Page 80 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“Had we known you were the one in charge, I would’ve personally blown your brains out,” Ivan says. “You’re a lucky SOB.”

“You win some, you lose some.” Bowman laughs. “But let me tell you something—there’s no bigger losers here tonight than the three of you. How does it feel?”

Artur raises an eyebrow. “I genuinely don’t have the patience for your self-indulging bullshit.”

“How does it feel knowing that all of your work was for nothing?”

“Not really for nothing. Larionov’s dead,” Ivan chimes in.

Bowman gives him a hard look. He wasn’t prepared for that. A muscle twitches in his square jaw, but that’s all the emotion he’s willing to show over the news. “Your organization will move forward without you. The families are all on my side.”

“It’s funny,” Max chuckles softly. “You’ve been covertly working with the underworld for so long and yet to this day, you still don’t seem to understand that you can’t trust anybody. Not really.”

“Bold words for the Bratva’s leadership,” Smith replies. “Given your predicament.”

“Tell me, Max, how does it feel knowing you’re going to leave this world behind,” Bowman adds, taking his gun out, “without ever meeting your child?”

My knees cave. I can barely hold on to the steel bars, the blood draining from my body with each passing second of heavy and confused silence. My breath falters. “No,” I whisper. “Shut up.”

“What did you say?” Max asks, never taking his eyes off Bowman.

But Artur and Ivan are watching me. Quiet. Motionless. Terror grips me tightly by the throat as I try to push through, to keep my chin up.

“Your precious Lyric here is with child,” Bowman says, adopting a dramatic tone. “You didn’t know? She didn’t tell you? Which one of you is the father? Oh, that’s right. It could be any one of you.”

“Oh, God,” I mumble, my face burning as I look down. This is not how I wanted them to find out. This is not how I wanted any of it to happen.

Max looks at me. “Lyric?”

“I was going to tell you,” I manage, shaking like a leaf.

“Are you telling me you kidnapped a pregnant woman?” he asks Bowman. “That you’ve been holding a pregnant woman hostage to get to us?”

“Whatever it takes,” Bowman replies with a shrug. “But tell me. Be honest. How does it feel to lose so much in less than twenty-four hours’ time?”

“You’re delusional,” Max says. “Did you really think we’d come down here just so you can kill us?”

Smith laughs lightly. “We’re prepared for anything, Mr. Sokolov. Granted, we thought we’d handle you at a different address, but this works just as well.”

“Does it? How many cameras show us coming up to the building and peacefully surrendering?” Max asks.

“Doesn’t matter. Footage can be scrubbed,” Smith says.

It’s Ivan’s turn to laugh. “Have you heard from your strike team over at 45th and Lennox yet?”

Bowman and Smith both give him a troubled glare. I see it in their eyes. The doubt. The sudden concern. I can almost hear their thoughts, the self-assuredness dwindling and fizzling away as a different scenario begins to take shape in their minds.

It’s relatively easy to fuck with a powerful man’s head if you know which buttons to push. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure these two out, and Ivan knew exactly where to hit them. Drunk on their own Kool-Aid, having gone unchecked for too long.

“Well?” Ivan asks, grinning. All I can do is hold my breath and watch the nightmare unfold, bracing myself for any potential outcome—though I don’t know how I’ll cope if the worst happens. “Any word?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Smith grumbles and takes out his phone.

“We were supposed to be there at precisely midnight, right?” Ivan asks. “What time is it now?”

Bowman gives Smith a curious look. “It’s ten minutes past. Did they check in?”

“No,” the director replies and starts calling his crew. A few rings in, and it begins to dawn on the guy that there’s nobody left at 45th and Lennox to pick up. “You son of a bitch,” he growls at Ivan. “What did you do?”

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