Page 3 of Kidnapped By the Bratva

I stop in front of it, my chest tightening further. The ache that’s always there when I think about him rises to the surface, mixing with the anger that never quite leaves me. Four months. It’s been four months since he died, since his life was cut short by someone we still don’t know. The Sharov family has too many enemies, too many people who would want him dead, and that makes it all the harder to track down who was behind it.

No one knows how he died. The circumstances are as murky as the motives. Was it a rival Bratva? A hit ordered by one of our many enemies? Or something closer to home, a betrayal? The not knowing eats at me every day, a gnawing frustration that only grows with time.

I clench my fists as I stare down at his grave, the weight of my promise pressing harder against my chest. I swore when he was buried that I would avenge him. That I would find out who was responsible and make them pay, no matter how long it took. No matter the cost.

Arlo Sharov may not have been the most affectionate father, but he was mine, and he deserved better than this—a grave without justice, without retribution.

My jaw tightens as memories of that day flash through my mind—his body, cold and lifeless, the mystery surrounding his death like a fog that refuses to clear. He was a man of few words, like me, but I respected him. He taught me everything I know about this life, about loyalty, strength, and how to survive in a world that wants to see you dead.

Anger surges through me, tightening my chest, my fists curling even tighter. I want blood. I want revenge. Every day since his death, I’ve been chasing ghosts, sifting through leads that lead to dead ends, questioning people who know nothing. The frustration is like a fire in my veins, burning hotter with every second I’m left in the dark.

I step closer to the grave, my breath coming out in cold puffs. I’m not the kind of man who expresses emotion easily, but here, standing in front of my father’s final resting place, I can’t hold it back. The rage, the helplessness, the need for answers—it’s all there, bubbling just beneath the surface.

“I’ll find them,” I mutter under my breath, my voice low and rough. “I’ll find whoever did this.”

It’s a vow I’ve made a thousand times since he died, but standing here now, it feels different. Stronger. The loss of my grandfather only fuels the fire inside me. This family has lost too much. We’ve been hit too hard, and I won’t let it go unanswered. I don’t care how long it takes or who I have to cross to get the truth. My father’s death will be avenged.

The cold air still lingers in the cemetery as I stand by my father’s grave, the weight of my vow pressing down on me. The anger doesn’t leave; it never does. Not since the day we buried him. It’s like a constant burn under my skin, waiting for a target.

Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me, and I turn to see Dominik Sharov approaching. He’s the Pakhan—the head ofour Bratva, the man who commands the entire organization. The Pakhan isn’t just a leader; he’s a king in our world. He makes decisions that affect every single one of us, and his word is law. There’s a respect that comes with that title, but it also carries a burden—one that Dominik wears heavily. He’s always been the level-headed one, the strategist, but there’s a coldness in his eyes that no one dares challenge.

Dominik stops beside me, his presence pulling me out of my thoughts. He looks down at the grave for a moment before clearing his throat. “Maxim,” he says, his voice low but clear, “I have news.”

I turn fully to face him, narrowing my eyes. “About my father?” My heartbeat quickens, the anticipation mixing with the familiar burn of rage.

Dominik nods but hesitates, his gaze shifting to me, weighing something. He knows me too well. He knows what this information will do to me—how I’ll want blood, how I’ll want to act immediately. He’s probably right, but I need to hear it. I need to know.

“Tell me,” I demand, my voice rougher than I intended. “Who is it?”

He looks at me, his eyes sharp, but there’s hesitation there. Dominik isn’t a man who hesitates often, and that alone tells me this is serious. “Maxim….” He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to measure his words. “You need to promise me that you won’t be hasty with this. There are things we need to consider.”

The fire inside me flares up instantly. “I’ll be careful,” I reply, my jaw tight. I don’t have time for this. “Just tell me. I give you my word.”

Dominik studies me for another moment, clearly unconvinced but knowing I won’t let it go. After a pause, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a photograph. He hands it to me without a word.

I take it, my eyes narrowing as I look at the man in the photo. Recognition strikes almost immediately. He’s older now, the lines in his face deeper, but I know who he is. I’ve seen him before. Years ago, the Bratva bought some car parts from him for a shipment. He was just a supplier, someone we dealt with on the fringes of the business. Nothing significant.

Until now.

“This man claims to have information about Arlo’s death,” Dominik says, his voice steady but with an edge to it. “He’s not the killer, but he says he knows who is.”

I clench my fist, the paper crumpling slightly in my grip as I stare at the picture. My mind races, putting pieces together, but it’s still unclear. “Why now?” I ask, my voice tight. “Why wait months to come forward?”

Dominik shrugs, his expression darkening. “That’s what you’re going to find out. He gave us his phone number. You’ll set up a meeting, talk to him, and figure out what he knows.”

I nod, the anger in my chest threatening to break free. I can already feel my pulse quickening, the familiar rush of adrenaline whenever I get closer to answers. “I’ll deal with him,” I say, my voice low. “If he knows anything….”

Dominik steps closer, his voice dropping to a near-growl, his usual calm façade cracking just slightly. “Find the one who murdered Uncle Arlo,” he says, his gaze hardening. “Kill that motherfucker.”

The words send a sharp thrill down my spine, and for a moment, I lock eyes with him, understanding passing between us. Dominik wants blood just as much as I do, but he’s been forced to bide his time. As Pakhan, he has to think about the bigger picture, about the consequences of our actions. I don’t. I’m not tied down by that responsibility. I’m a soldier, a weapon to be aimed at our enemies.

He pulls back, his usual mask of control slipping back into place. “Get it dealt with. I don’t want this dragging on any longer.”

I nod once more, a single, sharp motion. “Consider it done.”

Dominik gives me a final look before turning and walking back toward the others, leaving me alone by the grave. I stare down at the photograph in my hand, the man’s face burned into my memory. The phone number written on the back feels like a lifeline—finally, a step toward finding the person responsible for my father’s death.

I shove the photo into my coat pocket, my thoughts spinning. Whoever this man is, he’s just opened the door to something much bigger, and I’m ready to tear it down. The last four months have been nothing but a void, a burning question with no answers. I’m closer than ever.

---