Page 42 of Bratva’s Vow (Bratva’s Undoing #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY

MAXIM

T he movie had ended, but I hadn’t moved.

Wren was draped over me like a second skin, his limbs slack, cheek pressed to my chest. He’d fallen asleep halfway through the third act, his breathing steady, warm against my ribs.

I didn’t mind. His weight, his presence, soothed something raw in me.

Something that would never heal until I found Vova’s killer.

But he was hot. Too hot.

I shifted and pressed the back of my hand to his forehead. Still warm. Not burning like earlier, but the fever hadn’t broken. It lingered, quiet and stubborn.

He’d downplayed it, of course. Said it was nothing.

A bug going around, probably something mild.

But Wren couldn’t fake anything to save his life.

Not when his skin flushed too pink and his appetite vanished overnight.

Not when he complained of his legs hurting.

Not when he’d sounded almost delirious earlier.

My phone vibrated on the coffee table, and my breath hitched. I’d been waiting all evening for that phone call. Since the informant who’d agreed to meet us didn’t show up, leaving us to believe he’d meant to target me.

Luckily, Sergei had gotten back a hit from the call he’d received from the man earlier. He thought he had a location, and I’d been expecting his call but trying not to be too hopeful. So far, every time we got close enough, we hit a dead end.

I eased out from under Wren, moving slowly, careful not to wake him.

He murmured something unintelligible and curled onto his side, one arm under his cheek.

I pulled the throw over him and tucked it around his body, then crouched beside the couch and watched him for a beat.

Just to make sure his breathing was steady.

Just to take in the little furrow of his brow, like even in sleep, some distant part of him was restless.

The phone buzzed again, breaking the stillness. I picked it up and walked away from him, reluctant but necessary.

Sergei’s name flashed on the screen.

“Tell me you have good news, Sergei.”

“We found him,” Sergei said. No preamble. No bullshit.

I curled my hand tighter around the phone, and I let out a sigh. “Finally.”

“No, don’t sound so pleased yet. He’s fucking dead.”

I stilled. For a moment, the world narrowed into a single point.

The room spun. My breath hitched, caught on the jagged edge of hope that was crushed under the weight of Sergei's blunt words. I slumped against the wall, gripping my phone so hard it was a miracle it didn’t shatter.

“Dead?”

“Looks like a murder and suicide,” Sergei said, his voice tight. “We found him and his roommate dead.”

“What the fuck? This is too convenient, Sergei. ”

“One of them had Vova’s wallet on him. From the looks of the place, they were junkies.”

But were they? The first attack on me when Wren got stabbed instead was also by a junkie.

“Have someone pick me up,” I said. “I need to see for myself.”

“Got it. He’ll be there in ten.”

I hung up and let the news sink in. Fuck.

I punched the wall but didn’t even regret the pain that flared through my knuckles.

How the fuck did this mastermind stay one step ahead of us?

The only answer was that it was someone close to me.

But who would fuck me over like that? Those closest to my side had been with me for years.

But so was Vasiliev.

If I couldn’t trust the people around me, I had nothing.

The last resort was putting everyone under surveillance.

Tapped phones, watched houses, bugs planted in cars and homes.

If I did that, I had a potential falling-out on my hands, but I needed answers, and they weren’t providing themselves.

Sergei was the head of security and would have to do the surveillance, but as long as everyone working for me was a suspect, wouldn’t I have to consider Sergei one as well?

My stomach churned, sour from bitterness as I walked back into the living room. As though sensing my presence, Wren stirred awake.

“What’s wrong?” he asked hoarsely. “You sounded pissed on the phone.”

I sat on the edge of the couch. His skin was still warm. Not as bad, but not gone either.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

His eyes searched mine, sleepy but aware. “I feel a little better. That nap helped.”

I frowned. “I wish you hadn’t gone to classes earlier, but you’ll rest over the weekend. Pilar left you soup in case you’re hungry. You didn’t eat anything earlier.”

“Because every time I eat, I get sick.” He stretched. “But I could do with something to drink.”

“Some of that stuff Pilar left you?” The way the housekeeper took care of Wren eased my mind.

“Just some plain water will do.”

“Okay. Hang on.”

I grabbed a bottle and a straw from the kitchen, then returned to the living room. Wren sat up, the throw on his lap. I unscrewed the lid and handed him the bottle. He took it with a weak smile and sipped from the straw.

“Thanks.” He let out a deep breath. “That really helps.”

“Want to try some of that soup?”

He shook his head. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll try some food. This is good for now.”

“Tomorrow’s Vova’s memorial. If you’re not feeling well enough?—”

“There’s no way I’m missing it. I want to support you.”

“You being here is support enough. Don’t you know that?”

“Then I want to be more supportive.”

I brushed his hair from his forehead and kissed his nose. “Then look after yourself. I need to change.”

He blinked up at me, fiddling with the bottle. “It’s late.”

“I know.”

He swallowed, dropping his gaze. “Is it to do with what happened to Vova?”

“Yes.”

He slowly nodded. “Okay.”

He didn’t try to stop me as I got up from the couch, although I knew it was hard for him every time I had to do something I couldn’t explain to him fully.

I quickly changed out of my lounge pants and returned downstairs, where Nik was waiting for me.

He sat next to Wren, chatting in a low tone, but got to his feet the second he saw me.

I eyed them both. He was Wren’s driver, and naturally, they’d grown close, but I didn’t like the whispering I’d walked in on.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“No, just checking up on Wren,” Nik said. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, I’ll meet you out by the car.”

Nik nodded, gave Wren a pat on his shoulder, and disappeared. Wren looked back at me, his hazel eyes serious. He was back to fiddling, this time with the throw.

“I won’t be gone for long,” I said.

Hopefully.

He held out his hand to me, and I took it, squeezed it. He tightened his fingers around mine. “Come back to me.”

I leaned in, pressing my forehead to his. The heat of him, the soft puff of his breath on my lips. I closed my eyes.

“I’ll always try,” I whispered. “Even if it's bloodied and crawling.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat. Something like a sob.

“I’ll never understand why you love me so much.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him. This boy who’d burrowed into the darkest corners of me and made them come to light.

“I don’t think I know how to do anything else.”

I kissed his temple, lingered for a beat longer than I should have, then left.

Nik drove, the silence between us dense, broken only by the soft thrum of the tires against asphalt.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. A text message from Wren that he loves me.

My heart seized in my chest, a whisper of warmth curling around it.

I resisted responding and slipped my phone back into my pocket.

I needed my wits about me. Thinking about Wren left me soft .

We headed toward the east side, one of those aging apartment blocks where the rent was cheap and the neighbors knew better than to ask questions.

We pulled up to the curb, headlights cutting through a half-lit street.

The building loomed ahead, four stories of cracked stucco and rust-streaked balconies.

Sergei was waiting outside. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out when we approached.

“Surveillance?” I asked.

“Jammed. Since I got here,” Sergei said. “No footage in or out.”

He handed me a black cloth mask. I slipped it on without question. Nik followed closely, expression unreadable, hands in his pockets but never far from his weapon. We took the stairs two at a time, third floor. Sergei opened the door.

The apartment reeked.

Not just of death—though that was thick and coppery in the air—but of stale sweat, rot, and the sweet-sour stench of narcotics.

“They lived here?” I asked.

Sergei nodded. “Roommates. Maybe more. Didn’t find a lease, but their names are on shared mail, and there’s only one bedroom.”

The living room was small, littered with old takeout containers and half-burned candles. Two doors led off to the sides. Sergei motioned left. I followed.

The bedroom was a mess of tangled sheets and blood.

The first man was sprawled halfway on the bed, facedown. Blood soaked through the thin mattress, congealing into black around him. His shirt was shredded from multiple stab wounds, a dozen or more, centered around the back and ribs.

“This is the one who made the call.” Sergei stepped around the blood. He held up a phone. “Call log matches.”

I crouched beside the body. The stab wounds were frenzied. Not professional. Not clean. Someone had wanted him to suffer.

“What’s his name?”

“Philip Malik. He’s a petty criminal. Mostly local work.”

The other man—Malik’s so-called roommate—was slumped against the wall, a pistol still loosely held in his hand, dried blood sprayed in an arc behind him. His face was gone, most of it anyway. It had been an upward angle shot. Intentional. No hesitation.

“We think he did it?” I asked.

“That’s how it looks. We think he might have found out Malik intended to turn him over to us for the five million reward.” Sergei motioned to the nightstand. Inside were several vials, unlabeled. A dirty spoon. A bent lighter.

“Drugs in their system?”

“Likely. Looks like they were using. Here. Thought you’d want this back.”

Sergei handed me a wallet. Vova’s. I opened it and flipped through the contents. His driver’s license, credit card, and a photo of us taken the same year I first entered the States. My chest tightened.

“Where did you find it?”

“Bedside drawer.” Sergei watched me carefully. “It confirms Malik and Tyers were there. Probably beat him, stole his wallet. Maybe something else went wrong and Vova fought back.”

“So one of them panics.” Nik stepped beside Sergei. “Malik decides to sell the tip to us. Wants the reward. Tyers finds out. Knows they’re burned.”

“Kills him to shut him up,” Sergei said. “Then offs himself before we get to him.”

Darius walked into the room, arms crossed. I hadn’t seen him when we entered. Where had he been? He frowned. Just a twitch of it. But I noticed .

“What’s on your mind?” I asked.

Darius shifted his weight. “It sounds plausible. And that’s the problem. Everything fits too neatly. It feels like a packaged story. One someone wants us to buy.”

I looked back at the blood, the bodies, the pistol. I was thinking the same thing. Too convenient. Too clean for a crime this dirty.

“Take everything,” I ordered. “Phones. Electronics. Anything that can tell us who they were talking to. Who they might’ve been working for. Get both their thumbs in case we need them for access.”

Nik was already bagging the phone. Sergei took photos of the scene, methodical and fast, and Darius got out his knife.

From the bed came a small, muffled sound.

A whimper.

All of us froze.

Another soft whine.

I kneeled, careful not to disturb the bloodstained floor, and lifted the edge of the dust ruffle.

A pair of wide, terrified eyes stared back at me.

Puppy.

Couldn’t be much more than a year old. Shaking like a leaf, belly flat to the floor, tail tucked so hard it nearly disappeared. Everyone stepped back, giving me space. Sergei reached forward, but the puppy scrambled back, whimpering louder.

“We got to shut him up.”

“Let me try.” I held my hand out—low, palm up, steady. “Come on, boy.”

The pup crept forward. Slowly. Hesitantly. But he came. Crawled out. Shoved his little head under my palm. He was a Beagle—skinny, young, and looked terrified.

I picked him up, his heartbeat racing under my fingers .

Sergei sighed. “Maxim, you can’t. He might be traceable. Someone might come looking.”

The puppy whimpered and pressed tighter against me.

I looked down at him, this trembling scrap of fear.

“You think Wren likes dogs?” I murmured.

Sergei groaned. “Maxim?—”

He was right. For all I knew, Wren was allergic. I set the puppy down.

He ran straight back to me.

Darius laughed under his breath. “Damn, Maxim. That’s got to be a first that something likes you on sight.”

I scowled but scooped the dog up again. If Wren was allergic, we could still find the puppy a good home. “Let’s finish up here quickly. I’ll find him some water.”

Sergei muttered something about liability and headaches, but he didn’t argue again. Hand tucked in my pockets, I watched the dog drink eagerly and clenched my teeth.

Darius’s words rang in my ear.

Too convenient.

Someone was always a step ahead of us. That only meant someone knew my every move. Was it any of the three men in the apartment with me?

I clenched my hand into a fist.