Page 26 of Bratva Prisoner
“What kind of associations?”
“He belongs to a group called the Serpents, and they aren’t just some small-time gang running drugs out of nightclubs. They’re connected to larger organizations, more dangerous people. The kind of people who don’t care about collateral damage when they want something.”
I squint at him and tilt my head. “What are you talking about?”
“Troy works for people involved in the Bratva world. They distribute illegal drugs and weapons to some of the Russian families operating in this city. Your ex-boyfriend isn’t just a stalker, Alyssa. He’s a criminal with connections to some very bad people.”
This is insane. The Troy I dated brought me flowers. He was sweet, attentive, seemingly normal except for his jealousy issues. I knew he was involved in something illegal, but theidea that he’s connected to Russian organized crime seems impossible.
“The Bratva,” I repeat, tasting the word. “I’ve heard of them. They’re supposed to be completely ruthless, aren’t they? Murder, extortion, human trafficking—all the worst stuff you hear about organized crime.”
“They can be dangerous when crossed.”
“And Troy works for them?”
“Not directly, but the Serpents serve as middlemen for some of their operations. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship that gives Troy access to resources most small-time criminals don’t have.”
I think I’m going to throw up all over this expensive European leather. Not only was I dating a criminal, but I was dating someone connected to organizations that specialize in violence and intimidation. No wonder the police weren’t interested in helping me. They were probably either too scared to get involved or were on his payroll. And it’s no wonder Troy has been so persistent in his pursuit. What I walked in on makes me a witness, which makes me a liability.
“How do you know all this?” I ask, turning in my seat to study his profile as he drives. “This isn’t the kind of information that shows up in public records or newspaper articles.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it again. His Adam’s apple bobs a few times before he finally responds, “I have connections in law enforcement. People who keep me informed about potential threats to my business interests.”
“What kind of connections?”
“The kind that prefer to remain anonymous.”
There it is again—that diplomatic non-answer that tells me nothing while sounding like an explanation. Everything about Maksim screams wealth and power, but the specific source of that power remains mysteriously vague.
“You said Troy’s people have been watching your house. How do you know that if you were away on business all night?”
“Security cameras. Motion sensors. Electronic surveillance that monitors the perimeter twenty-four hours a day.”
“That’s a lot of security for someone in the shipping business.”
“I value my privacy.”
“Or you have enemies.”
He doesn’t respond to that, which is an answer in itself. The silence stretches between us as we drive through the city, and I find myself inspecting everything about him with new eyes. The expensive clothes, the confident way he carries himself, the authority he displayed when confronting Troy—none of it fits with the image of a legitimate businessman.
“Maksim, I need to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth.”
“Ask.”
“Are you involved in the same world as Troy? The criminal world, I mean.”
The question settles between us like a landmine waiting to explode. Part of me expects him to laugh it off, to provide some perfectly reasonable explanation for why he knows so much about organized crime while remaining completely separate from it.
Instead, he pulls over to the side of the road and turns to face me with those devastating blue eyes that have haunted my dreams since the night we met.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Because nothing about this situation makes sense unless you’re more than just some wealthy businessman who happened to stumble into my life at exactly the right moment.”
“And if I were involved in that world? What would you do?”
The hypothetical nature of his response tells me everything I need to know, even if he hasn’t actually admitted anything. My heart pounds against my ribs as the implications sink in.
