Page 5 of Cruel Russian Pakhan (Safin Bratva #1)

It had been seven long, aggravating days.

The week was a blur of reports, proposed deals, and back-to-back meetings with business partners.

I reviewed the numbers from our casinos, gambling dens, and nightclubs.

I tightened security along our smuggling routes and vetted our suppliers twice over.

Every hour was accounted for. And yet…Vera kept slipping past my defenses.

Not in any soft, sentimental way, either. More like an infection that refused to die, even after the full course of antibiotics: irritating, persistent, and entirely unwanted.

I locked her in her room since I couldn’t trust she wouldn’t bolt the second I turned my back and vanish again.

She was under my roof now. Her movements were under my control.

And her body.

I crushed that thought like a cigarette under my shoe. I wasn’t some street-level scum who took what he wanted without consent. I’d never forced myself on a woman, and I wasn’t about to start with my wife.

I sighed.

But, my wife needed to understand that this was her new life now. This was our home. And wives didn’t get to do as they pleased. They obeyed, they adapted, they fell in line.

She wasn’t about to make me look weak in front of my family or faction just because she refused to adhere to the order of things.

But this was Vera, the blue-eyed Goddess of Ice. I didn't expect things to be easy.

After what she did in the van, I expected her to fight like a gladiator on his last breath, hard and messy. I expected my staff to report her screaming, throwing things, maybe a few threats she couldn’t back up. Hell, even tears. I would’ve preferred that, it would’ve meant she broke quickly.

But Vera? She chose silence.

And something about her choosing that route made me realize one thing: she’d take longer to spill her family secrets than I thought.

Yet still not impossible.

She didn’t apologize. Didn’t beg to be let out. Didn’t even ask for her family. Didn't try any more half-baked negotiations or desperate bargaining.

It was just an infuriating, quiet defiance.

At least if she spoke, I would’ve known what she was thinking. But silence? Silence was dangerous. Nothing good ever came with silence as a precursor. Silence meant she was biding her time. Waiting for an opportunity.

But an opportunity for what?

I had no idea.

My guards were always on patrol, and my gate system needed a thumbprint to exit and enter. That access privilege was only given to a few people I trusted with my life.

According to the cook, she barely touched her food. She had picked at it like a spoiled brat. Another form of protest. I’d held enough people in my time to know the pattern, but hunger always won since pride never filled your stomach.

I told myself I stayed away to give her time, to let her cool off and realize her place. But the truth was, every time I thought about going to her room, memories of holding her in my arms crept in. How soft she felt. How she shuddered under the sound of my voice.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory, and refocused on how her refusal to crack grated on my last nerve.

I didn't just see her silence as stubbornness. It was a middle finger. It was disrespectful. And I didn’t tolerate disrespect. Not from my family. Not from my men. Not from my enemies. And there was no way in hell I was about to tolerate it from my wife.

After leaving Vera's room that day, I removed my ring and kept it in a drawer in my bedroom. I wasn't about to tell my siblings what I had done. Not yet, anyway. So, I’d kept them away from the house. If they wanted a meeting, they knew where to find me: at our downtown office, during business hours. I didn’t need them snooping around, asking why the wedding happened earlier than scheduled or why my wife was locked in her room.

That wasn’t their concern. This wasn’t a family business.

This was my business. Between me, her, and her traitorous siblings.

The evening the wedding was originally scheduled to take place, I’d been buried in paperwork at my home office when my phone buzzed. The message was from Artyom:

The deal was set. So where the fuck were you when it was time to seal it with the wedding?

I stared at the screen for a moment, my grip tightening.

What the fuck was he talking about?

His sister had already been under my roof for days. She wasn’t showing up anywhere. So why act like I was the one who broke the deal?

Unless they were trying to play me.

Questions flooded my mind.

Were they trying to make it look like I stood them up? Making me the villain so they could claim they held up their end of the deal?

Had this all been a setup from the beginning? Had Artyom staged the whole damn thing: the alliance, the engagement, Vera’s disappearance, just to mock me?

Or was he searching for a loophole, some tiny crack he could exploit to pit our factions against each other and revel in the chaos?

We didn’t trust each other, that much was clear; distrust alone had never been enough to justify war. But breaking a marriage deal? That was something different.

I slammed my fist on the desk.

The Rykovs had no intention of forging an alliance. They played me. Or tried to. And now they were acting like the wronged party.

I leaned back in my chair, fury coiling in my chest.

I’d made a mistake thinking Artyom would keep his end of the deal—not one I’d easily admit, nor one that I intended to share with my siblings. I should’ve secured the intelligence some other way. But it was too late for that now.

A Bratva leader always prepared for the worst but hopes for the best. And this situation was no different.

It was time to check on my little runaway bride, to squeeze information from her on exactly what kind of game her siblings thought they were playing.

I left my office and strode down the hall. When I reached her door, I unlocked it and pushed it open.

The room was empty.

I quickly made my way to the bathroom. The door was ajar, the lights off. I stepped in. Nothing.

Then, I checked the closet. Nothing.

Then I saw it…the window. It was supposed to be locked. Now it was wide open.

“Son of a bitch.”

I raced downstairs, every muscle in my body tense.

How the hell had she gotten past the guards, the gates, the cameras?

I stormed into the yard. No sign of her.

She’d escaped.

Fuck!

I was going to put a bullet through the skull of every incompetent bastard on this compound.

But not yet. First, I had to find her. If anyone saw Vera wandering the streets alone, she’d become a target for Artyom’s enemies. No one knew we were married, and that made her vulnerable. She was more valuable alive than dead to me.

I strode to the car, and Rocco appeared just in time to open the door. Once I was in, he climbed into the driver’s seat and dialed Timur.

“Boss?”

“Mrs. Safin left the house…”

I checked my watch. She’d been in her room fifteen minutes ago when dinner was delivered. She was on foot, had no money and no phone to call for a ride. She couldn't have gotten far.

“...about fifteen minutes ago. I need eyes on her. Now.”

I heard Timur’s fingers clacking on his computer keys.

"The last feed showed her entering the industrial wasteland in Callowhill, half the cameras there don’t even work.”

“Keep eyes on her.” I hung up.

“Where to, boss?” Rocco asked as he glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

“Callowhill.”

Rocco nodded, gunned the engine, and sped out of the compound.

I clenched my jaw. Why the hell would Vera head that way? There was nothing there but decay: abandoned buildings, warehouses, addicts, and whores.

She could’ve picked a crowded place, somewhere to disappear into the masses. Instead, she chose to make herself a target. That signal lit up in my head like a damn Christmas tree.

As we rolled into Callowhill, we slowed to a crawl, eyes scanning the darkness for a flash of blonde hair.

And then I saw her.

She was half running, half limping.

Of course she was limping; she’d dropped from the second fucking story of my house like she was some damn superhero.

Stupid, reckless woman.

Now she was darting from one building to the next, glancing around before moving like a fugitive. But it was too late.

I’d already seen her.

Rocco stopped a few feet away, and I leapt out. I ran the short distance, grabbing her by the arm and spinning her to face me. She’d pay for running, I’d make damn sure of that. Once I was done with her, when I told her to jump, she'd bloody ask how high.

She froze at my touch, eyes going wide with terror the moment she realized who had her. Maybe she was hoping for a mugger.

Instead, she got a furious husband, one who also happened to be the head of a Bratva faction, and who’d punished people for far less than what she just pulled.

“I see you're still full of bad ideas,” I growled. “After the stunt you just pulled, putting you in a dungeon might be the only option I have left.”

I didn’t care how scared she was. She needed to understand this wasn’t a game. She was mine. End of story.

“Let me go!” she spat as she tried to wriggle her hand free.

“The only place I'm letting you go back to is our house.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it's our house? And here I thought it was a prison, since I was fucking locked up!”

“If you'd stop trying to run all the damn time, maybe I wouldn't have to lock you in, Vera!”

“I'm not fucking Vera, you delusional psycho! My name is Katya! And I'm not going back to your house with you! I'd prefer to die out here than be some sort of object in your possession!”

I was done with Vera’s condescending tone. She’d learn to speak to me with respect, even if I had to break her down to rebuild her from the ground up.

I’d been patient. Merciful, even. But I had limits. And she was dancing on the edge of every single one.

She was my wife. That meant something as a Bratva leader. She didn’t just carry my name, she reflected it. And right now, that reflection was an insult.

And insults weren't something I condoned.

I was about to snap back when I caught movement, first to my right, then to my left. My instincts kicked in too late. I’d been too focused on her.

Shit.

Men emerged from the shadows between the buildings, guns raised. At least half a dozen.

None of them said a word.

Then a shot rang out.

They weren’t here to talk. They came to send a message. And the message was written on a bullet.