Page 3 of Forced & Pregnant Bratva Bride (Tarasov Bratva #13)

A thread of sweat trickled down the side of his head as he sat in the chair across my desk, fear dancing in his eyes. He was terrified of me, unsure of what fate had in store for him.

Malik. That was his name—the idiot who thought he could steal from me and get away with it. His voice was trembling, his hands shaking on the table between us. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief that was already soaked, his chest heaving with slow breaths.

I sat reclined in my chair, watching him in silence as he went on and on, trying to save his own skin even if it meant implicating others. Unfortunately for him, I’d been in the game long enough to tell when a man was lying.

And he was definitely lying.

He spoke. Mumbled. Stuttered—trying to explain himself by shifting the blame to everyone else but him.

I just sat there. Listening.

A Cuban cigar burned slowly between my fingers, ash lengthening, untouched. The smoke curled up toward the fluorescent lights overhead, dust particles swirling lazily in the yellow beams.

Every now and then, Malik would glance over his shoulder, as if to make sure Simon hadn’t moved from his post by the warehouse door. His fear was misplaced.

I was the one he should be worried about. Not my lieutenant.

“Are you trying to tell me, Malik,” I began, my voice calm but menacing, “that you had nothing to do with my missing shipment?” I looked him right in the eyes.

His throat as he swallowed hard, cold sweat streaming down his temples. “Yes—I mean, no,” he stammered, lips quivering, his gaze darting around in fear. “It was a mistake. One of the men—a new guy, he uh…he took a cut. I swear, Boss, I had no idea until the numbers didn’t line up—”

Malik would have sounded convincing enough to fool a novice if he weren’t so damn afraid. Idiot. However, that’s beside the point. First, this fool stole from me, and now he sat before me, telling lies in order to save his skin.

Quietly, I reached into my jacket, pulled out a sleek silver pistol, and set it on the table between us. The click echoed louder than Malik’s stammering voice.

He clenched his jaw, eyes darting down at the gun. By now, sweat was already dripping from his head, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

I leaned in, holding his terrified gaze. “Do you think I don’t know who signed off on that cargo?” I asked, my voice low and even. “Did you think that I didn’t check the manifest myself?”

A nervous chuckle fell off his lips. “Boss, I can—I can explain.”

“You already have,” I said, reclining slightly without taking my eyes off him. “You didn’t just steal from me, Malik; you also betrayed the brotherhood.” I picked the pistol, aiming casually at his chest. “And that is a sin that I cannot forgive.”

His eyes widened, breath lodged in his throat. And before he could say another word or beg for his life, it was too late.

I squeezed the trigger, firing once, a precise shot to the heart. The crack rang through the warehouse. Malik slumped back in his chair, blood blooming like a rose across the table. His body slid to the floor, those lifeless eyes staring at the high rafters above.

Silence.

I stood, brushing invisible lint from my jacket. “Clean this up,” I said to the guards, already turning away.

Two men moved immediately, dragging Malik’s corpse toward the shadows.

My fingers fastened the buttons of my tailored black jacket, shoes scuffing against the floor as I headed toward the door.

Violence was never my first choice because I hated it.

But sometimes these men needed to be controlled with an iron fist. And that meant taking extreme measures when they crossed the line or broke the rules.

It was a necessary evil that had to be done.

“The car’s ready,” Simon said, straightening the cuffs of his signature crimson suit.

With my hand in my pocket, I walked past him, stepping into the moonlit night, the cool breeze grazing my skin.

He followed behind me, shoes clicking on the pavement. “Here,” he said, handing me a file.

“What’s this?” I asked, still in motion.

“The red listers,” he answered.

I accepted the file, fingers flipping through the pages. The red listers were people who owed the Bratva and failed to pay their debts. Greedy bastards with little to no financial intelligence who cut deals and thought they’d never have to pay the price.

Some vanished, thinking they could outsmart the system—that they could hide from us. Others got comfortable, forgetting who they were dealing with.

Fools.

One of the rules was that every man must pay his debt, one way or another. When blood and money were involved, people often ended up dead. Or worse—in my basement, where they’d be alive while my doctors harvested their organs.

I scanned the list one more time, then stopped in front of the car, handing the file back to Simon. “You know the drill,” I said, “pick one—make an example out of them.”

He smirked, nodding as he helped open the backseat door.

I got inside, but before he could shut the door behind me, I added, “And Simon….”

He met my gaze, paying rapt attention.

“Make it loud,” I said with finality.

“Got it, Boss.” He closed the door and walked over to the driver’s door.