Page 35 of Bound By the Bratva

The damage is done. I can tell by the way he walks beside me. Something inside him has shifted, and I can’t take it back.

And I'm going to kill Rolan Vetrov for letting it happen.

18

ROLAN

The map of the grounds lies flat across the table, corners held in place by a pistol, an ashtray, a small crystal paperweight, and the thick leather-bound ledger I keep updated by hand. Misha leans forward, one palm braced on the edge, squinting down at the southern tree line.

"They won’t wait long," I say, circling a bend near the back fence with a grease pencil. I straighten, watching the route I’ve drawn. "Maybe a week—two if they’re only posturing right now. But retaliation is coming. I want this entire area doubled, reinforcements every six hours."

Stepan nods from his post at the end of the table. He flips the page on his notepad and continues his notes without looking up.

Misha glances up, folding his arms over his chest as he studies the map. "And the north perimeter?" he asks, keeping his tone neutral.

"Already covered," I reply, tossing the pencil aside. I press my knuckles into the table. "They won’t strike that side because they're not stupid. I have cameras everywhere." I lean back and cross my arms, staring them both down.

Across the room, Renat draws the curtain shut and checks the lock on the French doors. The hinges creak faintly as he pulls them closed. Outside, the gray sky hangs low over the estate, and it's all being captured on the new cameras I've had installed there too. Not a chance Anya is taking the boy out these doors without being seen.

"What about the family?" Misha asks, shifting his stance and resting one hand on his hip. His voice lacks urgency, but the question is valid. My enemies don't just want me out of the picture or stressed. The game behind their action is to wipe the Vetrov legacy off the map and build where I once reigned as king.

"None of you will be targeted until the last move," I say as I pull out a fresh glass. I set it down beside the map as I reach for the vodka in the liquor cabinet. "They’ll want me angry first and then distracted. They've been looking for a way to fuck with us, and they found it. If we show weakness, they'll attack then."

He exhales slowly, shaking his head once, but he doesn’t argue, only lifts his chin. "Then you need to keep your eyes on that boy."

I give a single nod, lifting the glass and taking a slow drink. The vodka burns sharp down my throat before I set the empty glass back on the table. "Starting tonight, I want full surveillance coverage of every hallway, door, and exit connected to Anya and Nikolai's part of the house. I don’t want guards trailing them—this is still their home, not a prison—but I want alerts if they approach any outer boundary. They won’t leave the estate without my knowing."

Stepan glances up from his notepad and tucks the pen behind his ear, then he meets my gaze. "Understood," he says. Like a good soldier, he always follows orders, and I can trust that my family will be safe with him.

He steps back without needing more detail. Renat follows him silently, already pulling out his phone to coordinate the next steps. I watch both men cross the room and disappear through the side door that leads to the lower hall and I know the wheels are already in motion.

"I want those men briefed personally," I call after them, stepping away from the bar cart. I plant my hands on the edge of the table and look from the map to Misha's face. The others can't hear me, but Misha knows to relay my commands. "And if one of them steps out of line—drinks, smokes, stares too long—pull him out. Permanently."

Misha grunts, then reaches for the folder I slide across the table. He flips it open and adjusts his reading glasses. "What about legal protection?" The paperwork is well underway, signed by myself and Anya—though she isn't aware I've signed it for her. She'd only fight me, anyway, and I'd hate to have to take drastic measures to force her. It's easier this way.

"It’s being done," I say, walking back around to my chair. I lower myself slowly, and the leather creaks beneath me as I finally settle and rest for a moment. "The last notarized signature goes through next week. After that, he’s legally mine."

Misha thumbs through the pages with care. His eyes scan the details until they land near the bottom of the briefing. He taps it twice with a thick finger. "Does Anya agree?"

I lift my head and stare at him, refusing to blink. "Does it matter? The boy is mine, Uncle. Would you let any woman stop you from being a father to your own blood?" My fingers itch to pour another drink, but I stay seated as the door slams open with a crash, shaking the frame and rattling the glass in its panes.

Anya storms into the room. Her eyes flash as she steps inside, hair damp and wild around her face, and her sweater hangs open. Her face is flushed as she stomps across the Persian carpet in long, fast strides and slaps me across the face with acontrolled, furious strike. The sting of her smack is real, but I fix my expression and don't react.

Misha snorts behind her and steps back, clearly amused. The look on his face annoys me as he sets the paperwork on the table and lifts an eyebrow at me. "I’ll give you two a moment," he says, tapping the tabletop as he heads for the door. His voice is amused. "She hits better than you,staryy volk."

The door closes behind him, and I finally lift my gaze to look her in the eye. Anya stands in front of me, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. Her breath is fast, chest heaving under her shirt. Her glare doesn’t waver.

Her voice cuts through the room before I can say a word. "He saw them dragging that man across the grass." She doesn’t move, but the rage in her voice builds. "He asked me why they were hurting him. He said the man looked afraid. And I had no answer, Rolan. No way to make it better."

I straighten slowly, standing from the chair, but she holds her ground. Her fists are still clenched, her jaw locked tight.

"You told me he’d be safe here," she says, shaking her head. "This was supposed to be a home, not another war zone." Her hand rises to smack me again, but I catch her by the wrist and hold it firmly.

"He is safe," I growl, furious that she thinks she has the right to strike me.

She takes a step forward, eyes blazing. "He’s watching men get tortured in the garden. That’s not safe. That’s psychological trauma you won’t be able to undo." Her nostrils flare as she says, "It's sickening. He's a baby."

It takes everything inside me to stop myself from hurting her. I’m tired of hearing her whine about what this life really is. She’s lucky the boy only saw blood in the grass. If he carries my name, he’ll see worse. She thinks this is shocking. I think she’s naive. If anything, Stepan’s men went too easy.

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