Page 60 of Sexting the Bikers
The room falls into an eerie stillness. Even Dog stops fidgeting, his hand hovering over his belt like muscle memory, like he’s bracing for something to explode. Bishop straightens but says nothing.
“They’re Bratva too?” Reaper presses, suspicion sharp in his voice.
I shake my head. “Not like Novikov. Zaika isn’t just Bratva—they’re something older, bigger. Think of them as the people who pull the strings from behind the curtain. Money, influence,favors that go back generations. Even Novikov’s scared of crossing them.”
Dog whistles low under his breath. Bishop gives me a searching look, weighing every word.
“They don’t get involved in street-level stuff,” I continue. “If you’re hearing their name, it means something’s gone really, really wrong.”
“And Novikov has their backing? Why?” Reaper asks, still watching me like he’s weighing every detail.
“Blood ties, mostly,” I say, not bothering to hide my bitterness. “His mother was one of theirs, old family. It’s the only reason he gets away with half the shit he does. They don’t like him, but they protect their own—even the ones they hate.”
Bishop nods slowly, like he’s slotting a puzzle piece into place. “So if we make Novikov look weak, we embarrass Zaika by proxy.”
“Not exactly,” I correct him. “Zaika doesn’t care about him being embarrassed. But if he’s robbed on their watch, and word gets out, everyone beneath them starts doubting their reach.”
Bishop leans back, rubbing his jaw as if the last pieces of a puzzle have finally slotted into place. “The Zaika thing—that would explain why your family wants you dead too. You’re a loose end, Katya. A complication they can’t afford if things get messy. Sorry if that’s harsh.”
I meet his gaze, surprised by the shift in his tone. There’s a strange comfort in it, even if I don’t trust it fully. “It’s okay,” I say softly, meaning it more than I expect. “I see the truth now. None of this was ever about me. I was just a bargaining chip—one that became dangerous the second I stopped playing along.”
Bishop nods, looking away.
For the first time in days, I feel the old weight of loyalty to my family start to slip away, replaced by something else—anger,maybe, or a hunger for justice. Or maybe just a deep, stubborn resolve to survive on my own terms.
Reaper snorts, shaking his head. “If we do this thing, we’ll have to answer to these assholes too.” His voice is hard, but I can hear the caution underneath. Before I can protest, he holds up a hand. “Even if they don’t care right now, Novikov might make them care. He’s desperate enough, he could spin it however he wants.”
“So what do we do?” Dog asks, tension creeping into his voice. “We can’t just sit around and wait for Novikov to make the next move.”
Reaper leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We should clue them in,” he says, eyes on me.
“Get permission?” I ask, disbelief creeping in. “Zaika doesn’t give permission. If they get involved, it’s to clean up a mess, not bless it.”
He shrugs. “They might not care…or they might care a hell of a lot if Novikov gets to them first. Either way, if we want to avoid getting crushed between the two of them, we need to get out in front of this. Maybe even tip the scales in our favor.”
I shake my head. “It’s not going to work.”
“I think they’ll care,” Bishop murmurs, “if we can get the news to them. But in a specific way. One that doesn’t look like we’re asking permission.”
I frown. “What do you have in mind?”
Reaper turns his gaze to me, intense. “Do you think any of them were invited to your wedding?”
I blink. “No. I don’t think so. Novikov kept it tight. He didn’t want outside attention.”
“Ten bucks says they wouldn’t approve of the plan Novikov had for your family,” Bishop says. “Massacres don’t play well in the bigger circles. Makes them all look unstable. And unpredictable.”
Dog leans forward. “But who can we call? You can’t exactly cold-call the Zaika like they’re some rich uncle in Jersey.”
I hesitate. Then sigh. “I have a friend,” I say reluctantly. “In the Zaika. Not high up, but connected. I can call her. See if she can give us a name. A number. Someone who’ll listen.”
All three men turn to me, skeptical and cautious. But Reaper just nods once. “Make the call. We play this smart. Let them hear it from you, not from Novikov.”
“And if your friend sells us out?” Bishop asks.
“Then we’re already screwed,” Reaper says. “Might as well find out now.”
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