Page 10 of Bound By the Bratva

He taps the screen and rotates it toward me. A low-resolution photo appears. A boy in a navy jacket, one hand clutching the strap of a cartoon-printed backpack, the other rubbing sleep from his eye. He has dark brown hair and pale skin, with oversized eyes that match my own bone-deep gaze. My jaw locks.

I don’t need a lab to tell me the truth.

“That’s my son.”

Stepan doesn’t answer me. He sets the tablet down and returns to whatever it was he was doing on his computer before I walked in.

I look down at the screen again and study the image until every pixel is burned into memory. The fact that Anya and Pyotr thought they could hide him from me is ridiculous. “I want eyes on him. Round the clock. I don’t care what it costs.” Knowing my blood is out there vulnerable to the things my enemies could do to him makes me instantly guarded. I will protect him at all costs, even if Anya prefers I keep my distance.

“You want contact?”

“No," I mutter, "not yet. But our enemies aren't going to go easy if they learn of his existence." My finger touches the screen, closing the image, but I still see him in my mind. I have a son—five years old, thick, dark locks. I wonder if he’s a happy boylike I was before my father's world crashed in on me or if Pyotr's drinking and gambling have made his life hard.

I bet Anya is a good mother. She's kind and soft—much softer than I would ever be on him. I'll have to teach him the way of the Vetrov legacy at some point, but right now, he's where he belongs. At least until I figure this thing out.

“You want him followed to school?”

“Yes, but I don’t want interaction, threats, or intimidation. I want him to live his life. I want to see the life she gave him without me.” Locking the tablet, I pull on the lapels of my coat then straighten my tie.

“Understood," he says, and he picks up the tablet, tucking it under his arm. He stands and walks over toward the wall of monitors where he busies himself looking at some small movement seen on the back lawn, a tiny white fox with a few kits.

When I finally step into my bedroom, the sky over Moscow has gone black. The city lights bleed against the horizon, casting a haze over the estate. I don’t bother turning on the main lights—just the desk lamp in the corner. I pour vodka into a lowball glass, sit down on the edge of the couch, and stare at nothing.

The room is silent except for the occasional crack of the heating system and the faint hum of the security monitors. I should sleep, but I won’t. I know I'll lie there restless and staring at the ceiling. My son is out there—real, alive, in a world I can't control.

And worse—others know it. I don't know how many or who they are, but I know it won't take any time at all for my enemies to figure it out if they haven't already. Especially if Pyotr is so generous with the information the way he was with me.

My phone vibrates deep in my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen and see Stepan’s name. I answer without hesitation.

“Talk.”

Stepan gets right to the point. “We have a lead on where Pyotr Morozov is gambling. A crew out of Vladikavkaz runs a small craps game weekly.”

I straighten and stand, then walk toward the window that overlooks the back garden. “Who?”

“They’re calling themselves the Zharov Bratstvo. They’re a small group with an estimated ten to twelve active players, connected to remnants of the old Solntsevskaya cells. They operate with a newer structure, a younger crew, and a sharper appetite for expansion.”

“And Pyotr has debts with them? What kind of racket are they running?" The tension in my shoulders seems to never quite fade away. Tonight it's worse than normal, and every word Stepan utters makes my muscles tighter.

Stepan’s voice stays flat over the line. “They’ve been asking around the district—specifically about a woman with a kid. They described her as dark-haired and slim. They said she came back to the city recently, lives in the same neighborhood, and matches the timing exactly. Everything about their description points to Morozova.”

“Why? What are they looking at her for?" My jaw tightens as my mind races ahead before he can say it, but I know the truth.

Stepan hesitates. “Apparently, Pyotr’s been running his mouth. He told someone the kid’s connected to a powerful name. Didn’t say yours, but he didn’t really need to. One of Zharov’s guys used to run messages through the tracks back when we first bought it. Took them about two hours to guess.”

I glower at my reflection in the window pane, glass forgotten on the table. “So they know…”

“They’re not sure. But they think they’ve found something valuable.” He sounds like he wants to reassure me, but I'm not a man to take false hope. If my enemies know I have a son, they will stop at nothing to destroy him just to get at me.

My hand curls into a fist. “Double the watch. I want full coverage, no gaps. Pull from my personal detail if that’s what it takes. Assign two men to the school grounds, one stationed discreetly inside the building and one tailing the mother at all times. They rotate shifts every eight hours and operate without being seen.”

“And if the Zharovs try to make contact?” Stepan’s voice stays flat, but there’s an edge beneath it.

“Shut it down. Quietly.” I cross the room and stop at the edge of the desk, one hand braced on its corner as I pick up my glass of whiskey and down it in one gulp.

“Copy that.”

I lower the phone slowly after Stepan hangs up and let my arm drop to my side. The line goes dead, but the threat still rings in my ears. I stare at the wall, jaw locked, thoughts spiraling in every direction.

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