Page 15 of Bound By the Bratva

“Small fish,” Stepan says. “So why care?” He folds his arms, squinting like he already regrets asking the question out loud.

I lean forward. “Because they’re using men like Pyotr to wedge their way in. They hit where we don’t look. Bookies, street enforcers, junkyards—places we treat like background noise. That’s where the rot begins. And when it festers, it spreads beyond control.”

Misha nods. “You want them cut off.” He taps a pen against the arm of his chair.

“I want them amputated. We find every crew they’ve flipped and burn them out with no warning, and no deals. I want nothing left standing.” I lace my fingers together, every word hard as bone. I’m not interested in strategy. I want obedience.

Renat whistles under his breath. “You don’t play this hard unless it’s personal.” He glances over the rim of his glass, watching me. Waiting to see if I crack or confess.

I glare at him and hold my firm expression. “It’s not," I say, and the lie tastes clean on my tongue, practiced and cold.

There’s silence for a moment. Then Stepan nods and steps out to make calls. His footsteps echo in the hall, each one fading like the end of a countdown. I listen to them disappear.

Misha stays seated, waiting until the door closes. He doesn’t reach for a drink, though now I think I want one. Finding out I have a son has opened Pandora's box, and it's only a matter of time before I have to address it. Taking out the men who are squeezing Pyotr is just the start of this thing. Who knows where it'll lead.

“You’re lying,” he says calmly. He leans back like he has all day. There’s no accusation in his tone, just a quietacknowledgment of the obvious. Misha is my uncle—my father's brother—and older than me by six years, though he's wiser by decades. He's seen some real shit, and sometimes, I think he'd have been a better choice for leading this family as my father ages and grows sicker. But I didn't make that choice.

I rise, cross to the window, and watch a hawk circle over the track below. “A woman’s child was almost used to get to me. I don’t like my name in other men’s mouths. Especially not theirs.” The bird keeps circling, oblivious to the war happening below.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You mean the boy.” He says it slowly, like he’s testing the shape of the truth, and I feel his eyes burning holes in my back. This is my news to share when I'm ready, and I'm not beyond putting a bullet between his eyes if he fucks with me.

I don't respond to that comment, but I do think of how to play this out. The rumors are spreading so quickly that even my own men are speaking them now.

Misha comes to stand beside me. His voice lowers. “You want him protected?" His gaze shifts to my profile, waiting for the order he already knows is coming.

“I have Stepan and a few men already watching, but knowing Pyotr has his jaw flapping like the fucking flag in the breeze, I think we need to increase the body count." I watch his reflection in the window as he nods agreement with me.

“And if they touch him?” He watches my reaction. He already knows what I’ll say, but he needs to hear it aloud.

I turn. My voice is colder than steel. “Then we burn Vladikavkaz to the fucking ground.” I hold his stare, making sure he understands exactly what I mean. There will be no survivors.

An hourafter the meeting with my men, Pyotr sits alone at a booth in the back of a bar that stinks of piss, hunched over a glass he hasn’t touched. When I slide in across from him, he flinches like he expects a bullet through the skull.

“Relax,” I say. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be rotting.” I stretch my arm along the booth, claiming space.

His hand trembles as he pushes the glass aside. “I told them not to go near her. My daughter didn’t ask for this. Neither did my grandson. They weren’t part of the deal. I only meant to scare those men by how connected I am.” His voice shakes with something halfway between guilt and panic. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot.

“But they are.” I rest both hands on the table. “They became part of this the minute you made me your fucking creditor. That door doesn’t swing back.” I shove the glass so hard it slams into the wall, spilling the drink and falling from the table onto the bench beside him. The Moscow mule trickles across the table and drips from the edges. "You did this by telling them how connected you are."

He swallows. “I was desperate.” His eyes dart across my face, looking for mercy he won’t find. The words come out dry and cracked.

“You were stupid.” I don’t blink. I let the insult hang in the air as he shrinks down and scoots away from the spreading liquid.

Pyotr looks sullen for a moment before he reaches into his coat and sets a small Ziplock bag on the table. A child's lock of hair, twisted and dark, coiled like a threat. He slides it forward with shaking fingers.

“You’ll leave them alone after this,” he says—a statement, not a question. His hand stays near the bag, like he’s reluctant to let it go. His posture folds in on itself, collapsing inward.

I pocket the bag. “Don’t tell me what to do. You gave up your rights to negotiate the day you walked into my world and asked for money.” I tuck the bag inside my coat, sealing the conversation and his fate. My tone leaves no room for reply.

Pyotr leans forward, voice cracking. “Please. He’s just a boy.” His knuckles go white on the table’s edge. His breathing is shallow and fast and laced with terror because he knows exactly who I am better than anyone I've ever done business with. Better even than Anya.

I rise. “He’s a Vetrov now.” I walk away without looking back. My steps echo across the tile, punctuating my retreat and confirming to Pyotr that I don't fuck around.

I leave immediately, heading across town to the one place I know I can trust. The clinic is three blocks off the ring road. The building sits wedged between a pharmacy and a coffee shop with papered windows. There are no cars out front, and no lights shine through the windows. That was part of our agreement from the start.

Arman opens the side door without a word and steps back to let me in. The narrow hallway smells faintly of bleach. We pass dark exam rooms with blinds drawn. I hear the faint sounds of voices as he leads me toward the back, but he doesn’t speak until we’re in a back room. “You came alone?”

"Of course.” I pull the plastic bag from my coat and set it on the counter beside the microscope.

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