Page 96 of Bratva Bride
The presentation unfolded with prosecutorial precision. Financial records projected on a screen someone had wheeled in—money flowing from Kozlov accounts to Morozov-adjacent businesses. Audio recordings that made my stomach clench—Viktor's voice discussing "acceptable losses" with his nephew Andrei. Surveillance footage of Andrei meeting with Kozlov lieutenants, sharing guard rotations, discussing shift changes.
Elena testified via video link from an undisclosed location, her voice steady despite visible trembling. She described years of Viktor's planning, conversations overheard, documents glimpsed. How he'd spoken about me as an investment that would pay dividends either way—through alliance or through war.
When they called me to testify, my legs felt like water. Ivan's hand found mine under the table, squeezed once, released. I could do this alone. I needed to do this alone.
I stood, smoothed my gray dress, walked to the witness position with my spine straight. The room went quiet—that particular silence that fell when wounded things showed their scars.
"My father," I began, then stopped. Cleared my throat. Started again. "Viktor Morozov spent twenty-six years telling me I was worthless except as his tool. A decoder. An asset. Something to be preserved until useful, then deployed for maximum impact."
I described the isolation, the cameras, the locked doors. The way he'd systematically destroyed anything soft, anything that suggested I was more than his brilliant broken thing. How he'd sold me to the Volkovs knowing the alliance would likely fail, planning to reclaim damaged goods and auction them to the highest bidder later.
"Those five days after the Council meeting," I said, meeting his eyes across the room, "he destroyed everything that had helped me heal. Ripped apart stuffed animals. Burned coloring books. Threatened institutionalization if I didn't comply. He documented my trauma responses to use as evidence of mental incompetence."
Viktor's expression didn't change, but his lawyer was taking rapid notes. Already planning appeals, probably. Already calculating how to spin this as a daughter's delusions, Stockholm syndrome, manipulation by her captors.
"But here's what Viktor never understood," I continued, finding strength in truth. "Isolation didn't make me weak. It made me observant. Twenty-six years of watching, listening, memorizing. I have dates, names, financial transfers he thought I'd never understand. I have seventeen years of his crimes cataloged in perfect detail, because a photographic memory works even when you wish it didn't."
The room stirred. Several family heads leaned forward. This wasn't just about the bombing anymore—this was potential intelligence on decades of Morozov operations.
"I'll provide everything to the Council," I said. "Every crime, every deal, every body buried. In exchange for one thing: he never comes back. Not to New York, not to anywhere I might be.Permanent exile, or I take what I know to the federal observers recording this meeting."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Besharov cleared his throat. "The Council will accept those terms. Viktor Morozov, you are hereby stripped of all United States operations, all territorial claims, all authority within the five families. You will return to Russia within forty-eight hours. Any attempt to reenter the country will be met with immediate execution. Your nephew Andrei will face federal prosecution—the authorities have been notified."
Viktor stood slowly, that controlled movement that preceded violence. But he was surrounded by Volkov and Besharov soldiers now, men who'd lost friends in his orchestrated bombing.
"You've destroyed our name," he said, looking at me with those pale eyes that had haunted my childhood. "Everything I built, generations of power, ended by an unstable girl with delusions of love."
"No," I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice came out. "Ended by a woman who chose to survive despite you."
They led him out in handcuffs—real ones this time, federal marshals taking custody for transport. He didn't look back. Men like Viktor never did.
The territorial divisions happened quickly after that. Morozov holdings split between Volkov and Besharov families, the Kozlovs placed under Council oversight with their operations suspended pending investigation. Sergei Kozlov had tried to protest, but the evidence was clear—he'd conspired with Viktor, participated in the bombing, violated every code that kept the bratva from devouring itself.
Then Mikhail Besharov stood again, and something in his bearing had changed. "Before we conclude, I have an announcement. After forty years of leadership, I'm transitioningauthority to my grandson, Nikolai. It's time for the next generation to build what we've been breaking."
A man rose from the Besharov section, and the room's energy shifted. Late twenties, maybe early thirties, with the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers if magazines covered bratva princes. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, dark eyes that assessed everything, a mouth that suggested he knew secrets and might share them for the right price. His suit said Harvard Law, but the way he moved said Moscow streets.
"The old ways are killing us," Nikolai said without preamble, his voice carrying despite its quiet tone. "We're fighting over territories while the world moves to digital currency. We're murdering each other while corporations commit larger crimes legally. I propose we evolve—maintain our power but transition toward legitimacy. Construction, consulting, cyber security. Keep what works, abandon what destroys."
Some of the older heads were already grumbling, but others—particularly the younger lieutenants—were leaning forward with interest. Change was coming whether the old guard wanted it or not.
I caught movement in my peripheral vision—a woman in the Petrov contingent shifting uncomfortably. Young, beautiful in that severe way Russian women perfected, with platinum hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. When Nikolai's eyes found hers across the room, something electric passed between them. Not attraction—something more complicated, weighted with history and hurt.
She looked away first, but her hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles white with pressure. A story there, definitely. The kind that left scars on both parties.
The meeting concluded with formal ratification of the new order. As we rose to leave, I squeezed Ivan's hand, letting the reality sink in.
"It's really over," I whispered. "Viktor's gone. We're safe."
Ivan pulled me against his side, his lips finding my temple. "We're safe," he agreed, though his eyes tracked the room with habitual paranoia. "Our baby is safe."
Our baby. Growing inside me while her grandfather was exiled, her world reshaping itself before she even drew breath. She'd never know locks on bedroom doors, cameras in corners, isolation as love's counterfeit. She'd know purple rooms and stuffed animals and parents who loved all of her, even the messy parts.
Especially the messy parts.
TheBesharovestatesprawledacross Brighton Beach like old money that had learned to whisper instead of shout, all weathered brick and climbing ivy that suggested roots deeper than the bratva itself. Sofia Besharova met us at the door before we could knock, pulling me into an embrace that smelled like cinnamon and expensive perfume, the kind of hug that didn't calculate angles or advantages.
