Page 28 of Bound By the Bratva

By the time we hit the highway, the sky has lost its gray edge and gone to a flat white. Traffic is light. Most of the city is still dragging itself awake, and we’re already working.

I open the folder and scan the printouts, flipping through each page while the road hums beneath us. The flat has a basic layout with two main points of entry, poor cover on the rear approach, and exposed sight lines from the upper stairwell. Their internal cameras are old—probably dummy units—and the back alley doesn’t show movement after midnight.

They’ve gotten lazy because they’re not used to being watched.

But they intercepted our weapons, left a message, and crossed a line I can't ignore. Threatening my son confirms they’re out of their depth on this one. I don’t want tooutmaneuver them and I don’t want a deal. I want them to know they made the mistake of naming the wrong child.

We pull up to the first safehouse a few blocks away, but I can see it in the distance.

Eight of us split into two vehicles. Every man wears black—hoods, gloves, and masks. Our boots are rubber-soled and our weapons are suppressed.

The first site is a crumbling flat half-hidden behind a liquor store and a graffiti-covered bus depot. The building sags inward, its foundation warped by snow and rot. Streetlights blink overhead, casting pools of orange and shadow that strobe across the cracked pavement.

We move fast and quiet, staying in the shadows.

The November air bites at my skin, seeping through every seam in my coat. I signal for the team to split—two on each side, two at the back. Misha stays close to my left. His breath clouds beside me, but his pace never falters.

The first sentry is posted under a leaning utility pole, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. His shoulders are hunched and his jacket hangs open. He is lazy and overconfident. I give the signal with two fingers raised.

Renat flanks left while Vadim loops right in one silent motion. Wire strung between my uncle’s hands tightens over the first man’s windpipe. He slumps forward without a sound. The second sentry barely turns his head before Misha's gloved hand closes over his mouth and blood spills from his throat. The struggle is over in less than five seconds and no bullets are wasted.

I approach the rear door and test the lock. It’s old, rusted, and flaking red around the keyhole. I pry the latch with the tip of my knife. It gives with a soft groan of metal.

Inside, the floor is scattered with empty cans, plastic wrappers, and the grease-slicked bones of some long-forgottenmeal. A space heater glows weakly in the corner, casting a flickering orange halo over two men hunched at a folding card table. They’re playing a lazy game of war, unaware that death has already stepped inside.

One of them looks up and squints at me as he slurs, "You back already?" His brows pull together in confusion as I step in farther and he doesn’t have time to react.

Three muffled cracks ring out from my weapon. They are clean and cold and final.

The man on the left jerks backward, the card in his hand fluttering to the ground like a flag surrendering. The second stumbles to his feet, gasping, blood already pouring from his side. A final shot plants him against the wall, eyes wide open, mouth still moving without sound.

We sweep the rooms carefully to ensure there are no innocent women or children present and find crates of storage. There are cases of ammunition. I find a notebook taped to the underside of a desk—supply lists and drop points. I hand it to Misha without a word.

He moves fast, carrying a can of gasoline, dousing everything in the downstairs, and I give the order as I step out the back door into the crisp air that will soon be singed with the stench of smoke and burning flesh. The bodies are left where they fall. The scene speaks louder that way. It’s a message written in blood and silence, one they’ll all understand.

The fire spreads up the wall in a bloom of blue-orange. Smoke rises in thick, oily columns, blackening the sky. A distant dog barks, then falls silent. We vanish before the first siren sounds.

From the expressway, the smoke trailing from the first fire is still visible when we hit the second and third sites. Both the second and third locations go just as quickly. Vadim lays down fuel, and I light the charges myself. Fire rips through drywalls, old wiring, and stacked crates of contraband. And by the time we’re heading back toward the estate, two more Zharov properties are reduced to smoke and ash, leaving nothing they can salvage.

By the time we return to the estate just after lunch, the city has warmed but the smell of smoke still clings to my coat. Stepan drops me at the side entrance and I step inside. I catch a glimpse of movement and notice Anya in my office trying to slip out as if she wasn't there. Her footsteps are quiet. She's holding her shoes in her hand, which only proves she's trying to sneak around.

She freezes when she sees the weapon. Her hand tightens around her shoes, eyes wide, body rigid. For a second, she doesn’t breathe.

I lurch forward, gripping her elbow, and drag her back into the office. She stumbles once, but I keep moving. The door slams shut behind us, and I lock it.

I press her back against the wall and grab her face, forcing her to look at me. Her breath comes sharply through her nose, but she doesn’t pull away. "What the fuck are you doing in my office snooping?"

“I wasn’t snooping,” she says quickly. “I was looking for you. Nikolai’s in the bath.”

“For what?” I ask, not loosening my grip. Her eyes dart back and forth between mine and then drop to my lips. I expect some lame attempt at justifying her trespassing, but I get none.

Anya just leans up and kisses me roughly, clinging to my sides.

The kiss catches me off-guard, but I don't pull away. Instead, I crush my lips against hers, my anger and adrenaline from the day’s events spilling over into it. My tongue forces its way into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her lipstick and the lingering hint of fear. One hand tightens its grip in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, while my other slides down her body,grabbing at her ass and lifting her up against the wall. Her legs wrap instinctively around my waist, pressing her core against mine, and we both moan into each other's mouth.

I break the kiss and growl into her ear, "You know better than to go through my things." My arousal is painful in my pants, straining against my zipper already. The things this woman does to me…

“I told you I was here for you…” She bites my jaw, presses wet kisses to my neck.

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