Page 2 of Bound By the Bratva
His hair is black, cropped close to his skull with a widow’s peak that splits his forehead with deliberate precision. His cheekbones are flat and sharp beneath pale gray eyes that turn silver when the light shifts.
And I know what’s under that suit. I know what covers his chest, his shoulders, both arms. I remember the ink—the Bratva symbols, the saints and crosses etched in black. The corded muscles that are so powerful, he could take a dozen men at once.
I let him touch me. I let him inside me. For three days, I was his, my father’s debt paid in full for one unspoken deal. I should’ve run. I should’ve said no. But when the man who holds your father’s life in his hand offers you mercy in the form of a bed, you take it. And then you hate yourself afterward.
I never cried—not once—not even when it was over.
Now he’s here, and if he sees me, I won’t get to pretend it never happened.
He stands near the entrance, scanning the room slowly like he owns it, and maybe he does. I can’t breathe. My throat tightens, but I force my legs to keep moving. I walk a loop past the bar, tray still balanced on one hand. I need to disappear, the same way I have every night since I took this job.
I remember the first time I saw him in person like it was yesterday. It was six years ago, in an office colder than winter and quieter than death. I signed away a weekend I would never get back. He never forced me—not physically—but he didn’t have to. My father’s life was on the line, and I was the price.
I avoid him now, weave around the lounge like he isn’t here. I keep my chin low and my pace steady, but every time I cross into his line of sight, I feel the heat prickling the back of my neck. He hasn’t looked at me yet, but he will.
When I stop at the bar to pick up another tray, Mitzy leans over and nudges my elbow. She’s been here longer than me, knows everyone and everything. Her lipstick is always perfect, and she never blinks twice at the drunkest men in the room. She has ice running through her veins and I'm sure if Rolan Vetrov would've beckoned her to his cock, she'd be the first woman to run in his direction.
"You see him?" she says, nodding toward the entrance. "That’s one of the new owners. The Vetrovs bought the track. Whole thing changed hands a few months back."
The blood drains from my face so fast, I grip the bar to steady myself. "Are you sure?"
She pops her gum without concern as she says, "Dead sure. That’s the oldest one. He’s Bratva. You can tell by the way the others move when he walks in… And holy fuck, the abs on that one." The stupid grin on her face sickens my stomach. She has no idea.
I keep my face blank and don't let her read anything into my expression, but my gut twists. My hands are slick with sweat. Rolan Vetrov isn’t just a man I knew once. He’s the reason I left Moscow with nothing but my son and the weight of every decision I'd ever made.
He cannot find out. No one can. This secret I’ve carried every day since I walked out of that hotel six years ago has to stay quiet. I got pregnant that weekend. The timing left no space for doubt—no one else it could’ve been. He left something behind that never faded, a truth buried so deep, I pretended it wasn’t there. But I see it every day in Nikolai’s face. And if Rolan ever sees it too, everything I’ve built will fall apart.
If he finds out, I’m as good as dead. Not just me—my son too. Because men like Rolan don’t neglect what’s theirs in the world. They claim it. They own it. They pull it in tight and crush everything around it.
I press the tray flat against my stomach and step away from the bar. My legs are shaking. My breathing is too fast. I want to get to the back hallway and splash cold water on my face, but I don’t. I head back into the crowd to do my job and get my tips, but I keep my head down to protect myself and pray that this is the first and only visit Mr. Vetrov makes to his newly acquired racetrack.
Because I don't think I can find a different job on short notice, and once again, it seems I'm trading myself for my father's debt. And if Rolan finds out, it's only a matter of time before he makes that a reality.
2
ROLAN
From behind the tinted glass, I watch the floor as dealers count chips, girls pour liquor, and men with too much arrogance laugh over hands they don’t understand. I hear some of it through the door behind me, where my guards are half-drunk and entertained by the game. I didn’t come for them. I didn’t come to survey just what sort of shit my father got me into.
The track has been barely breaking even. Every quarter shows reports with red flags—sloppy cash flow, inconsistent employee rosters, unexplained dips in revenue. The last man in charge had a history of skimming. He disappeared seven weeks ago—the day we assumed ownership—with a broken jaw and both hands shattered. I told the new one he had a month. It’s been three weeks, and I still see rot.
This place either earns or gets gutted.
I take a slow walk through the lounge, weaving between the tables and observing each station closely. Every corner of this place tells me more than a spreadsheet ever could. I count the guards, watch how the floor managers move, note which staff avoid my eyes and which ones look for approval. When I’veseen enough, I climb the side stairwell and enter one of the old press boxes above the floor. From here, I have the angle I need to observe without distraction, every face and movement clear under the lights.
As I walked the floor, a scent I remember vaguely piques my curiosity and lingers through my sweep. Now, standing over the floor watching the movement, it starts to trouble me.
It doesn’t belong here—sharp citrus beneath something warmer, slightly sweet but not floral. It takes a moment to register. I’ve only smelled it once before. I don’t forget anything I breathe in under pressure. That weekend still sits clear in my memory, not because of her but because of what it cost to keep her father alive. She wore that scent on her skin when she said nothing and undressed without looking me in the eye.
I peer through the tinted pane and track the crowd again. Most of the women on shift tonight are new. I had the manager swap out half the floor team after a string of petty thefts the first week we were operational under my supervision. I should recognize none of them. But one of them walks past the bar with her head turned just enough to trigger something in me.
Her hair is pinned back, darker than it used to be, but her posture isn’t new. I recognize the way her shoulders tighten when a man leans too close. I know the way her fingers tense around a glass that’s too full. When she steps around a table, she moves like someone trained to avoid attention.
She walks faster when she passes beneath my window. Not fast enough to run, but just enough to make it obvious that she hopes I'm not watching her. She never looks up, but I know she saw me.
Anya Morozova—a weekend for her father's life. Not a bad deal at the time, but the way she vanished into thin air when it was over always had me curious. Pyotr never ran, however, and that only made the situation stranger.
I watch her for a while, every step she takes, the curve of her hips and tits—fuller than they used to be, but not unpleasantly so. She was too thin. Now she's a siren calling for my attention with perfectly pouty lips and toned legs I'd love to have wrapped around my head. I have to force myself to back away just to prove I'm not dreaming this up.
