Page 40 of Bound By the Bratva
"We think it’s big, Rolan. Could be a hit." He doesn’t offer reassurance, only possibilities. "They might attack here or theymight go after some other weak asset. The track is only barely breaking even. We've owned it five months now. Maybe they'll hit that?" He stays quiet after that. He’s waiting for me to set the pace.
"Double the surveillance on all known Zharov properties. I want eyes on their lieutenants, their trucks, their girlfriends. If someone breathes wrong, I want to see it." The only way we keep this war from becoming a bloodbath is to stay one step ahead of them at all times. I have to know which place they're going and when they'll get there, and I have to know two days ahead of time.
Miss one step and someone dies.
"On it, Boss," Stepan answers. We're going to be stretched thin if this plays out wrong, and I can't afford to lift any security on the estate. Nikolai must be protected at all costs, even if it means pulling men from other assets to assure it.
"And reach out to our contact in the militia. If they want a bribe, pay it. I want early warning on anything rerouting into Mytishchi. No surprises." I rise from the chair with every part of me alert, and Stepan keeps working, head bobbing in acknowledgement as I go.
I leave the feed running and walk toward the parlor where I find Nikolai crouched beside the low table with plastic figures scattered around him. His brow furrows as he divides them, placing one group on each side. I stand at the threshold unnoticed. Gone are my thoughts of Anya as I take in the sight of my son playing make believe in a way I remember all too fondly of my own childhood.
He growls low in his throat and drags one figure sharply. "You told him everything, snitch," he mutters. "Now you get the fingers." He slams the toy down to mimic force.
His voice drops deeper than it should be, imitating what he’s heard in rooms he wasn’t meant to be in. He’s not playing. He’srepeating a script that’s already lodged into his memory, the reason Anya attacked me. She's not wrong for pointing out that a child his age shouldn't be surrounded by this, but this is the world he lives in. How else will he learn?
Walking into the room, I kneel beside him and lower my voice. "What happened to him?" I ask, watching his hands more than the toys. I don’t reach in to adjust anything because I want him to lead the explanation on his own terms.
I match the tone of the game, keeping my presence from overtaking his focus, and he doesn’t look at me.
"He got caught. He told the boss," Nikolai says, matter-of-fact. The figure takes another hard hit against the table. He punctuates the story through force. His world has rules, and he’s enforcing them, much the same way I enforce mine.
"Which one’s the boss?" I ask, pointing toward the cluster of standing figures to give him control of the narrative again. It fascinates me the way a child's mind works, and my son is brilliant.
He lifts a taller figure marked with a red stripe. "That one. He hits harder than the others," he says with a tone that mirrors pride. Then he smiles at me with confidence.
The detail matters to him. It proves that the game has structure, that someone enforces the law. I point to another figure slumped near the edge of the table, away from the others. "And this one?" I ask, keeping my tone casual.
"Traitor," he answers without hesitation, looking back down. His voice doesn’t quaver, and his hands are already moving to position another plastic soldier. "He had to pay."
I watch him adjust the figures. He’s methodical as he sets them up one at a time before using the red-striped figure to knock them down with exploding sounds coming from his mouth. "Why?" I ask, settling more firmly beside him. I keep myvoice level, though now I'm really curious. What goes through a child's mind to make believe something like this?
"Because he tried to hurtMamochka," Nikolai says. "So he had to die because she has to be safe." I'm shocked by how flat his delivery is, the way my men give orders or the way I dish out retribution. It's chilling that at so young an age, he knows this tone.
He resets the figures into new lines, separating the traitors from the loyal. His face remains focused, eyes fixed on the arrangement like it holds meaning only he understands, and I begin to understand why Anya is so world-shatteringly upset.
I nod. "And what does the boss do to liars?" I don’t add anything else because he knows exactly what I mean. I turn my head slightly to watch him for hesitation.
Nikolai knocks over the traitor. "Breaks his hands. Like Stepan did in the back yard." His grip tightens on the toy.
He says it like it’s normal and that every child in the world witnesses these things. And one day, it will be a normal part of his life. One day, he will lead my family, my men, my organization into the future with these exact tactics and logic, but today, he's supposed to be a child.
I clench my jaw, but I don’t raise my voice. "You saw that?" I look him in the eye and search for anything—fear, confusion, regret—but he gives me none of it.
"He screamed. Then he stopped. Then Stepan told him to suck it up," Nikolai says while lining two more figures beside the boss.
He moves the loyal ones into a tight row with deliberate care, arranging them with the same seriousness I’ve seen men use in real operations. It’s organized and exact, too precise for a game.
I glance toward the hallway and find it empty. There’s no sound or movement beyond this room. I look back at him and ask, "You remember all that?" I lower my voice further, notwanting this to be more than it already is. I hope the answer’s no, even though I already know what’s coming.
He shrugs without looking up. "It was loud," he says. His hands are already building another scene like he’s just continuing a task. He isn’t upset or confused. He’s calm, focused, and completely sure of the logic in front of him. That’s what stays with me, and it's what haunts Anya. I can feel it.
"And this one?" I tap the snitch, the smallest figure with no arms, sitting apart from the rest.
"Same. You don’t talk if you want to keep your fingers," he says. His attention stays locked on the figures.
I say nothing. I don’t correct him. I watch the way he sorts the last few. He has rules. There’s an internal logic that makes sense to him. He pits loyalty against betrayal and waits for something to break. As far as my world goes, he's going to reign supreme. As far as his childhood, it might well be over already. I'm not sure what I feel about that.
Behind us, I hear the soft patter of footsteps and turn. Anya stands in the doorway with her hand gripping the frame. She watches the game without blinking. Nikolai doesn’t see her. He’s still working and still planning consequences.
