Page 5 of Bratva Baby

I grimace. “What else is new?”

Ever since we were little, we’ve known Dad’s business wasn’t legitimate, but it’s escalated in the last few years. He’s grown more paranoid, more ruthless. I’m not naive to the fact that violence is part of his world. Still, the idea of it happening right here in the house makes my stomach churn.

We flinch when we hear raised voices again. This time they’re closer, like Dad stepped out of his office or into the corridor. We hurry to the door of the lounge, carefully cracking it open an inch so we can listen.

A thunderous shout makes Cecily jerk backward. My father is yelling, “If you’re trying to get me killed, have the balls to at least say it.”

Then, a different voice answers, trembling with desperation. “Sir, I swear, I didn’t—”

We hear a thud, then a cry of pain. My heart rate spikes. Dad must’ve thrown him against something or struck him.

“Please, Sir,” the man pleads, “I’ll do anything to fix this—”

Cecily grips my hand and mouths,Let’s go. But my feet stay rooted to the floor. I can’t turn away, even though I’m terrified of what we might see or hear.

We hear Dad again. “You think you can double-cross me and walk away?”

The man sputters incoherent apologies. My father’s tone grows lethal. “Get on your knees.”

Cecily’s hand trembles in mine, and my entire body tenses with dread.Please don’t do anything rash. But I already know Dad’s capable of the worst.

There’s a moment of silence, broken only by the man’s ragged breathing. Then Dad says, “That’s right. You should beg.”

A strangled whimper echoes, followed by a loud noise that cracks through the hall. My heart seizes in my chest, and Cecily’s free hand flies to her mouth. I squeeze her fingers, trying to keep her calm while my own pulse thunders.

We both recognize what happened. Dad just pulled the trigger.

He shot him. He’s never been squeamish about killing, but doing it so openly in our home… This is crossing a line.

Cecily’s eyes are glossy. She’s about to speak, so I press a finger to her lips. We need to be absolutely silent. Another voice in the corridor, probably one of Dad’s underlings, says, “Sir, what do you want us to do with the body?”

“Clean it up,” Dad barks. “Do I have to spell everything out for you?”

I suck in a slow breath and glance at Cecily. She looks like she’s on the verge of fainting, so I tug her away from the door and into the center of the lounge. Her chest heaves, and tears brim in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, wiping at her face, “I didn’t expect—”

“I know,” I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “But this is who he is, Cecily. We can’t pretend anymore. This is our father.”

She shakes her head. “Why did he have to do it here?”

Anger surges within me, fueled by fear. “He doesn’t care.”

We share a moment of silence, each coping with the horrifying reality of what we just witnessed. It’s not that we haven’t known Dad is dangerous—everyone who crosses him ends up in a shallow grave, or so the rumors go—but I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen him kill someone outright. Usually, he’s more discreet. There must be something huge at stake.

After several minutes of tense silence, we hear more footsteps outside in the hallway. A muffled voice says, “Mr. Thorne, would you like us to reach out to the cleaners?”

Another reply—Dad’s. “Do you think I want bloodstains in my corridor? Of course I do.” Then there’s a pause, followed by, “And get ready for tomorrow’s meeting with the Bratva. I’ll need one of my pawns.”

Chapter 3 - Grigor

I slam my palm on the conference table the instant the last man enters the room. “Sit.” My tone leaves no room for argument. Everyone in the room knows why they’re here—and they know better than to test my patience right now.

They shuffle into chairs arranged around a long, imposing table. Each one of these men has a role in the Bratva—some are my own captains, others enforce territory control for my brothers. Overseeing them all is my job tonight, whether they like it or not. Aleksei, our Pakhan and my brother, placed me in charge of this meeting while he’s away.

A few of them keep their eyes and heads down. Others meet my stare, bristling with barely hidden opinions. The tension is, in part, because of the way we lost Pavel. No one has the right words for that, but they’re waiting for me to address it.

I stand at the head of the table. “Pavel is gone,” I say, not bothering with a preamble. “One of our most reliable allies, executed in an alley without warning. We have evidence pointing toward Evan Thorne—or at least suggesting he’s involved.”

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