Page 81 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“What did I do? Nothing,” Ivan retorts. “We’ve been here the whole time. What did our cousins do? Well, that’s something else entirely, but it was probably exceptionally bloody and brutal. The Ivanovich boys, they’re wildcards. But I’m sure you already know that.”

Max exhales sharply. “I understand that power and success can warp your reality to the point where you feel invincible, Mr. Bowman. But life and the families that control Chicago are nowhere near as predictable as you think they are. That little vote you held this morning? Consider it scratched. We’re not going down that easily.”

“Wanna bet?” Bowman hisses and removes the safety on his gun. “On your knees. We’re done here.”

“Oh, you might want to rethink that,” Max says.

Mayhem erupts from somewhere upstairs. Loud bangs and boots thudding along the upper floors. Glass breaking. Men shouting. Smith glances over his shoulder, his brow furrowed with concern. “What the fuck is happening?”

“Go check,” Bowman snarls.

“With me,” Smith tells the armed agents. He heads for the door, but the men give each other clearly hesitant looks. I’m sure they understand what’s going on upstairs and they don’t want to be on the receiving end. “What are you doing?” Smith asks when none of them move.

“You said it would be a clean operation,” one of the agents replies.

Max shoots them a cool grin. “That’s Quantico upstairs. The cavalry has arrived, and trust me, they’re not here for us.”

“What?” another agent croaks, shocked enough to take his mask off as he gives Smith the ugliest look. “What the fuck did you do?”

Smith points an angry finger at him. “Follow my lead. Let’s go upstairs and see what’s going on. Now.”

“Fuck that. You go,” the agent insists.

“Come on,” a third guy gives him a nudge.

There’s some mild protest, but nothing that Smith’s barking orders can’t handle. These are lower-level agents. Tactical gearheads who follow orders no matter what. And dirty as hell.

Reluctantly, the team of agents follows Smith through the door, leaving Bowman with the four of us. But Bowman seems unsettled and ready to blow. Fury mars his features, causing a vein to thicken and throb along his temple as he looks at the men.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Your reckoning, you piece of shit,” Ivan answers.

“We called Quantico and delivered all the proof they needed to come down here and clean house,” Max adds. “Your bestie Matthew foolishly kept a treasure trove of incriminating evidence against you and your entire crew. And all of that precious material is now in the hands of the Deputy Director of the FBI, who sounded pretty pissed when I reached out to him about all this.”

“What evidence?” Bowman asks, unable to keep a clear focus.

“You name it, he’s got it. Paper trails. Photographs. Video. Court and bank documents. Statements. Photocopies of each of your ledgers,” Max replies. “Your pride is going to be your undoing, Mr. Bowman. You don’t go after the heads of the Bratva and expect us to just quiver and bow down.”

Bowman exhales deeply, then raises his gun and points it at me. “Then I start with Lyric first.”

28

Lyric

I’m paralyzed with fear, staring right into the muzzle of Bowman’s weapon. I can almost feel its cold steel pressed into my forehead, even though there are still several inches between us. Thick air that reeks of death and violence.

“You don’t want to do this,” Max warns him.

But he, Ivan, and Artur still have their hands cuffed behind their backs. Bowman is keeping them at a reasonable distance. Ivan tries to step toward him, but Bowman fires a warning shot at the ground close to his boots.

I scream and burst into tears, shaking as I move away from the bars.

“Bowman, stop!” Max shouts, his shoulders broad and heavy as he gives him a murderous look. “It’s over. For you, for Smith. It’s over. Don’t do anything to make it worse.”

“You forget, I’m still the one holding the gun.” Bowman points it at Artur next. “And I swear the second bullet I fire will go right into her pretty little head if you don’t stay where you are.”

“Please,” I mumble, “please, Mr. Bowman… Jack… stop this. I’m pregnant, my baby doesn’t deserve to die. Please.”

---