Page 27 of Bratva’s Vow (Bratva’s Undoing #2)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MAXIM

WINE CELLAR VAULT, BLACKRIDGE HOTEL

T he elevator sighed open, releasing a whisper of cooled air into the hidden cellar beneath the Blackridge Hotel.

No signage marked the floor. No buttons led here. Only a fingerprint scanner and a voice ID. This place didn’t exist. Not on blueprints, not in the fire escape plans, not even in the building’s deepest permits.

The room looked like old wealth. Arched brick ceilings, ambient amber lighting, and floor-to-ceiling wine racks that held both priceless bottles and poisoned fakes.

At the center stood a wide walnut table, its surface polished to a mirror sheen, its shape to coffin-like to be accidental.

Six leather chairs surrounded it. The one at the head was mine.

Popov was reclined lazily in his chair, tapping the rim of a crystal glass with his silver ring. As I entered, he sat up, flashing his gold tooth in a half smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Good to see you, Boss,” he said.

Gusev, dressed in dove-gray as always, offered a polite nod, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Mr. Morozov. Word is you’ve made the city quite interesting today.”

“Shouldn’t you know by now not to listen to rumors?” I took my seat while Archie claimed the one to my right. Sergei stood a few feet away from me, his back against the wall.

Vasiliev remained standing behind his chair, eyes alert.

Unlike the other two, he was more astute.

A lot more observant, and it was harder to get one over on a man like that.

He was also the one I trusted least of all the brigadiers who ran the underground dealings for me while I took on the face of my legitimate businesses. He merely nodded in acknowledgment.

“Where’s Aistov?” Archie asked.

Popov chuckled. “Probably balls deep inside that curvy brunette he picked up in the lobby. You know how it is with him.”

The elevator hissed, and Aistov sauntered in, swaying slightly on his feet.

The twenty-two-year-old young man was too young to be a brigadier.

Or so they’d told me, but I’d seen some of myself in Aistov.

He was ruthless with a blade. I had taken a chance on him two years ago, and so far, he hadn’t disappointed.

If only he could control his dick. I always believed he wouldn’t die in a mob deal gone bad, but some woman would stab him in his sleep if he kept playing them the way he did.

“Can’t hold your liquor?” Gusev raised a brow.

“Figured I wouldn’t be required to shoot straight in this meeting.” Aistov laughed. “Am I, Boss?”

I scowled. “We’re here to go hunting.”

The levity dried up. Aistov’s smile dropped, and he became serious as he flipped the back of his chair around and straddled it.

“What or who are we hunting? Must be important for you to call a meeting. It’s been a long time since we’ve all gotten together.

Usually, it’s Archie breathing down our necks. ”

“I want all the eyes you’ve got watching out for Chief Stone.” I sat. “I want to know everything you can find about him—who he fucks, who he owes, what time he pisses, and which hand he scratches his balls with.”

Vasiliev blinked slowly. “Chief Stone? He’s the one you’re looking for?”

“Yes. He’s made an attempt on my life at least twice, and you know what they say about the third time.”

“Is that all?” Popov asked. “That should be easy enough.”

“Good. If he’s found in twenty-four hours, I’ll offer each of you three million dollars.”

Aistov whistled. “Damn, Boss. You sure he didn’t piss you off some other way? You’ve had attempts over the years and never been this generous before.”

“May have something to do with the fact that the boss got himself a boyfriend,” Vasiliev said quietly.

“I heard the rumor too but didn’t believe it,” Gusev muttered under his breath.

“First of all, who I fuck is nobody’s business but me and him.” I confirmed Wren’s gender with his pronouns without making them feel that I owed them any explanation. “Our relationship is about business and business only.”

“But seems like what you got is a personal problem you want us to help you fix,” Vasiliev said. “Not to mention the backlash if people find out, and if we’ve heard…”

“What the hell are you saying, Vas?” Aistov snapped.

“We’ll be a laughingstock among the other mobs. People may not give a damn about your indiscretions, but the Pakhan’s reputation alone keeps everyone in check. Will anyone take us seriously when they find out where the boss is getting his dick wet?”

“How dare you?—”

I raised a hand to cut Archie off. I didn’t need him to speak for me, and he was doing too much of that lately.

“I sense you have a grudge, Vasiliev. Do you have a problem with me fucking other men?”

“He should be so lucky to be the one sucking your dick,” Aistov grated out between his teeth.

As irreverent as always. But this was why, of all four brigadiers, I got along well with him the best. He took the business seriously but not life.

Plus, everyone knew about his indiscretions with other men.

He just wasn’t high enough in ranks for it to become a problem.

But a Pakhan being gay? It was my father’s reaction all over again.

“Let’s be frank. I don’t care who you fuck.

” Vasiliev got to his feet. Sergei pushed off the wall and, in a second, had shoved him back down in his chair.

“But I care about the reputation of the man we’re supposed to be working for.

I don’t need people getting bolder and coming after me because they think my Pakhan is a joke.

They already question whether you are really committed to the mob.

You spend most of your time running a business, while we do all the dirty work.

Then the one time you decide to meet us instead of sending your lap dog,”—he glared at Archie—“it’s because of some bitch boy you’ve decided is more important than the people who’ve done all the work for you for years. ”

Vasiliev’s glare held, but something in him shifted. Maybe he expected me to argue, to shout, to call him disloyal and banish him like a sulking prince. He wasn’t ready for silence.

And silence was all I gave him—for a beat too long.

“If you’re so unhappy,” I said at last, tone even, “you’re free to leave.”

Popov froze, glass hovering an inch from his lips. Gusev’s fingers twitched where they rested on the table. Aistov sat up straighter, watching us.

Vasiliev blinked. “Leave?”

“You heard me.” I rose, slow and controlled. “If you have such an issue with how I run things… if my bedmates and business model offend you so deeply… the door’s in front of you.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

I took a step forward, gaze never leaving his. “After years of working for me, you should have enough to strike out on your own, shouldn’t you?”

I reached out and picked up his crystal tumbler—still half-full.

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 for dinner to be served. His gaze drifted to the spreading puddle of red, then back to me with bored detachment.