All Chapters of A Taste of the Bratva King: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

TamaraThe wheels screech against Boston's tarmac, and my stomach lurches— not from the landing, but from the hollow ache that's been gnawing at me for thirteen hours straight.My face feels raw, salt-crusted from tears that wouldn't stop. The passenger beside me kept shooting worried glances, but I couldn't care less about his discomfort.Who the hell tried to take me?The question claws at my mind as I shuffle through the terminal like a ghost. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too harsh. Every face in the crowd makes me flinch. Every man in a dark coat sends ice racing through my veins.Was it Sergei?Some enemy from his blood-soaked past finally coming for what's his?My hand instinctively moves to my belly. The baby. God, what if they know about the baby?Or maybe it has to do with Dad.With what Sergei did to him.The thought makes bile rise in my throat. I swallow it down, forcing my legs to keep moving toward the exit.What if they found out about Jason?What i

SergeiMy phone cuts through the silence of the BMW's interior, and Radimir's name flashes on the screen.I consider letting it go to voicemail. I'm not in the mood for my brother's well-meaning bullshit right now.But I answer anyway. "What.""Bratok." His voice is careful, measured. "How are you holding up?""I'm fine," I lie. I haven't slept more than two hours at a stretch since Tamara disappeared. Every time I close my eyes, I see Slava's face, hear his tiny voice saying "Pa-pa." Then I imagine Tamara walking off into the distance, taking all hope of a normal life along with her."Sergei—""I said I'm fine, Radimir."A pause. "When's the last time you ate something? Really ate, not just coffee and cigarettes.""Christ, you sound like a babushka." I take the turn toward the construction site too sharply, tires squealing against asphalt. "I don't need you monitoring my fucking meals.""You're falling apart, bratan."The words hit too close to home, so I lash out. "I'm handling my b

TamaraThe pull-out couch is a nightmare of broken springs and threadbare fabric that Mom bought secondhand when she moved into this place.Every morning I wake up with the metal bar digging into my ribs, my neck twisted at an angle that leaves me stiff for hours.The living room serves as living, dining room, and storage space all at once. My few belongings— the backpack I fled with and two thrift store sweaters I bought last week— are stacked in the corner next to Mom's small dining table. The kitchenette takes up one wall, separated from the living space by nothing more than a change in flooring, making the whole area feel even more cramped.I fold the thin blanket and push the couch back into sitting position, clearing space for another day. Mom's already in the kitchen area, her movements careful and quiet. I notice she's gripping the counter edge as she reaches for the coffee, her shoulders tight. Her adjoining bedroom is not much better than the cramped space I've been sleeping

TamaraThe next morning, I stand at the wrought-iron gates of what can only be described as a fortress disguised as a home.My jaw literally drops.Holy shit.I fumble for the address the woman gave me yesterday, double-checking the numbers against the gleaming plaque mounted on stone pillars that stretch up like cathedral spires. This isn't a house— it's a goddamn estate. The kind of place you see in tourism brochures, with manicured hedges and shrubs trimmed into lollipop shapes.Through the elaborate metalwork, I can see a circular driveway paved in what looks like imported stone, curving around a fountain that belongs in a museum. The mansion itself rises from the landscape like something out of a fairy tale, with cream-colored stone and soaring windows that catch the morning light and throw it back in brilliant, almost blinding flashes.My stomach churns, but not from morning sickness this time. This is pure intimidation. These people live in a different universe than Mom and me,

SergeiThe cold liquid burns down my throat, but it does nothing to quiet the storm in my chest.I stare at the empty glass, watching the last drops cling to the crystal like they're afraid to let go. Just like I am with her.Chert voz'mi.When did I become such a fucking pizda? Sitting here in my own office, drowning in vodka and memories of soft skin and defiant eyes. This isn't who I am. I'm Sergei Sidorov. I don't brood. I don't pine. I take what I want and destroy what stands in my way.Destroy.That's exactly the problem, mudak.The familiar weight of my Makarov presses against my ribs as I lean back in the leather chair, a reminder of who I really am beneath all this pathetic sentiment. The gun has never failed me. Never left me. Never—My phone slices through the silence, its shrill ring bouncing off the mahogany-paneled walls of my office. I glance at the screen, and my jaw sets so hard I hear my teeth grind together.Viktor fucking Kozlov.What the fuck could that prick want