Page 28 of Bratva’s Vow (Bratva’s Undoing #2)

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.

Aistov gave a humorless chuckle. “And then there were three.”

I turned from the corpse slowly and looked around the table. “Anyone else have a problem with how I live my life or run my business?”

No answer. Only the soft sound of Gusev clearing his throat, the weight of silence pressing into every corner of the room.

“Good.” I turned back to the table. “Get out. All of you.”

They didn’t hesitate.

Popov stood, gave a tight nod, and left. Gusev followed, pale and peering at the blood now seeping into the Persian rug beneath Vasiliev’s boots.

Aistov lingered, his expression unreadable. He gave the body one last glance, then looked at me.

“Good on you. I never liked the guy. I’ll see you in twenty-four hours, Boss, when I come by to collect my three million.”

I hoped like hell he would show up. At least I would be able to finally put this thing with Stone behind me.

When the door shut behind Aistov, silence wrapped around the room again. I looked at Vasiliev’s body, blood pooling thick under the chair.

“We’ll need a new brigadier to take over his area,” I said flatly. “Someone smart enough to know they can’t rob me and then casually walk away. Someone who knows where the line is and not to cross it.”

Archie stepped to my side, calm as always. “I’ll start vetting candidates.”

“Make sure they understand who I am now,” I said, eyes still on the corpse. “What I’ll do. What I won’t tolerate. Don’t make the mistake of choosing someone who will argue about my sexuality. I’ll just end up killing them.”

“Duly noted.”

“I’ll get someone down here to clean this up,” Sergei said just as his phone rang. “Sorry, let me get this.”

He walked off to the side, leaving me alone with Archie.

“Welcome back.” Archie sounded way too satisfied at the body on the floor. “This is the Maxim Morozov I enjoy working with. You’re a great businessman, Maxim, but you’ve always been hotter when you have blood on your hands. For a minute there, I’d been worried love made you soft.”

I stared at him. He enjoyed it when I got my hands bloody a little too much. But he was wrong about love. So had I been .

I used to believe love would make me weak. Soft at the edges, slow to pull the trigger. But I understood it now. Love didn’t tame men like me. It sharpened us.

Because now, I had something to lose.

And I would become the most ruthless son of a bitch this city had ever seen just to protect it.

Just to protect him.

“Maxim!” Sergei burst forward from the corner where he’d been taking the phone call. “We need to go.”

Something about his tone—serious, urgent—grasped my attention. Wren. Was it Wren? “What is it?”

“It’s Vova. That was a call from the hospital for you as his next of kin. They want you to come right away.”

My heart plummeted into my boots. “Vova? What happened to him?”

“They won’t say over the phone. Just that he was admitted this morning and they need you to sign some papers.”

Archie placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Go. I’ll take care of this mess.”

Without another word, I followed Sergei to the elevator.

The chilled hum of machinery was the only sound in the enclosed space as we ascended to the basement garage.

Out of habit, I scanned for threats, my gaze flitting over the distant corners of the concrete structure.

No lurking figures stepped out of shadowed corners.

We moved fast, footsteps slamming on concrete. In the garage, we ducked into the Mercedes with Sergei at the wheel. While Sergei drove, I took out my phone and unlocked it. The missed calls from Vova earlier greeted me.

Nine missed calls.

Three I’d rejected.

And a voice mail.

My chest tightened into a lead weight of guilt already sinking deeper with every passing second .

I should’ve answered.

The whole day, I’d been obsessed with finding Wren. I’d ignored every call that wasn’t related to him. I retrieved my voice mail, clenching my hand into a fist at how the robotic voice seemed to deliberately taunt me.

“Maxim…” Vova spoke shakily, breathless as he rattled off the words in Russian. “I-I think someone’s following me. I tried to lose him, but… I don’t know. It feels off. Please call me back, cousin. I don’t like this.”

The message ended, and I stared blankly ahead, the blood roaring in my ears louder than the engine.

Fuck.

Vova, you’ve got to be okay.

We were all each other had. Two rejects from the same family.

When I first came to the US, Vova was the one who’d taken me in, and I never forgot all he’d done for me.

He never asked for anything in return either and had been pissed at first when I bought the mall where his salon was after the owner threatened to close the building and sell.

If anything happened to him, how could I forgive myself for not being there for him?

“Let me off right here,” I said when we arrived at the hospital and drove by the entrance.

“But, Maxim?—”

“It’s Vova, Sergei. Just come and find me.”

I didn't wait for him to come to a full stop but jumped out of the car and rushed through the entrance. I headed straight for the nurse at the information desk.

“My cousin Vladimir Morozov was admitted,” I said, my breath slightly ragged. “I got a call to come in.”

She didn’t ask who I was. Didn’t check the screen.

Her eyes changed. Just slightly.

A flicker of something passed over her face—recognition, sympathy, maybe. She’d seen many patients today. Phones ringing. Beds wheeled in. Trauma after trauma.

But she remembered Vova. Off the top of her head.

That couldn’t be good.

She picked up her pager and pressed the call button. “The attending doctor will be right with you.”

“How is Vova doing?” I asked. “Is it serious?”

She paused. Not long, but long enough to tighten something in my chest. Long enough for the pause to be the answer.

“The doctor will explain,” she said, her voice soft but rehearsed. “You will be able to see him after.”

But alive or dead?

I wasn’t brave enough to ask.

She nodded toward the row of cold metal chairs bolted to the wall. “You can have a seat.”

I didn’t sit.

Couldn’t.

My eyes burned as I stared at the far doors where nurses came and went.

And I told myself not to think about it.

Not to read into the fact that she hadn’t looked at a screen.

That she hadn’t asked who I was. That whatever had crossed her mind when I said Vova’s name was probably worse than anything I was prepared for.

Moments later, a tall man in a white coat and hospital badge pushed through the double doors. His scrubs peeked beneath the hem, sleeves slightly rolled up.

“Mr. Morozov?” he asked, voice calm but clipped.

“Yes.”

“I’m Dr. Patel. I was the attending when your cousin was brought in.”

“How is he?” I didn’t have time for small talk.

Dr. Patel gave a slow nod as if bracing for his own words. “He’s alive. But he’s in critical condition. ”

My jaw clenched.

“He was brought in unconscious with multiple fractures—left arm, right leg, at least two ribs, a cracked orbital bone. Blunt force trauma. Internal bleeding. We had to perform an emergency laparotomy to stop the hemorrhaging.”

“What the hell happened to him?”

“We don’t know yet. He was found in an alley behind an apartment block near the Red Line. Witnesses say he was trying to crawl toward the street.”

Something sharp twisted in my chest.

“We’ve stabilized him, but he’s in a medically induced coma while we monitor swelling around the brain. His vitals are being managed. You may not recognize him right away because of all the swelling.”

“But… is the damage permanent? Will he get better?”

“It’s too soon to tell. If he recovers, he will have a long road to rehabilitation ahead of him.”

If he recovered?

So there was a possibility he might not?

I said nothing.

Just breathed. If you could call it that.

“Would you like to see him?” the doctor asked gently.

“Yes.”

Dr. Patel motioned for me to follow, and we passed through the stark double doors and into the deeper, quieter wing of the ward. The hum of machines replaced the chaos of the waiting room. Floors were cleaner. Air was colder.

He opened the door to the ICU ward and entered Vova’s room. I stopped short of the bed.

Tubed. Bandaged. Bruised to the point of discoloration. One side of his face was swollen beyond recognition. His torso was wrapped so tight it looked like someone had tried to hold him together with gauze alone. Machines beeped in a steady rhythm, keeping him tethered to life .

My knees buckled.

This wasn’t just a beating. This was a message. A warning.

“Are you a praying man, Mr. Morozov?” Dr. Patel asked.

“There are over seven hundred million people starving in the world right now, Dr. Patel. I think God’s a little too busy for us.”

“Just trying to bring you some comfort. I’ll give you some privacy. By the way, the police should also be here to talk to you in a minute.”

That I didn’t mind. With their help, I could find out who was responsible for harming the one person I counted as blood family.

When we were alone, I stepped closer to his bedside and looked down at the man who’d given me a home. The one who still called me cousin, like it meant something more than blood.

And I’d let him down by not taking his call.

“I’m so sorry, Vova,” I whispered in Russian, the words tearing out of me like shrapnel.

“Prosti menya, kuzina. Ya dolzhen byl otvetit.”

Forgive me, cousin. I should’ve answered.

He didn’t move.

He just breathed, the machine rising and falling for him.

But I felt it. That coil of grief tightening inside me. And the rage, burning through it.

Someone had done this.

And they’d pay.