Page 78 of Bratva's Vow
Then, without breaking eye contact, I slowly tipped it over.
The liquid spilled in a lazy arc across the table, dripping onto his lap. He sprang up but got shoved down again by Sergei.
“Morozov, I’ve worked for you for years!” he growled.
“And for years, you skimmed from my profits off the narcotics pipeline.”
His eyes flew wide open, and he glanced around the room as if appealing to the other three brigadiers for help. “He’s lying. Morozov, if you want to kill me, at least have the decency to say why. You don’t have to make up lies.”
“Would you like to see the evidence? I’ve got account details, voice recordings, surveillance camera footage.”
Silence fell in the room. The air was thick with anticipation, hearts beating a staccato rhythm of anxiety. Vasiliev’s face went white as a sheet, sweat beading on his forehead as he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat under Sergei’s firm grip.
Vasiliev’s throat bobbed. “You knew? All this time?”
“I knew,” I said. “For years.”
Popov coughed. A sound like something choking in his throat.
“I knew,” I repeated, voice low, calm as rain. “And I didn’t care. Because I was getting my share, and you were smart enough to keep the streets quiet.”
“Morozov, you bastard. You?—”
I snatched up the heavy crystal tumbler near his hand and shattered it against the edge of the table in one clean, deliberate motion. Glass splintered everywhere. Sharp, vicious teeth glinting in the low cellar light.
Before he could blink, I slashed the jagged glass clean across his throat.
Vasiliev’s hands flew up, clutching at his neck as blood erupted in thick spurts between his fingers. He gurgled, eyes wide with disbelief, mouth opening and closing like a fish choking on air.
He tried to speak. Tried to curse me. Tried to live.
But all that came out was a wet gasp and a stream of red pouring over his collar. He dropped to his knees, then collapsed sideways, his chair clattering over behind him.
Vasiliev’s movements were desperate, trying to hold the pieces of himself together. Blood pulsed between his fingers in thick, rhythmic gushes, spilling down his shirt and dripping onto the floor.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Popov had gone rigid, his hand frozen midair, still holding his drink. His gold tooth didn’t flash this time. He just stared, pale and blinking slowly, as if convincing himself this wasn’t real. Gusev shifted in his seat as if to stand, then thought better of it. He curled his hands tighter in his lap and pressed his mouth into a bloodless line. But he didn’t say a word.
Only Aistov remained unchanged, legs spread, arms slung casually across the back of his chair, like he was waiting fordinner to be served. His gaze drifted to the spreading puddle of red, then back to me with bored detachment.
The silence stretched on, almost reverent, as if the entire room held its breath for the moment Vasiliev would stop twitching. It took a couple of minutes, but eventually he did. His body went still, eyes open, blood still trickling but slower now, as life seeped out in silence.
No screaming. No drama.
Just death.
Cold. Fast. Brutal.
The way it had to be.
Gusev was the first to rise from his chair. He glanced at me, eyes wide. “Boss,” he said, faltering on his words. Swallowing hard, he cleared his throat. “Boss, that wasn’t necessary.”
“Wasn’t it?” I accepted the wet wipes Archie handed me. The man was always prepared. “Loyalty isn’t optional here, Gusev. It’s a life-or-death commitment. I have no problem with a man walking out on all this, but not while betraying me, and there’s nothing I hate more than homophobic assholes.”
Like my father. He, too, had claimed he had no issue with gay people. His son just wasn’t allowed to be one.
