s only about half a mile away if this is correct.

  I hate that I still care.

  Shoes, on, I grab the keys, strap my knife holster around my thigh, and check my gun at my hip. I lock the sliding doors into the cabin, and step onto the dock.

  Following the signal, I take a left, then a right, until I’m off the dock, and onto a road that runs between an open-air parking lot, and the waterfront. At the end of the parking lot the lights of cafes and bars sparkle. It’s showing her down that way.

  I break into a jog, my legs eating up the ground. I race past the stores, cafes, and two raucous bars, and to a motel, beyond which is some scrubland and grass, before what looks like an office block, and some apartments. I turn around, eyes searching.

  According to the signal, she should be right here. She’s not. Damn. I listen but there’s no sign of life.

  A deep, masculine laugh floats on the air from down between two dumpsters. An alley I’d not spotted because it’s dark and to the side of the highly lit motel parking lot beckons.

  Setting off at a run, I reach the end of the alleyway, and spy four massive dumpsters. There’s a man standing in front of one, and he’s laughing and egging on someone else.

  “She’s out of it. You have her money, why don’t we have some fun? Nice tits.”

  “No, n-n-n-not doing that,” his friend hidden by the dumpsters replies.

  There’s a groan.

  “Fuck, she’s waking up,” the man I can’t see says.

  I’m circling round, sticking to the shadows in the edge of the space, seeing how many there are. Getting the lay of the land.

  Three of them.

  Another groan from the prone form on the ground. Roze.

  “What if she’s really hurt?” one says. “Let’s get out of here and call an ambulance from a phone booth for her. We can’t let her die.”

  Two things save them. The fact that despite the one nearest to me suggesting they rape her, the other two refused. And the fact they were going to call her an ambulance. Well, that and the fact that Roze is my priority right now, and they’re drugged up kids who would be more hassle to kill than to let go.

  I glance at Roze and her foot twitches.

  Something hits me then. It’s so fiercely possessive it makes my head swim. She’s not going anywhere. When I’ve dealt with these three losers, I’m going to deal with her.

  I slide my knife out of the holster around my thigh. Silent as a big cat creeping up on prey, I circle closer.

  As if a sixth sense alerts him, the one facing away from me rubs the back of his neck. He’s about to turn around, but I yank his head back, and give him a sharp jab in the side with the knife. He gets to be stabbed a little for suggesting they assault her.
>
  He gurgles, splutters, and falls to the floor.

  “Fuck,” one of the other two shouts.

  They both turn to me as one. “Dude.” One sways. He’s high as a fucking kite.

  “What did you do to her?” I ask.

  “N-n-nothing.” He shakes his head. Then he holds up some money. “Took some money, that’s all.”

  “Oh, really. Why is she on the floor?”

  “She tried to run away,” the second one says. “She panicked and hit her head on the dumpster.”

  “So, you called an ambulance, obviously. Being such upstanding citizens and all?”

  “No, I mean. Yes. It will be here any moment. Along with the cops.”

  “Wow, you called the cops on yourselves?”

  The one on the floor is moaning so I kick him to shut him up.

  “This is how it’s going to go,” I tell them. “You take your friend here, and you fuck off right now. If you do so, I let you live. You give me trouble and you’re dead.”

  “We’re going sir,” the strung out one says.

  Sir? Utter dicks.

  They grab their friend pulling him from the ground and drag him with them. “He’ll need a hospital. You tell them about me, and you’re dead. I will find you.”

  “You psychic?” the strung out one asks, and he doesn’t appear to being facetious.

  “No, took your friends wallet.”

  I hold up the wallet I’d slipped out of his pocket as he slid to the ground. “Know where he lives. Got a name. Means I can find you two easily. I’ll gut you so slowly, you’ll be begging for me to end it. That cut he’s got? It’s a fucking graze. Go get him sewn up.”

  “Yes, sir,” the drugged-out mess says again.

  They half-drag, half-carry their whimpering friend and soon it’s only me and Roze.

  I bend down to her and take out my phone, turning on the light. Gently, I push the hair back from her head. There’s some sticky blood and a nice egg forming. She’s going to need checking out for a concussion.