Page 11 of Bound By the Bratva

So Pyotr couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He tried to leverage my son and his relationship to me for safety. Anya may be doing her best to protect the boy, but her father just painted a target on his back. And now the wolves are circling.

I reach for the landline and press the button for my assistant’s direct line. It rings once before she picks up.

Her voice is crisp, professional. “Yes, sir?”

“Cancel everything tomorrow,” I say, pacing toward the window. I'm already thinking ten steps ahead. I have to be fluid, not locked into a schedule, and I need to think about how to make my son safe if his own fucking grandfather won't.

“All of it?” she asks, already typing in the background. Her tone sounds doubtful and I feel angry that I have to explain.

“Yes. Meetings, inspections, the luncheon. Push it all back,” I reply. My tone leaves no room for argument.

“Understood. Do you want me to?—”

“No,” I say and end the call before she can finish.

There’s nothing else to say. That boy is no longer safe and neither is Anya. And if I want to keep them breathing, I’m going to have to do something I haven’t done in years.

Get personal.

I go to the safe behind the panel in the wall. The keypad lights up as I type in the code. Inside, neatly arranged, is a row of compact weapons, cash stacks, and a hard drive labeled with a piece of black tape. I pull the drive out and toss it on the desk, then take the pistol and holster it under my jacket.

The surveillance footage replays in my head—Anya’s hands trembling, her sobbing form. Even she knows how dangerous it is to be connected to me like this. Then I remember the boy’s face in grainy stills. I imagine Pyotr’s voice, braying empty threats into the void, dragging my blood into his shitstorm. I should have killed him years ago when I had the chance… but then my son would not exist.

I pour another drink and carry it back to the couch, but I don’t sit. Instead, I open the laptop perched on the coffee table and plug in the drive. A black screen flashes to life, then a list of archived files appears. I open a folder labeledTrack Intel – Asset Movements. Inside is a detailed layout of routes, known associates, and digital surveillance reports from when Pyotr first spiraled. I set a shadow on him a week ago, hoping to catch who he owed now, but nothing suggested he’d break like this, sell a child’s bloodline to settle his own tab.

I shake my head and sink onto the couch as I down the second drink hoping it stops the pulse of adrenaline through my veins. I scroll through the archive and select a much older file—one I haven’t listened to in years. It’s dated six years ago, labeled with Pyotr’s name and a timestamp from the week he sold out his daughter for a chance to stay alive.

His voice crackles through the speakers. "Please. You don’t need her. She’s just a girl. I’ll pay. I’ll find another way. Just… don’t make her do this.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then my own voice is cold and unbending. “You have three hours to pay me or she becomes my property, Pyotr. You know what that means."

Pyotr’s breathing turns ragged. “She’s all I’ve got. Please, Rolan, don't do this."

The recording ends there.

I sit in the dark and listen to it twice because it reminds me of the choices he made. He begged for her life and promised he would find another way. He lied through his teeth, and when it came time to choose, he handed her over without hesitation.

That was enough. In this world, even a hint of weakness gets attention. And now his creditors know of the existence of a way to bring me to my knees and they are going to use it. And Pyotr handed them the first breadcrumb.

I pace the room. The vodka burns low in my gut, but it’s not enough to settle the growing pressure behind my eyes. This should’ve never gone this far. Anya’s silence bought her time, but Pyotr’s mouth just sold them out.

7

ANYA

The tray in my hands rattles as I step off the service elevator, bottles clinking with each footfall. My fingers ache from gripping the metal all evening so far. I shift my hold, but it doesn't help much. I'm covering for Mitzi, who seems to have found some other entertainment for the evening, and of all nights, it's my first race night, and the crowd is louder and wilder than ever.

Thankfully, I've been summoned to the press boxes on the second floor to deliver a round of drinks to quieter, more mature clientele. At least, I hope they're more mature. The hallway up here smells faintly of lemon polish and the familiar old cigar smoke I smell everywhere in this place, and the carpet beneath my shoes is thick enough to muffle most of the sounds behind the walls of these enclosed boxes.

I've never been on this floor before and I'm not sure where I'm going. A senior waitress passed the tray off to me downstairs without looking me in the eye. She said it was a special request and told me I needed the tip more than she did, which should've made me cringe, but I do need the tips.

"Straight down. Last door on the left," she told me.

She didn’t wait for a reply either, already disappearing back through the double swinging doors into the kitchen as if she wanted no part in whatever this is. I stand there holding the tray, trying to pretend it isn’t shaking in my hands, but I collect myself and manage to find my way up here.

I keep my eyes low as a barrel-chested man in a dark suit passes. The lighting is soft, almost muted, but not too dim to see the tattoos peeking out of his suit's neck. A strip of mirrored glass runs along the wall, and I catch a glimpse of myself in it—tired, pale, hair scraped back in a messy knot that does nothing for my appearance. I should've powdered my face. I didn’t think I’d be serving high-rollers tonight. My apron still smells like the fried potatoes from the kitchen last night.

When I find the room I want, the door is closed. It's made of black wood with a brass handle, and there’s no sound coming from inside like the other rooms where music and conversation thump through. I knock once with the edge of my knuckle, then push it open, already bracing for some entitled drunk waving rubles around.

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