Page 1 of Brutal Reign (Bratva Kings #3)

CHAPTER

ONE

PAVEL

The October wind carries the first real bite of winter, cutting through my wool coat as I sit on the bench overlooking Moskva.

The sun hangs low over the city, painting the water gold and orange where it catches the light between the buildings.

Rush hour traffic hums in the distance, but here along the embankment, it’s quiet enough to think.

This was Kamilla’s favorite spot. Not because it was particularly beautiful—though the view isn’t bad—but because this bench is where Kamilla and I spent countless summer evenings when the heat in our tiny apartment became unbearable.

She’d bring stale bread to feed the ducks, carefully breaking each piece into what she considered “fair portions” so no bird got left out.

Always worried about fairness, my little sister.

Even though life had been so unfair to her. To both of us, really.

I was fifteen when our parents died, past the vulnerability of childhood. Where I grew up, fifteen was practically a man. Practically, but not quite.

Kamilla was only six. Young to lose both parents and have her world fall apart, thanks to a truck's wrong turn directly into oncoming traffic.

The white pastry box sits beside me, tied with string the way the fancy bakeries do.

I work the knot loose and lift the lid, revealing the vanilla cupcake nestled inside.

Its perfect spiral of buttercream frosting is exactly the right amount, not the mountain of sugar some places pile on.

And covering every inch of the white frosting are rainbow sprinkles.

Hundreds of tiny, colorful specks that would have made my sister clap her hands in delight.

The bakery on Petrovka Street where we used to go for birthdays when I’d scrape together enough rubles for a small celebration closed down years ago, but this one will do. Vanilla with sprinkles. A simple enough order that any decent place can get it right.

I push the birthday candle down into the center, watching the frosting give way around the base. My lighter flickers in the wind—once, twice—before the flame finally takes hold. The small circle of light wavers but doesn’t die, casting dancing shadows across my hands.

Happy birthday, little star.

The words echo in my mind, carrying the weight of all the birthdays we never got to celebrate together. All the cupcakes I’ve sat with alone, year after year, hoping somehow she knows I haven’t forgotten.

Years of searching, of following every lead and bribing every official, of never giving up hope that somewhere out there Kamilla was alive and waiting for me to find her.

All of it ended last week with a file number and a death certificate.

Jane Doe #47891, found February 15, 1997. DNA match: 99.7% probability of sibling relation.

She’d been dead for twenty-three years, and I’ve spent every one of them looking for her.

I close my eyes and let myself recall our last night together. I can’t remember all the little details about her, but I can still see her face in my mind’s eye.

The apartment is cold enough that I can see my breath when I exhale, but Kamilla doesn’t complain.

She never complains. She’s curled up on our secondhand couch, watching some cartoon on the tiny television we bought from a pawn shop, her knees tucked under the thin blanket I found in a dumpster and washed three times.

At six, she’s small for her age—probably because we don’t always have enough food—but she’s got those bright blue eyes that remind me of our mother. Right now, they’re fixed on the screen, completely absorbed in whatever animated adventure is playing out.

My phone buzzes against my thigh.

Kuznetsov’s crew, probably wondering where the fuck I am.

I ignore it. I told them I wouldn’t be there until nine. Not until Kami is sleeping.

“Pavel, are you hungry?” Kamilla asks without looking away from the shitty black and white TV that only gets one channel. “My tummy is making noises.”

I check the cabinet—a can of soup and some stale bread. Not much, but it’ll have to do. “Yeah, little star. Let me make you something. I’m not hungry,” I lie.

I’m always hungry. I’m so hungry I’m convinced I could eat and eat and never stop. But she’s six and growing, and I can handle being hungry better than she can. Maybe one of the bartenders will take pity on me tonight and throw me a few scraps that the patrons leave.

I heat the soup on our ancient hotplate—the only cooking device that works—and prepare her a bowl. I attempt to “toast” the bread against the hot plate so it doesn’t taste so damn stale, but fuck, I kind of burned it. Maybe dipped in the soup, it won’t be so bad.

My phone buzzes again.

Shit. I can’t put this off any longer.

“ Privet .”

“Where the fuck are you, Fedorov? You know Kuznetsov doesn’t like being kept waiting.”

“I know, I know.” I take a deep breath and lean against the tattered wallpaper of the kitchen, before addressing Yegor, another low-level soldier whom I usually work the door with. “But the fight doesn’t start for another hour. I’ll be there in time.”

I hope I’ll be there in time.

“You’re cutting it close, man. The rest of the crew is here.”

I dig a finger into my temple to stop the growing headache. “Would you cover for me? I won’t be long, promise. But I can’t leave Kamilla alone until she’s sleeping.”

Yegor makes a low noise in his throat. “Last time, man. Last fucking time.” He hangs up.

I feel shitty for asking him to cover for me again, and hell, we both know it won’t be the last time, but what am I supposed to do?

There’s no one in this building, in our world, I’d trust to watch her.

Our neighbors are all junkies and degenerates, and more involved in the criminal underworld than me.

Leaving her alone with the door locked is the safest option.

“This show is funny,” Kamilla says as I set the soup and charred toast on the milk crate in front of her. “The bear can’t figure out how to catch fish.”

“Yeah? What’s he doing wrong?”

“He’s being too loud. Fish don’t like noise.” She’s six years old and already smarter than half the guys I work with.

I settle beside her on the couch, and she immediately leans against my side. Even at fifteen, I’m already six-three and built like a fucking tank—our Swedish grandfather’s genetics, apparently—but next to Kamilla, I feel gentle. Protective.

My phone buzzes again with a final warning from Yegor that Kuznetsov is on the warpath tonight. He doesn’t like his men to be late, and missing work means no money. No money means no food, no rent, and eventually, it means child services finds us.

When our parents died eight months ago, I grabbed Kamilla and disappeared before the state could split us up. Officially, we don’t exist anymore. Unofficially, I do whatever it takes to keep us together, like work for the Kuznetsov Gang that controls these parts.

When I look up from my phone, Kamilla is staring at me. She knows.

“Do I have to go to bed soon?”

“Soon,” I say, though it causes me physical pain to leave her because I know how much she hates being alone. I hate leaving her too; that’s why I only work late-night shifts so she’s sleeping the whole time I’m gone. “But first eat, and then we’ll get you into your pajamas.”

Twenty minutes later, I help her into the thin cotton set—too small, but it’s what we have. Her stuffed rabbit, a gray thing she’s had since she was two, waits on her pillow. One ear is hanging by threads, but she refuses to let me try to fix it.

“The bad dreams came back last night when you were gone,” she whispers as I tuck the blanket around her.

My chest tightens. “They’re only dreams, Kamilla. They can’t hurt you.”

“But what if they come again tonight?”

My phone buzzes with another text.

“Can you read me a story and stay until I fall asleep?” she asks, those blue eyes wide and hopeful. “Just for tonight?”

I want to say yes. Want to sit here and chase away every nightmare, every fear, and every bad thing that might touch her. But the phone in my pocket feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

“I have to work tonight, little star.”

Her face crumbles, but she tries to hide it. Always so fucking brave. “Okay.”

“Tomorrow, I promise we’ll do something special. Whatever you want.”

“Can we go feed the ducks?”

“Absolutely. We’ll get a whole loaf of bread only for them.”

I kiss her forehead and head for the door.

I’ll never see her alive again.

“Hey, pretty boy.”

A mocking voice cuts through my thoughts.

Three young men—teenagers, really, with the hollow eyes and desperate swagger of kids who have nothing to lose—circle my bench.

“You lost or something?” The tallest boy can’t be more than seventeen, with a baby face at odds with his shaved head and the crude Swastika tattoo inked on the side of his neck. “This ain’t exactly tourist territory.”

I barely look up from the candle’s flame. “Walk away. I’m not in the mood.”

“‘Walk away,’” one of them mocks in a high-pitched voice. “Did you hear that? Rich boy wants us to leave him alone.”

They’re cataloging everything about me: the Patek Philippe on my wrist, the custom wool coat, the Italian leather shoes that probably cost more than their families make in six months. They have no idea this is the same neighborhood where I once fought for every scrap.

“That’s a nice watch,” the leader says, pulling a cheap switchblade from his pocket. “Why don’t you hand it over? Save yourself some trouble.”

“I’m going to say this once,” I say, my voice dropping to a low growl that carries more menace than any shout. “Walk away. Right now. Because if you make me stand up from this bench, what happens next is going to be very fucking unpleasant for you.”

They laugh, fanning out around me.

I sigh, disappointed. I didn’t come here for this. I didn't want blood on my hands today, not on her birthday. But they’ve made their choice.

One of them kicks at the cupcake, sending it tumbling off the bench. The candle goes out, the flame dying in the dirt.

Well. Fuck.

Rolling my shoulders, I rise slowly to my full height of six-four. The kids take an involuntary step back, finally realizing that the rich boy they thought was easy prey towers over all of them.

“Oh, shit,” one of them whispers.

The leader tries to save face, brandishing his knife with unsteady hands. “Back off, asshole. We want the watch.”

“You really should have listened the first time.”

The leader rushes me with his blade raised high. It’s sloppy and desperate, the kind of attack that gets you killed in my world. I catch his wrist mid-swing, apply pressure until I hear bones crack, and watch the knife clatter away as he screams.

The second tries to tackle me from behind. I duck low, use his momentum to flip him over my shoulder, and listen to him hit the concrete with a thud that suggests he won’t be getting up anytime soon.

The third, to his credit, doesn’t run. He comes at me with everything he has, slashing wildly with his switchblade. I sidestep easily, seize his knife hand, and drive my knee into his gut. The air leaves him in a strangled wheeze as he crumples to the ground, struggling for breath.

Thirty seconds total. They’re all on the ground, groaning and battered, their weapons scattered like fallen leaves. I haven’t even broken a sweat.

Standing over them, I roll up my left sleeve, exposing the black ink etched into my forearm: a hollow-eyed wolf's head. Most people wouldn't recognize the symbol, but these street rats grew up in Moscow's underbelly. They know exactly what it means.

The closest one’s eyes go wide, all the color draining from his bruised face. “Shit,” he whispers, scrambling backward. “He’s part of the Belov Syndicate.”

His friends catch on quickly, fear replacing any lingering bravado as they realize they tried to mug one of the leaders of Moscow's most powerful bratva. I’ve come a long way from my days with the Kuznetsov Gang, rising through the ranks of the Syndicate, an organization built on ruthlessness and brutality.

I straighten my coat and look down at them with something approaching pity. “Next time someone tells you to walk away, you should listen.”

They scramble to their feet like beaten dogs, limping and cursing as they disappear into the maze of crumbling apartment buildings. Cowards, all of them. Big talk until they meet someone who can actually fight back.

I turn back to survey the damage they’ve caused. The cupcake lies in pieces on the dirty concrete, frosting mixed with grime and cigarette butts. I pick it up carefully, trying to brush off the worst of the filth, but it’s ruined.

I throw the destroyed cupcake into the nearest trash bin.

I’ll come back tomorrow with a fresh one, maybe bring some bread to feed the ducks like we used to do. Kamilla would like that better anyway.