Page 10 of The Bratva Betrayal

Like the dock job a few years back. A rival crew thought they could intercept one of his shipments. Guns, from what I heard. They unloaded half the crates before anyone realized something was wrong.

By morning, the docks were shut down because three bodies were hanging from the cranes.

Strung up high enough that anyone in the harbor could see them. Swaying in the wind like a warning sign no one could ignore. The rest of the crew was found scattered along the shoreline, dragged through gravel and saltwater, their hands ruined so badly that they’d never hold anything steady again.

No one touched a Volkov shipment after that.

Then there was a man in Boston who tried to skim from Benedikt’s books. He believed he was clever enough to hide it in numbers no one would check.

They found him in his office. Alive, which somehow made it worse.

His fingers were bent at angles they shouldn’t be, swollen and useless. One for every line he altered, they said.

He lived long enough to tell people why you don’t steal from Benedikt Volkov.

Then he disappeared.

Benedikt didn’t make a spectacle of it. No public display or grand warning.

Weeks later, pieces of that man started turning up. Not all at once; just enough that people started connecting the dots.

A hand found near one of his properties. A jacket someone recognized. A ring that used to mean something.

A trail.

Not messy or rushed.

Intentional.

He wanted everyone to understand that betrayal doesn’t end quickly. That’s the thing about Benedikt Volkov. He doesn’t just kill you.

He takes his time and makes sure everyone else remembers it.

After all of that, I’m probably standing in front of the man who did most of it.

His enforcer.

Artem Makarov.

Taller and broader than Misha, and bigger, too. Built like he doesn’t just expect violence; he is violence.

It’s sexy as hell but dangerous to want.

Not that I want him.

I wouldn’t mind being thrown around by him for a night, but I’m already in a relationship with his little brother.

He’s annoyingly attractive.

And completely off-limits.

Misha claps his hands once, breaking whatever just passed between us. “Okay, we’re getting breakfast.”

His hand finds mine easily, and I let him take it. I see Artem’s gaze drop briefly to where our hands are linked.

His expression doesn’t change, but something about him stills even more, like he’s locking that detail away for later.

Not my problem.