Page 8 of Bound By the Bratva

I nod. “Leather jacket.”

“They never learn.” She raises her glass to me and turns back to her tray.

Tips tonight are decent. Nothing spectacular, but better than average. Enough to make me pretend I’m not dead on my feet, enough to get Nikolai another week of lunches and maybe pay down the gas bill before it’s cut off.

I make another round—booths first, then the rail. The guys at the bar ignore me. The ones in the booths don’t.

A man grabs my wrist when I set down a tumbler of bourbon. His fingers are thick, swollen, scarred. I don’t flinch. I just lift his hand off mine, set it on the table, and give him a look that warns him not to try again.

He laughs, shrugs. “No harm in asking.”

I move on. That’s the job. Pretend it didn’t happen, don’t make waves, don’t get fired.

Halfway through the next circuit, a staff runner cuts across the lounge. He’s young, maybe nineteen, fresh enough that he still apologizes when he bumps into people.

“You’re needed down the service hallway,” he says, eyes darting past me. “Now.”

I nod, set the tray on the back bar, and wipe my palms on my skirt. My first thought is a delivery. My second is a scheduling mix-up. My third?—

My third never comes.

Because when I turn the corner, I freeze.

Rolan stands in the shadowed hallway, framed by dim lighting as though he’s been waiting forever. He doesn’t speak. Not a single word.

I try to swallow the sudden tightness in my throat, but my mouth feels dry. He’s staring at me, his expression unreadable, as if he’s waiting for something—an answer, an explanation, anything. But I don’t know what to say.

I attempt to move past him, but my feet are glued to the floor, caught under the weight of his gaze. Finally, I force myself to speak, breaking the suffocating silence.

“I’m working,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “I don’t have time to stand around.”

His lips twitch into something resembling a smile, but there’s no humor in it. “You’ll make time,” he says, his voice low, commanding.

I try again to walk around him, but he steps directly into my path.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, even as my stomach knots tightly. I know exactly what he means. My mind races through countless disastrous outcomes, but I’m trapped. I've never been able to outrun him.

He doesn’t flinch, merely stares at me, his eyes slicing through the tension between us like a blade.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” he repeats, and for the first time, I sense something truly cold in his voice—something worse than anger. “I spoke to Pyotr. I know about the boy.”

My blood turns to ice. My heart stops.

The boy. My son. Nikolai.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out at first. “What about him?”

Rolan steps closer, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. “He’s five, Anya. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” His eyes darken, possessive and dangerous.

I remain silent, mind spinning. I need a way out, fast.

“You kept him from me,” he says. His tone isn't angry, just calculated and deliberate. “Why?”

The silence between us grows thick with everything unspoken. I want to scream at him to leave, but I can’t. Not with this revelation hanging between us, pressing down with every breath.

“I didn’t want him to be part of this,” I finally say, my voice quiet, defeated. “I didn’t want him to be a part of you.”

Rolan inches even closer, his breath brushing my skin, sending a shiver through me. “It’s too late for that,” he whispers. “He’s mine, Anya. And so are you.”

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