Page 33 of Hunted By the Masked BRATVA
“Ms. Markova, I’m truly sorry for what you endured. I didn’t know your father, but I have heard great things.”
Emilia nods, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“However,” Maksim continues, voice like gravel over steel, “the Bratva Masquerade is neutral ground. Your intent to poison Troskoy, regardless of whether his death was imminent, broke that code. We cannot allow emotion, vengeance, or grief todictate actions here.” He pauses, studying her with an assessing calm. “That said, you rid us of a parasite. For that, leniency will be shown, but a price must still be paid. Order only exists when the rules apply to all.”
Maksim sighs.
“As the hosts of the Masquerade this year, you will answer to my family for ninety days. Your…technological services will be utilised however we see fit.” He hands her a mobile phone. “Only my brothers and I have the number. Do the work. Keep your head down. Break trust and the price doubles.”
Emilia takes the phone and slips it into her back pocket with a nod. “I accept the consequences and will pay.”
Pride shakes through me as we leave the warehouse together, her hand tight in mine.
"We're really walking away," she says, wonder in her voice. "We're going to be okay."
"We're going to be better than okay." I pull her against me, kiss her hard. "We're going to be happy."
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you too." I rest my forehead against hers. "Now let's go finish this. One last job. Then we're done."
Emilia
Finding Troskoy takes exactly eighteen hours.
Eighteen hours of silence and bloodhound patience. Of watching the city from behind tinted glass while Konstantin and Leonid’s men sweep through every rat hole and burned-out shell Troskoy might have crawled into.
When the message comes,we’ve got him, I almost don’t believe it.
He’s holed up in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city. Rusted girders. Broken windows. The last breath of a dying empire. A handful of his men still linger there, clinging to loyalty like a curse. Desperate. Cornered. Dangerous.
Perfect.
We park half a mile out, where the frost still clings to the grass and the air smells like smoke and metal. Konstantin dials Leonid, puts him on speaker.
“He’s all yours,” Konstantin says, voice steady as ever. “Just do me a favor?”
Leonid’s voice comes through low and sharp. “What’s that?”
“Make it hurt.”
A pause. Then a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, I intend to.”
I can almost see Leonid’s grin through the phone, the flicker of violence in his eyes.
Konstantin ends the call and slips the phone back into his coat. He doesn’t look at me right away. Just watches the faint lights in the distance where Leonid’s men are already closing in, moving like shadows, precise and silent.
“They’ll be quick,” he says.
I nod, but my pulse is roaring. “Good.”
We stand there together, the wind pulling at my hair, the city blinking faintly behind us like an indifferent god. When the first muffled shots echo through the air, I flinch. Not because I regret it, but because it’s finally over. The sound doesn’t last long.
Konstantin’s hand finds mine. His skin is rough, the grip unyielding. Not gentle, but grounding.
“Don’t look,” he murmurs. “You’ve seen enough.”
He’s right. We don’t stay to watch the end. We don’t need to.
