Page 27 of Bound By the Bratva

"Watch him for a moment?" I ask, knowing I have a few minutes to myself now to look around. I've been hoping to learn the ins and outs of this place for the few days we've been here, to try and find a way out if the right time presents itself. The maid nods and takes my seat on the closed toilet, and I duck out.

I leave the bathroom door ajar and step into the hallway. The polished wood glints underfoot, the windows casting long strips of afternoon light across the floor. The rugs are perfectly aligned, the curtains pulled to precise angles, and again I think how museum-like it feels. Not a home for a child.

The west wing calls to me like a whisper, and I glance over my shoulder as I move in that direction. I’ve never been down this corridor before. One of the guards normally stands here—broad chest, impassive face, hand always near his belt. Today, it’s empty, though, so I take the liberty to snoop a little.

I move quickly and quietly, shoes in hand to lessen the noise I make. The air is cooler here, like they don't burn fireplaces in this wing of the home, and the scent of lemon oil is stronger. The walls are hung with old oil paintings—portraits of men I don’trecognize, all of them pale and solemn. Their eyes follow me as I pass, as if the house itself is watching.

I reach for the first door handle and turn it. It refuses to move, firmly locked. I try the second—also locked. When I reach the third, it shifts under my fingers. The mechanism clicks softly, and the door creaks open just enough to make my chest tighten with unease.

I slip inside and shut the door behind me, breath caught in my chest as I press my back to the frame and listen.

It’s a study, one clearly used by someone important. Leather chairs sit beside a marble fireplace. A Persian rug softens the floor, its edges slightly curled. The bar cart gleams, stocked with crystal decanters. Dust motes float in the sunlight slicing through the heavy curtains, and the air smells of old tobacco and pine polish.

I take it in fast, eyes moving over every detail, searching for anything useful. There’s a door on the far wall, partially hidden by a tall bookshelf. I cross the room with careful steps and try the handle.

It opens into a narrow corridor with no windows, but at the end, only ten paces away, is a door that opens to the outside. My heart pauses for a second and hope flickers to life. There is no guard at the door, and foolishly, Rolan left the door to the small study unlocked. I could get Nikolai. I could leave. This could be my way out.

I retrace my steps, moving faster now. Mental notes stack in my mind like cards being counted. West hallway, third door on the right, double exit, no cameras in the corners, no guards during the bath hour. I don’t know how long the opportunity will last. I need to be ready. I close everything the way I found it—door latch, hallway light, loose rug edge—but when I step back into the main hallway, Rolan stands over me with a glare on his face and a gun in his hand.

14

ROLAN

Iget the call just before dawn. The sky is still black, the horizon a vague smear of deep blue beneath the city’s distant haze. Inside my office, the windows are slick with condensation, and the frost that clings to the terrace railing just outside has turned crystalline in the light from the estate lamps. The silence is absolute until the burner phone buzzes sharply on my desk.

I lift the phone to my ear and say, "Go," hearing the low shift of breath against the receiver before Stepan speaks. Calls this time of day are never good news.

“Someone hit the weapons shipment, Boss. We think it was the Zharovs,” he clips, and I can tell he's had a shitty morning. “They hit the convoy outside Yaroslavl but they left something behind.”

I wrap my palm against the coffee mug in front of me. The heat from it warms my cold fingers as I wait for the fire in the hearth to really get going. “What did they leave?” This sort of shit happens all the time and never rattles me much, but if Stepan is calling this early to report it, it has to be something worse than normal.

He waits a beat longer than I like. When he answers, it’s quiet and laced with a violent tone. “A child’s car seat. They set it on fire and it started melting, but it's obvious what it is."

I stare at the window, into the distorted reflection of my own expression. My face is cold and blank as I think of those sick bastards targeting my son—or any child that age, for that matter. My pulse doesn't spike and my breathing doesn’t shift, but I feel anger rising in my chest.

My thoughts are racing ten steps ahead, but I stay on the line as Stepan starts rattling off options. He’s already made contact with our sector heads. He’s tracking Zharov movement across all known routes, comparing it against our last three weeks of flagged activity. We both know this wasn’t just about product. It was personal.

“Get me updated schematics for everything in the northeast district near Altufyevo. I want drones in the air within the hour. I want eyes on every vehicle leaving Yaroslavl by road, rail, or foot,” I tell him, and I stand up, realizing my coffee is going to go cold.

“I’ll have Kostya pull the cell tower logs,” Stepan adds. “And we’ve got a warehouse light-up scheduled for this morning—old pattern. Looks like they’re still using it.”

That’s the opening we need. “Mobilize the off-book men,” I say. “ I want everything mapped—where they live, where they store, where they rotate shifts. We don’t touch anything until we’ve got all three sites boxed.”

He confirms, then says, "Ten minutes. Get your coat."

I’m already walking, passing through the main floor and out the private exit near the courtyard, where Stepan pulls up in a nondescript black SUV. As I slide into the passenger seat, Stepan tosses a folder into my lap and starts talking before I have the door shut.

"There are three hits total. The first site is a safehouse outside Volokolamsk with two confirmed targets inside. The other two are storage locations. They’re inactive right now, but we know they’re stocked." He pulls out as I peek at the files.

"Any guards?" I ask, still flipping through the photos as we roll down the side road headed out of the city.

This isn’t about regaining a shipment—we can replace weapons. What I want is for the Zharovs to understand that targeting my son didn’t rattle me—it signed their death warrant. I want it clear—if they so much as say his name again, they don’t just lose territory. They lose blood.

“First one that comes out of the building, I want him alive,” I add, still flipping through the photos. “He’s going to deliver what’s left of his crew back to them face-to-face.”

He grunts his acknowledgement. "We’ve got men there at the first location but no visible heat at the other two. Doesn’t mean they’re empty, though."

"No warnings," I say. "No survivors."

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