Page 6 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

Then the door jerks open.

He stumbles out of the wreckage, blood slicking one side of his face, limping so hard it’s a miracle he’s upright. My hand tightens on the door handle. I’m out before he hits the pavement.

“Go,” I snap, voice low.

Boris doesn’t hesitate. We move at once.

Boots thunder against the asphalt as we give chase. The bastard lurches into a side alley, vanishing into the dark like a rat diving for cover. The air back here stinks—piss, rot, old grease—and it’s damp, slick with some kind of runoff I don’t want to identify. The walls close in on either side, the buildings leaning like drunks whispering to each other.

Yuri’s fast for someone dragging a bad leg. Desperate. Reckless. He crashes through a pile of trash bags, rebounds off a dumpster, somehow keeps his footing. I’m close enough now to hear his breathing—ragged, high, panicked.

He darts left. Mistake.

That path narrows into a funnel, one I know like the back of my hand. Dead-end. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to turn.

I pick up speed.

Ahead, Boris closes the gap. He launches himself forward—and tackles Yuri to the ground.

The impact’s hard. I hear it. Bones against pavement. A grunt, a curse. Boris moves to pin him, but Yuri thrashes like an animal, clawing, spitting, fighting for every inch of air.

He gets a fist in—catches Boris in the jaw. Another elbow to the ribs. It’s not skill. It’s pure survival. He breaks free, stumbling backward toward the wall, leaving a smear of blood where his hand scrapes the brick.

I draw my gun.

“Don’t—”

The word barely escapes his mouth before I fire.

The shot cracks the air like a whip. One bullet—clean, direct—slams into his thigh.

Yuri screams. Collapses. Hits the ground hard, writhing, clutching his leg. Blood pools fast beneath him, dark and slick, his fingers scrabbling at the wound like he can hold it in.

Boris stands to the side, shaking out his hand, lips curled in disgust. “He fights like a drunk.”

I walk forward slowly. No need to rush now. The echo of the shot still hangs in the air, ricocheting off brick and into the bones of the night.

Yuri’s gaze snaps up to me. His face is pale, bloodless, panic etched into every line.

“Kolya,” he gasps. “Please—”

I stop beside him. The gun hangs at my side, still warm in my palm. “You ran,” I say.

“I panicked,” he chokes out. “I wasn’t thinking—fuck, I wasn’t thinking.”

“You lied.”

“I was going to come back.” His voice breaks. “I was—I just needed time.”

“You sold us out.”

“I didn’t mean to—” He grabs at my ankle, blood smearing the leather of my boot. “They had my son. They threatened to kill him if I didn’t give them something. It was one drop. One piece of intel. That’s all—”

“There’s always a choice,” I say coldly.

He cries out again, hand going back to his thigh as the pain drags through him. He’s shaking now. Not from the cold. From fear. From knowing.

“You think I don’t know what they do to leverage loyalty?” I crouch beside him. “You think I’ve never had someone put a gun to someone I loved?”

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