Page 8 of Bratva Bride
As I scroll through news clippings and reports, the similarities become hard to ignore. Viktor is a bastard too, a child born on the wrong side of the family line, forced to fight for every inch of legitimacy he ever gained. Unlike me, though, his father recognized him—brought him into the family, gave him a name, a seat at the table, everything but the illusion of belonging. I find a grainy photo from the early eighties, Viktor standing at his father’s funeral, expressionless while the rest of the family weeps around him. Even as a young man, he looks like someone who’s learned to keep his secrets buried deep.
There are stories—ones that sound more like warnings. Viktor knows how to disappear. He’s patient. He doesn’t move until he’s sure of every angle. Associates of his have ties to old families, the sort that survived by knowing when to bend and when to vanish. He keeps his friends close and his enemies guessing. There’s a list of his former business partners, most of them either retired, missing, or dead. None of them have anything bad to say about him—not publicly, at least.
Photos fill the screen. Viktor, younger, standing at his father’s side at some dusty estate outside Moscow. Another, older, taken after he was legitimized—the bastard son suddenly welcomed at the table, a ring on his finger, a wolfish smile that never quite reaches his eyes. I click through images from recent years. Viktor at a boxing match. Viktor pouring vodka at a backroom meeting. Viktor flanked by men whose names I recognize, and others I don’t.
We’re not so different, he and I. Both born outside the rules, both shaped by fathers who believed blood meant more than law. The difference is, Viktor was invited in. His father gave him a name, gave him power, as if erasing the years he spent in the shadows would make him loyal. For me, there was only survival.
I make a mental note to ask Maksim for everything he can dig up on Viktor’s inner circle. But Maksim isn’t Lev, and he can only do so much. It’s time I take things into my own hands.
I leave the apartment quietly, taking nothing but my keys and the jacket draped over the back of the chair. Nadya is in the bedroom with Mila, reading stories beneath the low glow of a bedside lamp, and I know she’ll notice my absence eventually. For now, it feels safer not to explain myself, not until I have something real to show her.
There’s no satisfaction in slipping out, only a restless urge to do something, anything, that might shift the odds back in our favor.
The city falls away behind me as I drive, blocks of flickering neon replaced by long ribbons of dark highway, the horizon broken only by the distant rise of hills and the harsh floodlights marking the edge of Viktor’s territory. Out here, the air is different—thinner, tinged with eucalyptus and the exhaust of trucks making their way to nowhere. My headlights sweep across empty stretches of asphalt until, finally, I see lights ahead.
Viktor’s casino dominates its surroundings, a maze of glass and pale stone framed by ornamental palms and glowing fountains, each detail designed to draw the eye and signal power. From the outside, the building seems to hover in the middle of nowhere, a beacon that attracts anyone hungry for luck or for a place to hide. Valets take cars at the sweeping entrance while uniformed security watches from behind mirrored shades, their attention shifting from guest to guest with the kind of casual vigilance I’ve come to expect in places where the stakes are high.
Inside, the space hums with life—marble floors gleaming beneath rows of chandeliers, every reflection multiplied until the room seems twice as large as it is. The main floor is a current of noise and movement, guests in tailored suits and shimmering dresses drifting between tables, their laughter blending with the muted sound of cards being dealt and dice rolling across green felt.
A woman greets me, introduces herself as Anya, says she runs the floor. “Can I offer you a tour, Mr. Buryakov?” she asks smoothly, in a voice that’s clearly used to dealing with VIP guests.
She leads me along a carpeted hallway lined with art—abstract shapes in thick oil, some pieces expensive enough to buy a house in Los Feliz, others so bold they demand you stop and stare. The doors are all closed, some marked with subtle brass plaques, some with nothing at all. As we pass, a couple emerges from one, flushed and laughing under their breath, their eyes flicking over me and Anya with mild curiosity.
“This is where the real money is made,” Anya says, her voice pitched low. “And lost, if you’re unlucky. You ever played baccarat for a car before?” She gives me a sly glance, her heels soundless on the carpet.
I raise an eyebrow. “If I win a car, does someone drive it home for me?”
“If you win, they’ll do a lot more than that.” She stops to check her reflection in a gilded mirror, smoothing a stray hair. “Of course, you have to know when to walk away.”
“Is that advice for tonight, or just life in general?” I ask, studying the glint of her earrings, the way she sizes me up in the glass before turning away.
She grins. “Depends whether you’re looking for trouble. Most people come here hoping for something they can’t get at home. Most leave with less than they came in with, except for the stories.”
We pass a small bar tucked into an alcove, shelves stacked with bottles in every color, the bartender slicing orange peels with careful precision. “I get the feeling you’ve seen your share of stories,” I say, letting her lead.
She leans in, voice conspiratorial. “You want a good story? Last week a movie producer lost three hundred grand and tried to pay with a watch he said belonged to Steve McQueen. Security didn’t find it funny.”
“And you?” I prompt, curious despite myself.
She shrugs, the motion casual but practiced. “I don’t gamble unless I know I’m going to win. House secret.” Her fingers brush mine, a featherlight touch. “But I do like a man who pays attention.”
The hallway opens onto a lounge where small groups cluster in curved booths, half-hidden behind glass screens etched with gold patterns. The atmosphere is quieter here, voices dropping as guests negotiate their next move over neat pours of liquor. In the far corner, a piano player starts a slow tune, keys so soft they’re almost part of the wallpaper.
Anya gestures for me to follow her toward a booth near the center, her tone suddenly a little more serious. “You can relaxhere, if you want. Or you can keep asking questions. Just know that every answer has its price.”
I slide into the booth beside her, watching the movement of staff across the lounge—cocktail waiters with perfect posture, a security guard nodding discreetly at the bar, a woman in a red dress laughing quietly into her partner’s shoulder.
I turn to Anya. “Tell me, are you always this charming with strangers, or do I get special treatment tonight?”
She lets out a soft laugh, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I pick my favorites. You seem like you know how to play the long game. That’s rare here.”
I rest my hands on the table, meeting her gaze, feeling the tension shift between us—playful, curious, but layered with the awareness that neither of us is here just for fun. “What if I told you I was looking for something more than cards and company?”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Then I’d say you’re exactly where you need to be.”
Anya leads me to a blackjack table tucked into a corner, where the lighting is softer and the crowd seems to thin out to only the most intent players. The dealer greets her by name, flashing a respectful smile, and I realize she’s a regular—maybe more than that. She gestures for me to sit, sliding onto the stool beside me, her dress catching the golden light.
“Ever play in a place like this?” she asks, fanning a handful of chips across the green felt, her nails painted a cool metallic blue.
