Page 5 of The Bratva's Secret Twins

“Boss…I promise I didn’t mean to…. It was a mistake…. I don’t know what came over me…” he continued, his words running together in their panic to escape.

Savoring my cigar’s rich and complex flavors, I reached for my gun and leveled it at Jeffery.

His eyes went wide, but that was the only reaction he could give before I fired three successive shots into his left kneecap.

The next second, the room was filled with Jeffery’s screech of pain.

I blew out some more smoke, placing my gun on my table.

Jeffery cradled his shattered knee, shaking, drooling, and crying. He looked like he might pass out, but he was also too scared to allow himself to.

Pathetic.

I didn’t understand why people made stupid choices. He knew this would happen…so why did he still steal from me?

I got to my feet then and went to tower over Jeffery.

“Please,” Jeffery said faintly, his voice barely audible as blood leaked from his leg. “Don’t kill me.”

He’s messing up my rug.

Of course, I wouldn’t kill him; the man still owed me, and I never gave my enemies the easy way out. Killing him would be merciful, and I was not at all merciful.

In this business, loyalty was a key factor in our dealings, and the Wolkov Bratva wasn’t known for its kindness or forgiveness.

We were notorious for our ruthlessness and didn’t take betrayal lightly. We always exacted brutal retribution on those who dared to be disloyal.

Jeffery knew that fact, yet he decided to be stupid. He was so pathetic, begging for mercy when he knew that mercy didn’t exist in our code—never had, never would.

His pleas were infuriating and disappointing. Since he had the guts to do what he did, he should have had the guts to stomach the consequences.

“Please, show mercy, Boss,” he begged, gazing up at me.

“I have wasted lives for far lesser crimes than this.” I cocked my head to the side. “What makes you think that I would spare yours?”

Jeffery sobbed, lowering his head.

I sighed and turned away from him, heading back to my desk, where I stubbed my cigar in the ashtray.

“Did you know that in 18th-century Russia, those who betrayed their Tsar often faced a dire fate?” I asked, my voice smooth and eerily calm. “In those times, the punishment for treachery was severe and public.”

I turned back to face him, leaning half-seated on the edge of my desk. “Traitors were often given a choice: face the executioner’s ax or take their own lives with poison to avoid the shame of public disgrace.”

I paused for a moment, watching Jeffrey’s face grow paler and paler, both from fear and blood loss.

“Of course,” I continued, “the end result was always the same: death. However, the manner of it—that was entirely up to them.”

“I won’t kill you now, though,” I said when I saw his chest begin to heave. “You stole from me, and I want my money back.”

My words didn’t make him feel better, though.

His eyes went wide again. “B-but I don’t have the—”

I cut him off. “You will find it.”

Jeffery blinked at me, opening and closing his mouth.

“You have a week to figure it out. If you can’t, I will put you in the cages. You will earn me some of that money in underground matches, and when you finally die to the awful tortures those perverts call entertainment, I will harvest your organs to make up the balance.”

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