Page 14 of Captured By the Bratva

“Mercy is for the weak,” I reply, my voice steady, almost clinical. “If we show any sign of it, our enemies will see it as a weakness to exploit.”

He nods again, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “I’ll take care of it.”

He fetches me a drink, a heavy glass bottle in hand, two glasses balanced in the other. He places them on the table, and as he does, I catch sight of the faint scar running all the way along the back of his neck. The jagged line, faded with age, serves as a reminder of a lesson we learned young, too young.

He pours the drinks, and my mind drifts back, pulled to a memory as vivid as if it happened yesterday—a bar, thick withsmoke, the harsh lights catching on the gleaming bottles behind the counter.

I was only eleven, Nik beside me, just a boy himself, and my father seated across from us, looking more like a king surveying his court than the man who’d raised me.

The bar was tense, filled with men who’d only known violence as their way of communication, but as a child, I believed that my father would protect me. He was a king, after all, and kings don’t abandon their own.

But that night, he did.

It happened so fast. The first scuffle broke out, and my father’s eyes darted away from me, toward the back exit. I called to him, barely understanding the situation, but his steps only quickened, his figure disappearing into the shadows as Italian mafia men turned their attention to us.

Nikita took a hit first, a bottle smashing across his neck. He cried out, blood flowing faster than I thought possible, and instinct took over. There was no help, no saving grace—just survival.

I pushed back, feeling a wave of cold resolve I hadn’t known existed within me. I shielded Nikita with my body, snatching a gun from the hand of the nearest man. I killed for the first time that night.

In that moment, I understood the lesson my father was teaching me: no one is there to protect you but yourself. Not even your own blood. You take care of yourself in this life, no one else will.

Nikita raises his glass to mine, snapping me back to the present. His face gives away nothing, but I know he remembers that night.

It was a brutal lesson, one that cut deep enough to scar us both.

I take a sip, letting the burn of the drink settle over that cold, familiar memory, solidifying my resolve.

Compassion is nothing but a liability—a chain that can pull you down when you least expect it. My father taught me that, intentionally or not, and I’ve lived by it ever since.

“Do you ever show mercy?” he asks, leaning back, swirling his drink. “I mean, ever?”

“Mercy is for the weak.”

My thoughts shift to another time, a different betrayal, but one that served to sharpen my beliefs.

It was during my teenage years, just after I’d managed to build a network of friends, the kind you think will watch your back no matter what.

One friend in particular, Misha, had grown close to me over the years. We’d made our own plans, toasted to each other’s health, even laughed about carving out our place in the Bratva together. I trusted him—foolishly, I now know.

But trust is a weakness same as mercy, and Misha made sure I learned it. One night, after too many drinks, he betrayed me, selling my name to the authorities in exchange for a bribe.

I barely escaped that night, the sharp sting of betrayal far worse than the close call with the law. My trust blinded me, led me into a trap. I’d seen him as a brother, and he’d sold me off without a second thought.

As Nikita and I drink in silence, I can feel the old anger simmering under the surface, the kind that steels my resolve rather than weakening it. Trust no one. Take care of number one.

Nikita glances at me, as if sensing the tension. “The plan, is it in motion? Sergei told me Peter got Cathy here.”

“It all proceeds exactly as planned,” I reply, my voice cold and unwavering.

“At last Elena will be avenged,” he says, raising his drink. “Vashee zda-ró-vye.”

I return the toast, letting my gaze drift past Nikita, staring into the shadows of the room as a final memory rises, one I rarely allow myself to revisit.

My sister, younger than me by ten years, the only spark of light in my world. She grew up sheltered, protected from the life I’d known, her laughter bringing warmth to my darkest days whenever she returned from her school in Geneva.

She was everything that I wasn’t—kind, trusting, innocent. And she paid the price for it.

She met Jimmy five years ago. She’d gone looking for the small town experience in America. Found him. He wormed his way into her life, charming her with lies, treating her like a possession.

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