Page 87 of Bratva Bride
“You feel better?” he asks, his voice clipped but not unkind. “We need your head straight for tonight.”
I glance up from my phone, forcing a half smile. “Never felt better.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “We do this right, we only have one shot.” He turns, meeting my eyes, and I can see the calculation there, the hunger for what comes next. “It’s your chance to take your revenge. Everything that was taken from you—tonight, you get to take it back.”
The city hums around us, full of secrets and ghosts, but I let all of that fade as I focus on the plan ahead.
The car rolls to a stop in front of a squat, nondescript building. It looks abandoned from the outside, but I know better. There’sa new black sedan parked at the curb, two silent guards in cheap suits watching from the shadows. The windows are dark, but faint yellow light spills from cracks behind the boarded glass.
Viktor steps out first, pausing to straighten his jacket. I follow, letting the cold air slap the rest of the fatigue from my body. He leads me up the concrete steps, pausing by the heavy side door. He presses a code into the lock, and the door groans open.
Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the low murmur of dangerous men. The council chamber looks just as I remember—a long table scarred by years of secrets, high-backed chairs filled by men who think they own the city. The same place I first met Viktor. It feels like a lifetime ago, though it’s only been two months.
Viktor’s hand falls heavy on my shoulder. “This is it, Konstantin. Tonight we take back the city.”
He pushes open the doors, and every conversation stops. Heads turn, some in surprise, others in calculation, a few in fear. I walk in behind Viktor, my spine straight, my eyes locked on the men who think they’ve already won.
Viktor stands tall at the head of the table, his presence commanding enough to make even the boldest men hesitate. He doesn’t wait for permission. His voice cuts through the silence, cool and dangerous.
“Brought a plus-one tonight,” Viktor announces, his gaze sweeping the room. I watch their faces shift from confusion to alarm.
Grozny is the first to stand, followed quickly by Orlov and Baranov, outrage simmering in their eyes. “Viktor, that is nothow things work around here,” Grozny growls. “You know the rules. No outsiders. Not without the council’s approval.”
Viktor doesn’t flinch. He draws his gun in a single smooth motion, laying it flat on the table in front of him, finger resting alongside the barrel. The gesture is casual, but the threat is unmistakable.
“Shut the fuck up,” Viktor says, voice steady and cold. The room goes even quieter, every man at the table suddenly aware of how fragile the peace is. Viktor lets his eyes linger on each face, daring them to argue, making it clear that this isn’t a request.
One of the older men near the far end of the table narrows his eyes, voice heavy with accusation. “You know the rules, Viktor. You don’t bring a gun in here. Nobody does.”
Viktor barely glances his way, his mouth curling into a cold smile. “Maybe the rules need to change,” he replies, his voice calm but loaded. “I don’t see much honor left in this room, only men hiding behind old customs while our enemies pick us off one by one.”
He taps the gun against the scarred wood, the sound sharp and final. “If any of you think you can take it from me, you’re welcome to try.”
A hush falls over the chamber. No one moves. Every eye flickers from the gun to Viktor, then to me, calculating just how quickly the night—and their futures—can turn.
Grozny makes a move, hand sliding toward the inside of his jacket. Viktor fires first. The gun cracks once and Grozny is flung back, a dark bloom spreading across his chest before he hits the floor. Shouts erupt. Councilors reach for weapons they were smart enough to leave at home.
The chamber doors burst open. Viktor’s men flood in, weapons leveled, masks hiding their faces. Chairs scrape as the council scrambles. Hands fly up.
One man—Baranov—jabs a trembling finger at Viktor. “I vouched for you. You were nobody, just dirt, and I brought you into this circle. No one here knew your name a year ago.”
Viktor walks to him, slow and certain. “That’s because I paid you for it,” he says, voice flat. He grips Baranov’s jaw, prying it open, and slides the hot barrel between the man’s teeth. “Maybe this will remind you who owns whom.”
Baranov whimpers, eyes bulging. No one moves to help him. Orlov presses to the wall, white as chalk. Every other seat is frozen in terror.
Viktor pulls the barrel free, wiping it on Baranov’s silk jacket. “We’re finished with backroom betrayals. From tonight on, you answer to Konstantin. Break faith again and you end up like Grozny—or worse.”
Silence follows, broken only by Grozny’s final rattling breath on the floorboards.
Viktor steps aside and gestures to me.
I keep my voice even, hands resting on the back of an empty chair. “Is it true, Viktor? What Baranov said.”
Viktor looks at me, eyes still bright from the rush of blood and power. “What, exactly?”
“That before last year no one here even knew your name. That you bought your seat.” I speak calmly, curious more than accusatory. “When I first walked into this chamber, I knewnothing about you. Now, even though I rarely attend, I make sure I understand who every player is.”
“What does it matter tonight?”
