Page 7 of Bound By the Bratva

"She’s repaying it for you?" I glance toward the stack of broken shelving shoved in the corner, where rusted cans and shattered glass litter the floor like remnants of some long-forgotten business.

"She didn’t know at first," he mumbles. "But then they found her. Said if she didn’t work it off, they’d come after her too."

"So she took the job." My voice stays even, but the air in the warehouse feels heavier now, the narrow space between us shrinking under what he's just confessed.

He nods again but he doesn't speak again. He's whimpering and looking around frantically.

"Anything else you want to tell me? Now’s your chance." The space between us stays tense and motionless, then he goes still. His lips press together and his fingers twist into the hem of his coat. The tremor in his hand spreads up his arm, and his gaze finally lifts. It's hollow and resigned. That’s when I see the exact moment he breaks.

"She’s got a kid," he whispers.

"Say that again." A gust of wind rattles the warped windowpane beside us.

"A son—he’s five."

My heart slows. Everything else drops away. "His name." The gravel and grime slide slightly beneath my boots as I shift my weight. Pyotr doesn't look up.

"Nikolai. But I swear I was gonna say something, but I didn’t know what else to do. She'll hate me."

I lean back, blood humming. "You’re going to bring me a lock of that boy’s hair," I tell him. "Tomorrow. Don’t make me ask twice."

He nods frantically, shoulders hunched and eyes darting like a cornered rat’s.

I stand slowly, the legs of the crate scratching across the concrete with a long, scraping grind. The air inside thewarehouse holds its breath as I adjust my coat and fix him with one last glare.

"If you try to run, Pyotr, I’ll know."

I turn and walk the length of the warehouse, each footstep echoing against the steel bones of the place. The cold follows me, wrapping around my ankles and crawling up my spine. Behind me, he stays frozen on the crate, too afraid to move. I push open the side door and step out into the wind, the sky already darkening over the rooftops of Mytishchi. I light a cigarette as I descend the stairs, each drag sharp in my lungs.

This changes everything.

5

ANYA

The lounge is packed tonight—wall-to-wall bodies, stale smoke clinging to red velvet drapes, and a low roar of voices that never fully fades. There’s no race scheduled, but the high-stakes tables hum with excited tension, and the private booths are full of men who speak softly and tip badly.

I snake through the crowd with a tray balanced on one palm, careful not to jostle anyone’s shoulder. The drinks wobble with every uneven step my heels make, but I’ve done this long enough to make it look smooth.

Table seven is full of regulars—four middle-aged men in cheap suits pretending they belong here. They play slow, order cheap, and tip worse. One of them, the balding one with a ring of sweat around his collar, winks at me every time I set a glass down. I ignore it. I always do.

“Another round?” I ask.

He hands me a wrinkled bill without breaking eye contact. “As long as you bring it.”

The money smells like cigarettes and desperation, but I tuck it into the pocket of my apron and turn without answering.

At table eleven, the crowd is younger, brasher. They tip better, mostly because they know it buys them a second longer of eye contact. I give them just enough to feel noticed without inviting anything more.

One guy, leather jacket, sunglasses indoors, waves me down as I pass. “Two whiskeys, neat. And whatever you want.”

“I’m not drinking tonight,” I say, voice flat.

He grins, widely and stupidly. “Then just sit with us.”

I don’t answer. I pivot, tray angled to my hip, and make my way back to the bar. Mitzy’s there already, lipstick smudged on her glass, rolling her eyes at something one of the bartenders said. She spots me and cocks a brow.

“Table eleven?” she guesses.

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