Page 5 of Bound By the Bratva

What if my father went back to them? What if the debt he swore was buried is still bleeding us dry? What if Rolan showed up last night becauseBatyadragged us back into it again?

My fingers tighten inside my sleeves. I can’t afford for this to start again. Not with Nikolai old enough to see everything I’ve tried to protect him from. And if Rolan takes one look at my son, he will know it's his child. I never toldBatya, but I didn't really have to. He knew what that weekend meant for me and he apologized a million times, and I know he sees it every time he looks at my son.

I keep walking where the streets are quieter now. A tram squeals down a distant track. A girl in a fast-food uniform leans against the wall outside a café, blowing smoke into her sleeve. I keep moving. My feet carry me forward while my stomach knots tighter. I want to clear my head, but the thoughts won’t stop cycling.

Rolan was there. I saw him. I didn’t imagine it. I wasn’t drunk, and I wasn’t confused.

For a moment, I think of how I got into that mess to begin with, the wayBatyawould come home with his shirt soaked in blood, his ribs cracked, his eyes blackened and swollen shut. He told me they'd warned him that next time, they wouldn’t stop at broken bones, and he was right. They didn't stop.

I begged him to go to the police. He laughed and told me they’d kill him before he got past the front desk. Then Rolan Vetrov made his offer. I had only one choice—to give him one weekend. No questions were allowed, but I understood exactly what that meant, and I still said no.

Three days later, my father vanished without warning. He made no calls, left no signs, and gave no explanation for where he went or why, and I got so scared I called the number, went to the hotel, and did what I had to do. When it ended, I went home and scoured my skin until it bled. I didn’t tell my father what I’d done. He didn’t ask. We both chose silence.

And now I'm paying for it.

When I open the door back home, my father is sitting at the kitchen table. He’s showered and changed. The bathroom still smells like his aftershave, and the mess from last night has been cleaned up. He looks up from his cup of coffee which no doubt holds the remainder of his vodka—hair of the dog—and smiles warmly.

“You working tonight?” he asks, nodding at the chair across from him, but I don't care to sit with him and talk. I'm exhausted. I need to sleep so I can be at the school to pick up Nikolai.

“Yeah," I grunt, peeling off my sweater and toeing off my shoes.

He stirs his black coffee, only further confirming that he's added something to it, before he sips slowly. I linger in thedoorway, looking down at the stained, dirty linoleum, chipped and cracked in several places. There are burn marks on it too, and a few of the cupboard doors hang at odd angles, but at least it's a roof over our heads.

“Did you talk to the landlord?” I ask as I push my shoes toward the wall with one stockinged foot.

“No.” He looks up, his eyes bloodshot but focused. No, of course he didn't. Why would he do that?

“Rent’s due. I can pick up a shift or two…" I straighten my posture and hug my arms over myself, fighting back a yawn. I'm upset with him but shouting has grown tiring. It does nothing but make him spiral more in guilt and chase more false hope at the casino and track.

"Yuri said?—"

"I can handle it,Batya," I say, cutting him off, and he frowns at me, pushing his coffee back from where he sits. I know in his heart he wants to help, but he never will. He never has. It only does more harm.

"You don’t have to carry all of this alone,dochka.” His eyebrows dip in the center as his expression softens to remorse, and I shrug and sigh.

He always says that but it's not the truth. I walk to the sink, choosing not to respond to that, and set my sweater on the counter. He doesn’t push the statement, but I know he wants to. I think deep down, he gets it. He's a drunk addict who gambles away our money, and I'm the only reason he's alive.

“You look tired,” he says.

I rinse out a glass, fill it with water, and sip. “We all are.”

The edge of the panic I've been feeling is beginning to fade slightly. He watches me for a second longer, then gets up and moves to the couch without saying much more. I stand there staring into the sink and trying not to let my hands shake.

If Rolan recognized me last night, he would’ve acted already. Right? He wouldn’t wait. He isn’t the kind of man who lets things go. He takes what he wants and doesn't play games. I try to reassure myself that it was a non-thing, that I imagined it all after all.

But the way he watched the crowd?—

I swallow hard.

I don't think I'm going to sleep again for a very long time. Maybe ever.

4

ROLAN

Istart the morning at my desk, eyes on the split-screen feed pulling live footage from the racetrack. The bottom left quadrant shows last night’s staff clock-out, timestamped and logged. I see Anya disappearing through the side entrance with a disposable cup in one hand and that same threadbare sweater pulled tight across her frame. I rewind the clip and watch it again.

It's been one week since I happened upon her and I can't get her out of my fucking mind. Everything I do, she's there, wandering around in my thoughts, stirring up more questions I'd love to ask. So I get transfixed on this goddamn surveillance feed from the track and I can't pull myself away.

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