Page 1 of Bound By the Bratva
1
ANYA
Nikolai curls into the blanket with his knees tucked close. His cheeks are still sticky from the last bite of his banana. He smiles when I lift the book from the floor.The Very Hungry Caterpillarhas its spine taped and retaped. We’ve read it so many times, the pages barely hold.
"In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf," I murmur. I settle beside him and he leans into my arm.
The apartment is quiet now. The TV is off.Batya’spacing has stopped. In the next room, I hear the clink of his mug. He’s pretending to clean up after dinner since I did the cooking, but he’s probably rinsing out whatever he drank before I woke up from my nap. He promised he wouldn’t drink, but he always does. It's something I've come to rely on.
Nikolai’s breathing slows by the time the caterpillar makes it to the plum. I close the book and rest my hand on his back. I count each rise and fall. He’s grown since last winter. His legs stretch longer across the bed, and his body presses heavier against mine when he’s asleep in my arms.
I don’t kiss his forehead because I know he stirs too easily, but I do cover him with the thin blanket as I slip out of bed andset the book on his nightstand. When I crawl into bed around four a.m., he will wrap his arms around me again, and by the time I wake,Batyawill have him off to school already.
My father stands at the kitchen counter when I step out. He’s shaved, and the sink is clean. It’s not much, but I notice it, and I'm grateful that he at least tries to take care of the place for me. Still, I'd settle for a messy home if he could stay away from the bottle longer than five hours.
"Batya, please… no drinking tonight." I reach for my sweater, slip it on over my shoulders, and watch him with hopeful eyes.
"I’ll stay sober tonight," he says. He doesn’t look up. "You’ve got my word."
“It’s not me you owe that to," I remind him, the way I always do when I leave for work.
He flinches, but not because of what I said. He knows I’ve stopped believing him, and it's been that way for years. His bodily reaction is because of his guilt over things that happened years ago.
The rent notice is still pinned to the fridge, its red ink now dull. I don’t ask about the landlord because I already know he hasn’t called. What would he say, anyway? That his daughter—who came home from Tula to work and pay off his debt—doesn't make enough money to pay for rent, groceries, and his alcohol. Let's not even bring up his gambling addiction.
“You’ll keep an eye on him?” I ask, flicking a glance at him as I pick up my apron and name tag. My feet already hurt and I haven't started my shift at the track yet, but I can't manage to scrape enough together to buy better shoes when I'm constantly chasing my tail withBatya'sdebts.
He nods and says, “I swear it, Anya. Nothing will happen to him. I’m his grandfather. I will protect him." I want to believehim, but with our history, I'm not so sure. The things he's done still haunt me, despite my being a willing party to it all.
Besides, the words "I'm his grandfather" stopped meaning something the night I came home and found Nikolai alone on the porch. He was barefoot in October. Still, I nod.
The racetrack doesn’t care what kind of man raised me. They don’t care that my son still wakes up crying, that my rent is past due or that my savings are gone. AndBatyaowes men who don’t forgive. They don’t forget time lost, family betrayed, or money left unpaid.
I press a kiss to his cheek as he squeezes my elbow, and before the door is shut behind me, I know he's already moving toward the vodka. I have no other choice but to leave Nikolai with him. Paying someone to watch him would take every spare cent I have, and I'm not even able to support us as it is.
I walk to the racetrack alone with my head down. The streetlights give off a weak yellow glow that barely reaches the sidewalk. My boots are thin and the wind cuts through my coat. I pass the rusted metal gate and turn at the side entrance markedSTAFF ONLY. A man twice my size stands outside with a cigarette in one hand and a radio clipped to his belt. He lifts his chin in greeting and opens the door without a word.
Inside, I change in the locker room—black skirt, tight top, hair brushed back, and red lipstick applied from a cracked compact. The uniform doesn’t fit right, but I can’t ask for a new one. This job came through a friend of a friend. Waitressing and cigar service for the gamblers who drink too much and spend too fast isn't my favorite thing, but I was told the tips are decent if you don’t flinch.
There’s no racing tonight, but the lounge is full of raucous and stale air. Smoke hangs above the crowd, and glasses clink steadily behind the bar. I keep my head down and move between tables. I take orders, fetch whiskey, and carry cigars on apolished tray that shifts if I don’t hold it steady. No one looks at my name tag or asks who I am. In a place like this, it’s better to be invisible. The ones who blend in are the ones who last.
A hand closes around my waist as I pass a booth near the back wall. It's a man who's roughly the size of a moose. His fingers dig in with the casual pressure of someone used to taking what he wants. I don’t look at him. I reach down, take his wrist, and move his hand away like I’ve done it a hundred times. Because I have. This place is full of sleaze balls and lowlifes.
"Oh, now, sweetheart," he says, laughing like we’re in on some joke. "Didn’t mean anything by it."
"Need a refill?" I ask, but he grunts and shakes his head.
I adjust the tray on my palm and keep walking. In this place, pretending not to notice is the only way to keep the work. These men take what they want. Someone too busy or too indifferent to push back just gets snowplowed, but I'm neither of those things.
I also understand that if I make a scene or cause the patrons to be upset, I'll be fired, which is something I can't afford.
As I walk away, his friend snorts and mutters something under his breath, but I don’t stop to hear it. I take the next order, write it down without lifting my eyes, and head to the bar. Nothing happened here—at least nothing that anyone will admit. The bouncers didn’t see it. The manager didn’t see it. The other girls? They’ve seen worse.
On my second round, the doors shift open behind me. There’s a break in the noise, just enough for the change in air to catch my attention. A man steps inside, and though he doesn’t see me right away, I feel the shift like someone dropped ice down my spine.
I know exactly who he is—Rolan Vetrov. His name was never spoken in my house, but it lived there all the same. The other men notice him, but none approach. The ones with any sense keep their eyes down.
He’s taller than I remember, and somehow broader. The suit he wears is dark and sleek, fitted to a body that never softened with age. His build is cut from concrete, shoulders like armor, neck thick from years of holding up a head that never bows. That jaw—square and stubborn—rested against my collarbone while I tried to stay numb.
