Page 49 of Bound By the Bratva

In the silence of the estate, with my son sleeping peacefully in his bed and my wife—because she is my wife now, whether shewants to admit it or not—locked away in her room like a bird in a gilded cage, I finally understand what my father never taught me.

There's a difference between loyalty born of love and loyalty born of fear. There's a difference between choosing to stay and being unable to leave. There's a difference between winning someone's heart and simply outlasting their resistance.

But understanding comes too late, as it always does. The damage is done, the choice is made, the future is set in stone. Tomorrow, Anya will sign the papers. Tomorrow, we'll make this arrangement official and permanent. Tomorrow, I'll have everything I thought I wanted.

And I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I'd been brave enough—like a little filly named Dancing Queen—to take the risk of actually losing.

25

ANYA

The clock on the nightstand reads 5:47 a.m. when I finally make my decision. I haven't slept a wink, and fatigue pulls at my eyes, but it's time. The estate lies wrapped in that peculiar stillness that comes just before dawn—when even the guards grow complacent and the shadows provide perfect cover for someone desperate enough to use them.

I've been awake all night, my mind churning through possibilities, contingencies, escape routes. Every creak of the old mansion, every footstep in the corridor outside has made my heart race. But now, with pale light beginning to seep through the heavy curtains, I know it's time.

Nikolai sleeps peacefully in the room next to mine, his tiny chest rising and falling in that rhythm that has become the soundtrack to my existence. He doesn't know that today, everything changes. He doesn't know that his mother is about to risk everything on a gamble that could either save us both or destroy us completely.

I dress quickly in the black clothes I'd laid out hours ago—dark jeans, a black sweater, soft-soled boots that won't echo on the marble floors. My hands shake as I zip up the front ofmy jacket, creating a secure pouch against my chest. When I lift Nikolai from his bed, he barely stirs, just nestles closer to my warmth with that complete trust that breaks my heart and strengthens my resolve simultaneously.

"We're going home, little one," I whisper against his soft hair. "Mama's going to get us out of here."

The hallway stretches before me like a gauntlet. Every shadow could hide a guard, every corner could conceal someone who would drag me back to that gilded prison. But I've studied the patterns, memorized the rotations. The night shift changes at six, and for exactly twelve minutes, there's a gap in coverage near the service quarters.

My feet make no sound on the cold marble as I creep through the mansion's bowels. Past the kitchen where the morning staff won't arrive for another hour. Past the butler's pantry with its endless rows of crystal and China that probably cost more than most people make in a year. Past the portraits of long-dead Vetrovs whose painted eyes seem to follow my desperate flight.

The laundry corridor appears ahead, exactly as I'd scouted it during my supervised walks. Industrial washers line one wall, their chrome surfaces gleaming dully in the emergency lighting. The air smells of bleach and industrial detergent—clean, sterile, nothing like the warm scent of the small laundromat near my old apartment where I used to take Nikolai in his stroller, where other mothers would coo over him and ask about his father with kind eyes.

I push away the memory. That life is gone, burned away by bullets and blood and choices I never wanted to make. But maybe… maybe we can build something new from the ashes.

The stolen key card feels impossibly heavy in my sweaty palm. I'd lifted it from the housekeeping supervisor three days ago when she'd been distracted by a spilled tray of linens. Such a small thing, a rectangle of plastic, but it represents everything—freedom, hope, the chance to give my son a life that isn't defined by violence and fear.

The rear gate's electronic lock clicks softly as the card slides through the reader. For a moment, nothing happens, and my heart stops. Then the mechanism disengages with a quiet hum, and cool morning air kisses my face.

I'm outside.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. For the first time in months, there are no walls containing me, no armed men tracking my every movement. The sky above is the soft gray-pink of early dawn, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear the first birds beginning their morning songs. Normal sounds. Free sounds.

Nikolai shifts against my chest, making the small, contented noise he makes when he's dreaming. I adjust his blanket and start moving toward the outer wall. Twenty yards. That's all that stands between us and the outside world. Twenty yards to the identities that await us thanks toBatya'scontact. Twenty yards to a new life.

I'm through the gate and halfway across the courtyard when the sound of screeching tires shatters the morning silence.

My blood turns to ice. They found us. Somehow, despite all my planning, all my careful timing, they found us. I freeze like a deer in headlights, my mind screaming at my legs to move, to run, to do something other than stand here like a statue waiting for capture.

But when the black SUV slides to a stop in front of me, kicking up gravel and dust, the men who emerge aren't wearing Vetrov colors. They're strangers—three of them, dressed in tactical gear that looks military-grade. Their weapons are drawn before their feet hit the ground.

They're shouting in Russian, but the accents are wrong. Not Moscow Russian like Rolan's men speak, but something harder,more guttural. Eastern European, maybe, or Balkan. The words blur together in my terror, but their intent is crystal clear.

The tallest one reaches me first. His face is scarred, one eye milky with an old injury, and when he grabs my arm, his grip is iron-strong and merciless.

"Please," I gasp in English, then switch to my broken Russian. "Please, don't hurt my baby?—"

He backhands me casually, almost dismissively, and I taste blood. The impact sends me stumbling, but I clutch Nikolai tighter, turning my body to shield him from whatever comes next.

That's when the second man moves. Younger than the first, with dead eyes and hands that move with practiced efficiency. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't show even a flicker of conscience as he reaches for my son.

"No!" The scream tears from my throat as raw and primal as any sound I've ever made. "NO!"

But he's stronger than me, and I'm already off-balance from the blow. His fingers dig into my arms as he pries them apart, and I feel Nikolai's weight leaving my chest like my heart being ripped from my body.

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