Page 20 of Bound By the Bratva

"You… you bastard. You took him. You can’t—" Her words fall apart about the same time she does. She doesn't even try to hold back the tears. It's not the raging anger I expected. It's worse. Tears, dramatics, emotion… She's a blubbering mess.

"I can and I did. You should thank me. Your father tried to trade him to the Zharovs in exchange for my protection." I grip the armchair, my fingers digging into the leather at the repeated idea that Pyotr Morozov would have such a fucking idiotic idea.

She doesn’t answer right away. The line stays open, but no words come. Then her voice returns, choked and garbled. "Is he okay? Did they touch him?" She sniffles. I hear something brush past the mic of her phone, maybe her sleeve, and I begin to relax.

"He never saw them, but he’s nervous. He ate his dinner, though, and asked for you by name," I say. I keep my voice firm and calm, steady enough to offer her reassurance without softening the truth.

She stays quiet for a long second. Then I hear her breathe in, a soft hitch in her throat that tells me she’s trying to hold it together. "I want to see him."

"Then come," I say. My gaze stays on the window as I realize she will walk across the threshold of my home sooner than I ever imagined. By the time she steps through that door, she’ll understand exactly how little control she ever had.

"Tell me where."

11

ANYA

The iron gates creak open under the gray glare of an early winter afternoon. The car I arrived in doesn’t idle or wait for me to get my son and leave. It turns and disappears back down the long, slushy road, tires hissing across gravel and half-frozen mud.

I stand still, hugging my coat tighter around me. The air is wet with cold and silent with menace. The stone façade of the estate looms ahead, dark and high-windowed, brutal in its architecture. A fortress in the woods.

Two tall, armed guards emerge from behind the pillars flanking the entry path. They wear matching black coats and grim expressions. One gestures with the butt of his rifle.

"Come." The command is given with a gruff tone. He doesn't wait to see if I obey. His hand rests casually on his weapon, a reminder that this invitation to Rolan's estate is not a friendly one. I just want my son back and I'll do whatever it takes to make it happen.

My legs move, though my chest is burning. Every crunch of gravel beneath my boots reminds me that I’m walking into something I may not leave.

The guards leave me on the front stoop where the doors open without a knock. They’re heavy, carved wood that gleams under the vestibule lights. Someone’s polished them recently and perhaps winterized them now that the first snow has fallen.

Inside, the heat hits me first. Then the smells—pine cleaner, leather, and a hint of tobacco smoke. I blink at the grandeur of the foyer. Everything is cream and gold, tasteful and expensive, meant to diminish anyone who doesn’t belong in a place quite so grand. It works. I feel small and helpless.

"Rolan," I call as I walk past tall mirrors and a sweeping staircase. Two massive oil paintings dominate the far wall—portraits of men in heavy coats and war medals, ancestors carved from the same granite as Rolan.

My voice cracks the silence. "Where is my son?" I stop walking, fists clenched at my sides. My pulse thuds in my ears. There is no answer in the home, and I wonder if I'm alone here. It feels hollow, like a museum, not a home.

I approach the first open door off the main hallway. The room inside is large and decorated in high-end understatement. Velvet furniture sits perfectly arranged. A glass decanter glints in the lamplight. A tray of untouched food rests on a side table. The fireplace burns quietly, but the room holds no warmth.

I step across the threshold and walk in slowly, scanning the furnishings. The thick carpet muffles my footsteps. I move toward the center, uncertain whether I’m meant to wait or search for someone. My breath sounds too loud in the silence and hitches when the door clicks shut behind me.

My heart skips a beat as I reach for the handle and twist. The lock engages with a dull click, but I try again, wrenching it with both hands, but the door stays shut.

The mechanism doesn’t budge. I’m sealed inside. I stare at the solid wood, stunned. I’m trapped again, locked in without notice or permission. There was no warning, and no one askedwhether I agreed. The decision was made for me, and all I can do now is stand there and absorb the truth of it.

I press my forehead to the smooth wood and force myself to breathe slowly, though each inhale feels harder than the last. The room is sealed. The air feels heavy, thick enough to choke. I glance around, searching for any point of egress, but there are no windows. One wall is covered by a long curtain, and when I pull it back, I find nothing but reinforced glass, tinted so dark I can’t see through to the other side.

I turn in a slow circle, searching. A camera blinks red above the fireplace.

He’s watching.

My breath grows ragged, and frustration boils over. I scream, the sound torn from my throat without thought. I slam my fists into the door until pain radiates through my hands. The untouched tray of food becomes the next casualty—I seize it and fling it against the wall. Porcelain shatters, fragments scattering across the carpet and wallpaper in a burst of fury.

"Give me my son!" I scream, returning to the door to pound, and then, without warning, the lock clicks. My entire body goes still. I straighten, forcing my shoulders back as if I can brace for what waits on the other side. I back away just as the door swings open.

Rolan steps in. He fills the door frame entirely and I shudder with fear. He doesn’t even look at the broken plate but he steps over the shards, eyes locked on me.

"You look well," he says. His gaze runs over me without emotion, and I want to smack him so hard he can't chew tomorrow.

"Where is my son?" I demand, but I don’t flinch.

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