Page 34 of Bound By the Bratva

Those papers were real. The fucking ceremony was real. It makes my stomach turn. My name is no longer Morozova. It’s Vetrov now. That change is a shackle I can’t remove. I keep waiting for panic to settle in, for rage to rise, but all I feel is stillness. Nothing moves in me. I could've refused to sign, buthow? He would've turned me out, sent me away without my son. I am not leaving here without Nikolai.

Nikolai presses his small hand into mine. He swings our joined arms and tilts his head.

“Are you sad,Mamochka?” he asks, his voice curious but cautious, as if he already knows the answer. He's a smart boy, and I won't lie to him normally, but this is too heavy for a child his age.

I force a smile and squeeze his fingers. “No, baby. We’re fine.” I keep my tone light, but my chest aches from the lie I swallow down like poison.

He studies my face for a second longer and shrugs. Then he takes off running toward the stone path that loops between the hedges, his feet crunching softly over the gravel and ice. "Careful!" I shout after him, and he giggles in response. He loves it out here, and I love it anywhere he's smiling like that.

A breeze picks up, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from somewhere over the fence line, probably one of Rolan's close neighbors or maybe someone near the stables. The sound of a gate latch clicks faintly in the distance, probably a groundskeeper or a patrolling guard. Somewhere inside, the faint hum of vacuuming rises, barely audible above the wind. Everything about this is perfectly normal except the ring on my finger and the fact that I'm sitting in his fucking garden as his wife.

I wait until Nikolai is out of earshot before pullingBatya'sburner phone from my pocket. His contact is still waiting for me to come and pick up the new identities, and up until yesterday morning, I thought I had a plan. Even after Rolan caught me in his office and tried to teach me a lesson about snooping, I knew the way out. Now it doesn't matter. I can't get away from him at all. I can leave, but even the law will bring me back.

There’s a message on the phone, and it makes goosebumps rise on my arms. The name is blank, but the message is clear. It'sBatya.

Unknown: 3:17 PM: I’m working something out. Horse race. If I win, I’ll have enough money to get Rolan to let you both go. Just hang on. I can fix this.

I stare at the words until they blur.Batyameans well, but he never fixes anything. He breaks things—people, promises, hearts…

My heart knows my father so well, I can't even latch onto those words as hope. Besides, Rolan's iron grip holds me fast now. He will force me to sign adoption papers, keep me locked here against my will. He'll have extra guards on me so that if I even try to leave with Nikolai, I'll be stopped, and he will justify it, rationalize it away like I'm the fool.

Part of me wonders if it's so bad being here. He's not such a good man, but he gives me everything I need. He really has provided for us, and Nikolai's governess is very smart. He'll be fully educated by the time he's fourteen if he keeps learning at the rate he is now. I'll never have love, but my son won't ever lack for anything. Still… Rolan's life isn't what I want for Nikolai. The violence of it all…

"Mama!" Nikolai calls to me from across the yard, his voice rising with excitement about something I can’t see. I tuck the phone into my sweater pocket before he notices. He’s crouched by a patch of brittle grass, poking it with a stick like he’s digging for treasure.

“I’m watching you,” I say, raising my voice enough for him to hear.

He turns and grins, then waves. I lift my hand in return, trying to hold the smile a little longer for him.

The gravel beneath my boots shifts as I adjust my position. A pair of pigeons flutter down near the edge of the fountain,pecking at something on the ground. The water isn’t running and the basin is half-drained, a rim of ice clinging to the stone lip, but they're interested in it anyway.

One of the maids crosses the path behind me carrying a tray. She stops in front of me and lowers her head.

“Tea, Madam,” she says with her light, practiced tone.

I nod gratefully and take the cup with both hands. “Thank you.” My voice sounds distant even to me, but the tea is hot, and the warmth seeps into my palms, waking me up. She wanders off back toward the house and I sweep my eyes back toward where Nikolai was, but he's gone. Another quick scan reveals nothing, so I rise slowly. "Koyla!" I call to him, only to receive no answer.

And then a sound cuts through the stillness—shouting. A man’s loud, angry voice, then a thud and another shout. My eyes finally catch Nikolai standing by a row of hedges. He turns his head toward the noise with a startled expression.

I drop the cup. It shatters against the gravel as I shoot toward him, shards spreading beneath my boots. “Nikolai!” I shout, my voice breaking as I start to run. He stands stock still, eyes wide, staring at something out of sight as my heart hammers against my ribs.

I sprint across the yard, and my breath scrapes the back of my throat. He moves closer to the sound and out of sight. I follow the noises, cutting around the back of the garage and toward the old brick wall that borders the rear courtyard.

The grass is slick beneath my steps, and the packed soil near the fence gives slightly with each stride. I find him near the corner. He stands still, his body rigid, his gaze locked through a break in the hedges.

When I reach him, I grab his shoulders and pull him back with both hands.

“What are you doing? What did you see?” I kneel slightly to meet his eyes, but he doesn’t respond. In fear, I look through the gap and freeze.

One of Rolan’s men—tall, broad-shouldered, with bloody fists—is kneeling over another man slumped against the stone. Blood smears the concrete and puddles under the man on the ground who's coughing and spitting. His hands are tied. His eye is swollen shut.

The enforcer draws back and punches him again. The sound lands with a dull crack and the sickening squish of moist flesh being tenderized under pressure. The stone wall behind them is splashed with something darker than mud. One of the windows nearby is cracked open. A radio plays softly from inside, some old warbling chanson in Russian.

I turn Nikolai around and shield his face with my arms. He jerks slightly, trying to look again, but I hug him to my chest frantically.

“No,” I say. “Don’t look at that.” I speak firmly, holding him close with one hand on his back. "Please."

He doesn’t respond, but he stops resisting. I pull him close and walk quickly toward the house. His small fingers stay wrapped around my wrist. And every few steps, he glances back at the hedge row with the same saucer-eyed expression of fright plastered to his face.

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