Page 6 of Bound By the Bratva

She left at the same time as everyone else and I see nothing suspicious on the surface. Still, I flag her personnel file and attach a note for extended monitoring. If she thinks she can waltz into one of my businesses and disappear again, she’s underestimated how long my memory runs. Tasting her once should’ve been enough. Six years ago, a weekend bought with blood and desperation… I told myself I didn’t need more. I lied.

I lean back, rotate to the second monitor, and scroll through last week’s activity logs. Pyotr Morozov’s name came up twice. Low-stakes poker games in basements where men don’t always leave with all their fingers. Both times, he lost. Both times, he walked away deeper in debt to nobodies with big mouths. I don’t give a fuck about the money. I want to know why Anya’s here. Why she came back now, after hiding all this time. Why she walked straight into a Vetrov operation, face uncovered.

I hit a button on the desk phone. The line clicks, then the familiar voice of my fixer picks up on the first ring.

"Vetrov," Derrick says, casual, like we spoke yesterday. "What’s the word? Been quiet since that warehouse job."

"It's good… real good." I smile at nothing as I think of how many times this man has bailed me out of shit I never should've been walking through. "How's the family?"

"Oh, you know… Kids and shit… Wife is good too. What can I do for you?" I already hear his fingers typing away on his keyboard and know he's pulling up his backdoor methods for searching the internet.

"Run a quiet background sweep. The name is Anya Morozova. I want school records, clinic visits, any passports issued, burner phones—whatever she’s touched since she disappeared from existence six years ago. I don’t care how small it looks. Find it for me?"

The light from the window cuts across my desk in narrow bands. The fixer’s voice crackles faintly over the speaker. "How far back?" If Derrick's speed at finding answers that suit me is as fast as the speed at which he types, we'll continue to get along just fine.

I watch the cursor blink on my computer screen as I answer. "Six years… And send it to me as soon as you get it."

"Sure thing, Rolan. Expect it by the end of the day. If she's keeping secrets, I'll find them."

I hang up and grab my coat, then tap in Pyotr's number from memory. The line rings twice before he answers, and I can almost smell the liquor on his breath through the line.

"Da?" he slurs, barely audible over whatever dive bar hums in the background.

"It's Rolan… You have twenty minutes to sober the fuck up. I'm sending a car. We're meeting."

He coughs, then stammers something useless which gets swallowed by the sound around him.

"Where are you?" I'm already headed toward my car. Stepan will ensure Pyotr shows the fuck up.

"The Blaaack Keg," he slurs, and I'm already finding myself fed up with his shit.

"Don't talk, just listen. You're going to sit your drunk ass down and wait. Don’t try to vanish on me. I want answers, and you’re going to give them. And if you don't stay put, I'll hunt you and that piece of ass you call a daughter down." I don’t wait for confirmation. I end the call, text the address of the bar to my driver, and step out into the chill. Pyotr will come because of his guilt over what Anya did for him.

I can count on it.

He’s already shaking when I walk in. It’s midday, and the warehouse is one of the only places I know is perfectly secret and no one will interrupt us. Concrete floors stained with grease and age stretch beneath a single line of flickering overhead lights. He’s perched on a broken crate near the wall, looking like he wants to bolt.

Pyotr stands when I enter through the steel side door, but I wave him down before he can move another inch. "Sit," I bark, crossing the room slowly, the soles of my shoes scuffing across sticky concrete.

He drops hard back onto the crate but his hands don’t stop twitching. Smells like liquor and piss, like he wet himself from shaking so badly.

"You know why I’m here," I say. I step closer and drag over an overturned crate, setting it down across from him with a loud scrape against the concrete. The chill in the air sinks into my coat as I sit, eyes fixed on him like a blade pressed to skin.

"I–I didn’t mean anything by it, Rolan. I swear. She just showed up. Said she wanted to help." He scratches at the side of his neck, eyes darting toward the window where sunlight hits the smeared glass.

"She did more than help. She signed on to one of my crews." I plant both boots on the concrete and lean forward slowly, letting my arms hang over my knees. The air between us turns colder as I lock my eyes on his and drop my voice to a low warning. The way he jerks back tells me I’ve hit my mark.

He nods rapidly, eyes everywhere but my face. "I told her not to. Told her she didn’t have to." His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible beneath the distant whine of an overhead light straining to stay lit in the cold warehouse air.

"Then why did she?"

He hesitates a beat too long. I lunge across the space between us and slam his wrist against the crate. It sounds like something snaps, but I don't let go. The echo bounces off the concrete walls as he yelps, curling in on himself like a kicked dog.

"Why did she come back?" Somewhere outside the warehouse, a metal door slams shut and a dog barks once before going quiet. Inside, no one is watching, and no one will interrupt.

"Debt!" he blurts. "I got in too deep. With some guys from Vladikavkaz. Real bastards, Rolan. They said they’d cut me open if I didn’t pay."

I let him go. He cradles his arm like a wounded child.

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