Page 19 of Sold to the Bratva

This is why victories never last. There’s always fresh trouble lurking. Someone always wants what we have.

“What did they say?” I ask.

“Nothing yet. Ivan’s waiting on your orders.”

I exhale through my nose, slow and heavy. The thing about power is that it keeps a target painted on my back. I don’t kill to feel powerful, I kill so no one forgets that Iampowerful. My reputation is everything, and if I let my guard slip for even a moment, my enemies will swoop in and take advantage.

“Have the attackers been scrubbed?” I ask. “Phones checked, clothes burned, weapons sanitized?”

Mikhail nods. “It’s already been handled.”

“Did they find any ID?”

“None. Not on them. But one had a tattoo. A rook.”

I turn slowly. “A chess piece?”

He nods. “On his lower left rib. Same as the last guy we caught sniffing around our storage yards two months ago.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger.

“It’s a message,” he says steadily.

“Tell the crew we’re on lockdown,” I say. “No side jobs, no late nights, no partying in known haunts. If anyone so much as feels something is off, I want to hear about it directly. No go-betweens.”

Mikhail doesn’t blink. “Understood.”

“And you know what else to do.”

He nods. “Yes sir.”

An unfamiliar heaviness settles in my bones as I ask, “Anything else?”

“Nothing we can’t handle without you,” he quips. “You’ve got to focus on your upcoming nuptials.”

“Most of my focus is on making sure the bride shows up,” I half-joke, tamping down worry over Katya’s antics. With luck, the vendor switch has taken some wind out of her sails.

“She will,” he says more confidently than I feel. “She might be acting bratty, but if she’s anything like her father described, she’ll show up out of a sense of duty.”

“What every man dreams of for a wife,” I quip, making him laugh out loud.

“It’s really going to be fine,” he assures me.

A soft knock sounds, as if summoned by our conversation. I know it’s Katya before the door opens and she pokes her head in.

“Can we talk?” she asks, looking between Mikhail and me.

“I’m all done with him for the night.” He smiles at her before turning to me and shooting me a shit-eating grin.

I motion for her to step in and watch as Mikhail leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.

Katya’s posture isn’t combative for once. She’s still guarded, yet something softer lingers, a hint of vulnerability. She doesn’t seem to be playing a game, but I won’t let my guard down. I nod toward the leather chair across from me.

“Have a seat,” I offer, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like a command.

She sits, crosses her legs, and meets my gaze. “I wanted to apologize,” she says, tone even.

I lift an eyebrow. “Am I on a prank show?” I ask, genuinely thrown by her sincerity.