Page 5 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I’ve chased men before. Watched them fold. Watched them run, lie, beg. It never ends any other way. They all think they’ll be the exception. That there’s still a path back to forgiveness, or mercy, or some quiet escape.

There isn’t, not from me.

The SUV lurches around a corner, tires screaming as we take the turn too fast. The scent of burning rubber fills the cabin. I catch a brief glimpse of Yuri’s silhouette through his cracked rear window—shoulders hunched, head darting side to side like he’s checking for angels or exit ramps. Neither will come.

He used to sit at my table. I bought his daughter birthday gifts. And still, he sold us out. Slipped information to the Italians for months, fed them intel like breadcrumbs. Men died because of him. My men. My blood.

That was his mistake, thinking trust was something I gave freely.

Boris clicks the radio again, sharp and quick. “Units closing from the east. Two minutes out.”

“Too long,” I reply.

My eyes don’t leave the road, but I can feel Boris watching me. He knows better than to question the calm in my voice. He’s seen what lives beneath it.

Yuri cuts hard to the left, narrowly avoiding a delivery van, then blasts through a red light. Horns erupt in every direction, brake lights flashing. Someone screams.

I follow without hesitation. A woman on the corner jumps back onto the curb as we barrel past. My tires hit a pothole and the SUV jolts beneath me, but I hold steady, hands tight, focus narrower than the road itself.

He’s trying to lose us in the old streets—cracked concrete, tighter curves, alleys that disappear into dead ends. I know this part of the city. He doesn’t.

His sedan scrapes the edge of a dumpster as he rounds a blind turn, the sound of metal tearing on metal echoing in the dark. A shard of bumper skids across the street. He’s bleeding pieces now—plastic, glass, whatever pride he still had.

“He won’t make it past the next intersection,” Boris says.

“He won’t make it to the next block.”

We’re less than a car length behind now.

I can smell the smoke.

Yuri guns the engine again, pulling into the oncoming lane. Headlights rush toward him—then veer wildly to avoid the impact. He cuts back, nearly clipping a fire hydrant, and barrels through a puddle, water arcing like blood from a fresh wound.

The SUV’s suspension groans beneath us, another corner, another swerve. I keep my grip steady, jaw locked so tight I hear the tendons creak. My eyes are fixed on the bastard ahead. I want him afraid. I want him to feel it clawing up his spine—that knowledge, deep and final, that he’s not walking away from this.

“He’s headed for Lincoln,” Boris warns. “You want the bridge closed?”

“No need.”

We hit the straightaway. The blocks narrow here, buildings leaning in, old concrete and graffiti-slicked brick closing around us like a throat.

Yuri’s car sways. His taillights flicker once—then vanish.

I see it happen before it does. He’s going too fast, taking the next turn too tight.

His wheels catch the edge of a raised curb, and then the world explodes.

The sedan spins hard, metal screeching like an animal. It slams sideways into a utility pole. The passenger side crumples inwards, folding like wet paper. The rear lifts off the pavement in a wild arc before slamming back down with a bone-rattling crash.

Glass rains across the street. Steam hisses from the hood and for a second, everything stops.

I ease the SUV to a crawl, then kill the engine. The silence feels colder than the air. I sit there, staring through the windshield at the wreckage—smoke curling into the night, the metal still groaning as it settles.

Inside, I see movement. A flicker. Yuri’s head against the window, barely upright.

“Still breathing,” Boris mutters.

Steam pours from the crumpled hood like the car itself is exhaling its last breath. I watch from behind the wheel, muscles coiled tight, jaw locked. The sedan is mangled—folded against the pole like a broken jaw—but it’s not enough. Not yet. Not until I see the body.

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