Page 46 of Used By the Merciless Bratva
I turned the compact laptop on his large desk toward one of the two chairs across from him and opened it, switching it on.
I sighed when it requested an unlock password.
What else did you expect, Katria?
I thought about using the mid-level hacking skills I had picked up from my department’s occasional collaboration with the cybersecurity team at the company, but I chose to try simple, common sense first.
I tried his full name. Wrong.
I put a space between the two names. Wrong.
I sighed again.
One more trial. Then, I’ll go the hacking way.
Then I entered ‘Yezhov Bratva.’
I was greeted by a bright wallpaper showing a blue sea. Without wasting any time, I plugged in the thumb drive.
My dad’s face was the first thing I saw. That made me check the date in the timestamp.
I didn’t just pause the video to check the date, realizing it was the same year my dad died. I paused it to gather the mental strength I needed to look at my dad’s face—the face I watched turn pale in a pool of blood years ago, the face I would do anything to see again. The date was just one month before my dad was killed.
I pressed the space bar again, and the video continued to play. Nothing seemed to move, at first. My dad sat in a leather chair, like the one across from me, as he scribbled on a white sheet of paper on his desk. Then, he raised his head as he said, “Feliks.”
That name sounded familiar. But I couldn’t place it.
The person answered, “Kyle. Heard you flagged a record issue.”
That voice.
Where did I hear it?
Then he got within view as he approached my dad’s table. The dark, long hair jogged my memory. It was salt-and-pepper now, but that almost-too-sweet voice was the same.
The image of his face as he settled into the chair opposite my dad’s was my final confirmation.
I had met him before.
First at the wedding. And just some hours ago at the Bratva event. I remembered the tiny yet significant unease I felt when Marielle introduced us. His overt sweetness seemed so fake that I found myself not wanting to talk to him, even though our paths crossed a lot during the party.
I remembered the note I got at the wedding.
What truth does this Feliks know?
“You’re laundering off-ledger,” my dad disclosed. “I don’t know how I managed to miss it. They are large amounts.”
“Then stop looking,” Feliks stated, shrugging.
“That puts the Bratva at risk. You know that,” my dad argued, sitting more upright.
“So, you’re going to lecture me about what is right for the Bratva now, aren’t you?” Feliks questioned, his expression taunting. “I’m the Mafia’s advisor; you should know your place.”
“This has absolutely nothing to do with titles, Feliks. And I certainly wouldn’t need to lecture you if you were doing the right thing,” my dad countered, sitting more upright.
“Then fucking looking the other way! What’s so hard about that?”
“Do the right thing!” my dad argued, in the same loud tone Feliks used.
