Page 14 of Bratva Prisoner
I lean back in my office chair and allow myself the pleasure of observing Alyssa wander through Ravenshollow like she’s discovered Wonderland. She moves with cautious curiosity, touching surfaces and studying artwork in a way that tells me she’s actually seeing it rather than just tallying up dollar signs.
My computer screen displays feeds from twelve different cameras, but I only care about the one following her through the east wing. She’s been at this for twenty minutes now, clearly thinking she’s being subtle about her exploration. What she doesn’t realize is that I’ve been tracking her movements since the moment she left her room.
Harrison knocked on my door fifteen minutes ago to inform me that our guest requested to “look around a bit” instead. Smart man that he is, he didn’t comment on my decision to monitor her personally rather than leaving it to security. He simply nodded and disappeared to handle whatever mysterious tasks butlers handle when their employers are acting like lovesick idiots.
“Sir?” Harrison’s voice comes through the intercom, professional as always. “The information you requested has arrived.”
Right. The reason I’m supposed to be in my office working instead of playing voyeur. I minimize the security feed and open the encrypted file that was delivered thirty minutes ago, based on the timestamp.
What I find is about what I expected, with a few interesting surprises.
Troy Castellano, twenty-eight years old, graduated from a mid-tier college with a business degree before discovering that legitimate business doesn’t pay nearly as well as the illegal variety. He’s been running a small operation for the past three years—drugs mostly, with some weapons trafficking on the side. Nothing sophisticated, nothing that poses a real threat to established organizations like mine.
What catches my attention is his affiliation. The Serpents. I know their leadership and have dealt with them occasionally. They’re not enemies per se, but they’re definitely not allies either. More like neighbors who occasionally borrow sugar and lift packages from our porches.
Traditionally, the Barkov family avoids unnecessary conflicts with groups like the Serpents. We focus on bigger fish, more profitable ventures, threats that actually matter. But Troy made this personal the moment he decided to terrorize what’s mine.
I scroll through financial records, arrest reports, and known associates. The picture that emerges is of a man who thinks he’s bigger than he actually is, surrounded by other men who share his delusions of grandeur. Dangerous enough to hurt an innocent woman, not dangerous enough to pose a real challenge to someone with my resources.
Troy’s operation centers around three locations: a nightclub called Cobra that serves as their headquarters, a warehouse in the industrial district where they store merchandise, and a strip of apartment buildings they use for distribution. Standard setup for a mid-level gang trying to look more impressive than they actually are.
The muscle I saw with Troy earlier belongs to the Serpents’ enforcement arm—thugs for hire who think carrying guns makes them tough. I’ve dealt with their type before. They fold the moment they realize they’re outmatched, which they will be.
According to the file, the Serpents have been operating in this city for five years, gradually building their network through intimidation and strategic alliances with smaller crews. They’re smart enough to avoid confrontation with established families like mine, but not smart enough to realize when they’ve crossed a line they can’t uncross.
Their leader is a man named Vincent “Viper” Moreau, a pretentious bastard who thinks giving himself a snake-themed nickname makes him intimidating. I’ve met him twice at various underworld gatherings—both times he struck me as the kind of man who talks too much and thinks too little. The type who surrounds himself with yes-men and mistakes fear for respect.
Troy sits somewhere in the middle of their hierarchy. He’s important enough to have his own crew, not important enough to make major decisions without approval from above. That’s going to make this interesting. If I move against Troy, his bosses might take it as an attack on their entire organization. But if I’m careful about how I handle this, I can isolate him from his support network and deal with him quietly.
My phone goes off with a text from my brother Dimitri:Family dinner Sunday. Bring your new houseguest.
I stare at the message for a moment, then type back:She’s not ready for that circus yet.
Cecily wants to meet her. Something about sisterly solidarity.
I said not yet.
Your funeral. You know how persistent my wife can be.
True enough. Cecily Barkov has a way of getting what she wants, usually by being so reasonable and charming that refusing her feels like kicking a puppy. If she’s decided she wants to meet Alyssa, this conversation is far from over.
I turn off my phone before the rest of my brothers can weigh in. The Barkov family grapevine moves faster than international news networks, and apparently, word of Alyssa’s presence has already started to spread through the ranks. By tomorrow, I’ll probably have cousins calling to offer advice on how to handle “delicate situations involving innocent women.”
The thought of subjecting Alyssa to my family’s well-meaning but overwhelming attention makes me wince. She’s barely comfortable with me, barely trusting enough to accept my protection. Throwing her into a room full of Barkovs would probably send her running back to those dingy hotel rooms.
A soft chime from my computer draws my attention back to the security feed. Alyssa has moved to the main floor, and she’s now standing in front of the French doors that lead to the back gardens. She peers through the glass like she’s debating whether stepping outside constitutes trespassing.
The indecision on her face is adorable. She’s been living here for exactly four hours, and she’s still treating the place like a museum she might get kicked out of for touching the wrong exhibit.
I watch her run her fingers along the door frame, testing the handle with the careful touch of someone who’s not sure she’s allowed to be there. It occurs to me that she’s probably never been in a house like this before, never had access to the kind of luxury most people only see in movies.
She shouldn’t have to feel like a guest in her own temporary home. This is supposed to be her sanctuary, the place where she can finally stop looking over her shoulder and catch her breath.
I make a mental note to have Harrison give her a more thorough orientation tomorrow, complete with explicit permission to use any amenity she wants. The pool, the library, the home theater in the basement, the tennis court—all of it should be available to her without question.
Finally, she pushes open the doors and steps onto the stone terrace. The late afternoon sun catches in her strawberry blonde hair, and even through the grainy security feed, I can see the moment wonder takes over. She’s seeing the gardens properly for the first time, taking in the formal flower beds and the fountain that’s been running continuously since my grandfather’s time.
She moves down the steps with growing confidence, and her initial nervousness gives way to genuine appreciation for the beauty surrounding her. My grandfather designed these gardens himself; he spent decades importing plants from around the world and arranging them with the eye of an artist. Most visitors barely glance at them because they’re too busy networking or conducting business to notice the carefully cultivated paradise.
