Page 63 of Bratva Bidder
Maksim clicks his tongue. “Smart move. That way if anything burns, it doesn’t trace back to him.”
I smile coldly. “He taught me well.”
I grab my phone, dial a number I haven’t used in months.
A deep voice answers in Spanish. “Who’s this?”
“Tell Ramos he gets one warning,” I say in perfect, emotionless Spanish. “If my goods don’t cross by midnight, I burn his northern routes to the ground. Then I send his men back to him in crates.”
Silence. Then: “Entendido.”
I hang up.
Anton grunts. “Subtle as always.”
“I don’t do subtle,” I say.
The real power isn’t in who you claim—it’s what you do with them.
I close the folder, push it back. “Keep the Turks happy for another week. Then cut them loose. Quietly.”
“You sure?” Maksim asks. “They’ve been loyal.”
“For now. But loyalty is leverage. And I don’t give second chances.”
They nod and begin to clear the table. I walk to the window, staring out past the private runway at the back of the estate.
The Bratva thinks I’m a bastard playing king. They have no idea I built this empire while they slept. And now I’ve got a wife who doesn’t flinch at blood and a father who wants me dead.
Perfect.
Let them all come for me. I’m ready.
Anton frowns. “He wouldn’t use Ramos. The old man’s more of a brute-force type.”
“Exactly.” I drag a hand over my mouth. “He’s trying to provoke a reaction. Delay a shipment, threaten an alliance. See what I’ll sacrifice when the pressure mounts.”
Maksim steps closer. “He wants to make you look unstable.”
“He wants to remind everyone I don’t belong.” That I’m a bastard. That I clawed my way into a throne that was never mine to take. I tap the red blinking dot again. “How long until the Ukrainian drop?”
“Eighteen hours.”
I nod. “Double the guards. Set up blind comms to intercept any chatter near Ramos’s checkpoints. I want to know if Dmitry’s voice shows up in their ears.”
“Understood.”
Anton and Maksim are more than capable of dealing with this. But still, a coil of unease twists in my gut. Dmitry’s reach is deeper than anyone realizes. Every move I make is a ripple in water he thinks he owns.
He used to say blood defines power. That without it, you’re just shadow.
What he doesn’t understand is—shadows don’t bleed. They bury you quietly, then vanish. I am one.
Still his brutal tactics are an indication that something else is coming.
I stare out the window again, at the private airstrip that gleams under the sun like a blade. Then at the black SUV parked under the far tree line. Nadya’s window is still cracked open upstairs.
Let him try.
