Page 9 of Forced Prisoner By the Bratva

Chapter 4 – Erik

The grand ballroom was abuzz with the soft murmurs of high-ranking Bratva officials seated at a long mahogany table. This was one of our monthly meetings, where we gathered to discuss the organization's progress and analyze potential threats and weaknesses.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, refracting shards of light across the polished table and marble floor. The walls, adorned with intricate gold leaf patterns, added to the ambiance of the room.

I sat in silence, reclined in my chair, with a fist under my chin and my elbow on the armrest. My eyes scanned the room—a masterpiece in opulence—listening to my cousins and the other stakeholders deliberate on the finer points of territorial disputes.

To my right, my elder brother, Lev, sat poised, his expression stern as he joined in on the discussion and offered his ideas. His dark hair, slightly unkempt, complemented his impeccably tailored suit, and his eyes, sleepy and almost lifeless at first glance, darted across our faces.

My cousin, Afanasy, sat to my left, a faint grin on his lips and his dirty blond hair framing his chiseled face. He appeared lost in thought, as if he wasn't fully present at the table with us.

I could swear that I knew exactly what was running through his mind—his wife, Wren. She had changed him, made him a better man in almost every ramification of his life.

There was no better way to put it: I was the only single man at the table. All of my cousins, including my elder brother, Lev, were all married and happy. Despite our ruthlessness, they somehow managed to find love, peace, and comfort.

I wouldn't blame Afan for being distracted and smiling like a teenage lover boy, even though he'd been married foryears. My cousins’ ability to stay with one woman and still adore their wives even after so much time had passed was something to emulate.

However, we had a bigger fish to fry, and although Afanasy might seem distracted, I was certain that he was listening. The man could multitask without stress.

At the head of the table,PakhanArtem sat enthroned, his presence commanding attention. His facial hair and tattoos made him stand out, and his cold, hollow eyes—dark and siren-like—swept across the room with a slow, deliberate motion. Beneath the fabric of his white suit, his muscles bulged, highlighting his imposing masculine physique and ruggedness.

My cousin, Alexei, sat in his chair next to thePakhan's, fingers drumming against the mahogany table. He'd always been the closest toPakhanArtem of all of us. Alexei hadn't said much yet; he was silent like I was, observing and taking notes.

Roman, a one-time temporaryPakhanwith ice in his veins—one of the coldest of us—was deep in the discussion. His logic and strategic plans for resolving territorial disputes with our rivals were impressive—so impressive, in fact, that his ideas brought a smile to thePakhan'sface. No wonder he was a temporaryPakhana while ago; it was clear to me now why he was chosen.

“I agree with you, Roman,” Kostya chipped in, nestled in a chair across from him. “But I think we need to push back against the Morozovs,” he added, his brows narrowing and his voice rising with passion. “They're encroaching in our territories, and if we don't do something fast, they'll think they can walk all over us.”

Afanasy snorted, raising a brow. “You think the Morozovs are the problem?”

I’d been right. He was listening.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Look, the Morozovs might look like the problem, but I can guarantee you they're not. They're just a symptom of a larger issue.”

“He's right,” Alexei said, his gaze sweeping across our faces. “We need to address the root cause and not just hack at the branches—the Morozovs are the branches.”

I let out a soft sigh and shared my thoughts. “I think we're getting ahead of ourselves here,” I said, my voice steady and calm.

The others turned in my direction, their eyes flickering with curiosity, seeking further clarification.

I edged closer, my gaze shifting across their faces as I explained, my tone confident. “We need to focus on securing our territories before we start worrying about the Morozovs.”

There was a moment of silence in the room. All eyes were pinned on me as my cousins, including thePakhan, pondered my words.

Lev's eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing as he asked, his voice smooth, “And what makes you think we're not already doing that?”

“Well, if we were, we wouldn't be having this conversation, now would we?” I leaned back in my chair, a grin playing on my lips.

“Erik is right,”PakhanArtem said. He kept his eyes pinned on me, a glint of pride flickering in their hollow depths. “All of your input is appreciated, and we'll continue with this matter at some other time.” He rose to his feet gracefully, his eyes shifting across our faces. “But for now, I have an important announcement to make.”

The room fell silent, heads turned in his direction, each one of us offering our full attention.

He began, his demeanor cold and calculating, “For decades, the Irish mafia, especially the O'Brians, have been atwar with us. There's been too much bloodshed already, and I believe that it's time for a truce.”

The Tarasov men exchanged glances among ourselves, murmurs rising as we attempted to process the announcement. Personally, I had seen this coming a long time ago, so I wasn't as surprised as my cousins were. They should have anticipated this, too, consideringPakhanArtem was married to an Irish woman.

The union betweenPakhanArtem and his wife, Sierra Lane, had put an end to the years of violence and chaos that had brewed between both families. That union was the reason why the O'Brians and other powerful families in the Irish mafia had ceased fire for the past two to three years.

“I've discussed this with the elders, and we've reached a conclusion: We must finally put an end to this conflict with the O'Brians,” Artem explained, ignoring the puzzled expressions on my brothers' faces. “To achieve that, a marriage ceremony between members of both families must occur.”

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