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Home / Mafia / A Taste of the Bratva King / Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

All Chapters of A Taste of the Bratva King: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

158 Chapters

101

SergeiThe phone creaks in my grip. My knuckles have gone white, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the sound of plastic beginning to give way under pressure. The muscles in my jaw work like I'm chewing steel."You're bluffing." But even as I say it, uncertainty gnaws at my chest. Viktor's many things— a coward, a snake, a worthless piece of shit— but he's not stupid. And he's patient. He's the kind of man who would spend months setting up the perfect strike.Is that what this is?"Maybe I am. Maybe not. Hard to tell from here." His laugh is like nails on a chalkboard, and I have to physically restrain myself from crushing the phone in my fist. "You always were too trusting, weren't you? Even back in the old days. Remember how that worked out for you with Masha?"The name on his lips makes something primal and violent unfurl in my chest."You piece of shit," I whisper, and my voice carries more menace than any shout ever could. "If you so much as think about—""But I won

102

TamaraI stand before the imposing front door of the Vorobev mansion, trying not to feel overwhelmed.The entrance looms above me like something from a European palace— carved stone archways, brass fixtures that gleam like gold in the morning light, and windows so tall they could house entire families. My sports bag feels heavier than it should, weighted with two weeks' worth of clothes and the enormity of what I'm about to do.The brass knocker is cold against my knuckles as I announce my arrival, the sound echoing through the cavernous rooms beyond. I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly conscious of my simple jeans and sweater against the backdrop of such obvious wealth.Elena opens the door like she's been waiting behind it, and I'm struck by how overdressed she is for what should be a simple handover. Her designer dress— something that looks like it comes straight out of the pages of Vogue— clings to her perfectly sculpted frame like liquid silk. The champagne color makes

103

TamaraThe house feels different without them— larger somehow, and eerily quiet. Without Elena's expensive heels and Leonid's phone calls, the silence is almost oppressive. I find my way to the sitting room, where multiple baby monitors are positioned like security cameras. The screens show different angles of Slava's nursery in crystal-clear high definition, and there he is— a tiny figure in a crib that looks enormous around him.He's sleeping peacefully, one small fist curled around a teddy bear that's almost as big as he is. The bear is well-loved, I notice— not pristine like everything else in this house. Its fur is slightly matted in places, one ear more chewed than the other. But even in sleep, there's something about his posture that breaks my heart. He's clutching that bear like it's his anchor, like it's the only constant thing in his small world.Is this what an unimaginable amount of money does to people?The question echoes in my mind as I watch him on the monitor. I think

104

SergeiThe nightmare claws its way up from the depths of my subconscious like a fucking parasite.Slava's face. That little mouth forming the word "Papa" through the rain-streaked window of the Land Rover. But this time, the car doesn't drive away— it explodes in a ball of fire that turns my son's innocent eyes into charcoal. I'm running toward the wreckage, my legs moving through cement, my lungs burning as I scream his name into the void.Then the scene shifts. Tamara is on a plane, her blue eyes wide with terror as Viktor slides into the seat beside her. His smile is all teeth and malice as he strokes her honey-blonde hair with one hand while the other grips a knife that gleams like pure evil. She's so trusting, so fucking naive, leaning into his touch like he's her savior instead of her executioner.I try to scream her name, to warn her, but no sound comes from my throat. The blade moves closer to her neck, and I watch helplessly as crimson spreads across her pale skin."TAMARA!"

105

SergeiI walk to the windows that overlook the Danube, my bloodied hand leaving smears on the glass as I press my palm against it. The city spreads out below me like a glittering kingdom— lights reflecting off the water, the Chain Bridge spanning the darkness like a promise of connection.But all I can see is Tamara's face in my nightmares, her eyes wide with terror as Viktor's blade finds her throat.Somewhere out there, she's running. Hiding. Alone and afraid because of choices I made, enemies I created, blood I spilled in what feels like another lifetime.I built this empire with violence and cunning, convinced myself that power was the same thing as protection. But power means nothing when the people you care about are beyond your reach. Money means nothing when it can't buy back trust or time or second chances.The sedatives finally start to kick in, making my limbs feel heavy and disconnected. But sleep won't come— not with Viktor's laughter echoing in my skull, not with Slava's

106

TamaraTwo weeks have dissolved into something I never expected— a rhythm of small hands reaching for mine, tiny giggles echoing through marble halls, and the devastating realization that I've fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a child who isn't mine.Slava has carved himself into the hollow spaces of my heart with the efficiency of a surgeon, filling voids I didn't even know existed. Every morning when he wakes, those eyes— too knowing for a one-year-old— search for my face first. Not his mother's. Not his father's.Mine.The fact that he doesn't seem to register their absence should break something inside me. Instead, it just makes me hold him tighter."Ma-ma," he babbles against my shoulder as I carry him through the garden, his chubby fingers tangled in my hair. The word pierces through me every time, sweet and sharp as a blade between ribs."Shh, little one," I whisper, adjusting his weight against my hip. "Let's see if the roses are blooming."The estate's manicured gar

107

TamaraThat evening, after Slava's bath— where he splashed with such enthusiasm that I'm soaked through my shirt— I tuck him into his crib in his impossibly perfect nursery. It's a little less clinical now. I've tried to warm it up over the past two weeks. Added a soft blanket that actually looks like it belongs to a child rather than a museum display. On the wall, I've taped up a series of splashy hand paintings we made together."Sleep tight, little love," I whisper, smoothing his dark hair back from his forehead.He looks up at me with those serious eyes, like he's trying to memorize my face. My throat closes.Don't get too attached, I warn myself. This isn't your life.But watching him drift toward sleep, his tiny fist curled around the corner of his blanket, I can't imagine walking away from him. Can't imagine letting him wake up one morning to find another stranger tasked with keeping him alive while his parents jet-set around the world.Once I'm certain he's asleep, I pad downs

108

TamaraThe house feels different today.Expectant. Like it's holding its breath, waiting for the Vorobevs to fill its expensive silence with their voices, their presence, their particular brand of controlled chaos. I've been counting down to this moment for over two weeks— the day they return from their extended business trip. The day I hand Slava back to his parents and pray they'll shower him with the love he deserves.But something's wrong.I press my phone to my ear again, listening to Elena's voicemail message in her crisp, accented English. The same message I've heard six times today. Leonid's phone goes straight to an automated Russian recording that I don't understand, but the tone is clear enough— unavailable."They're probably flying," I murmur to myself, setting the phone down on the marble kitchen counter. The sound echoes through the cavernous space, swallowed by vaulted ceilings and designer emptiness. But even as I say it, unease crawls up my spine.In the time I've bee

109

TamaraWhen I took this job, it was supposed to be simple. Good money, temporary arrangement, help a wealthy family while I figured out my next move. I didn't expect to fall in love with this little boy. I didn't expect him to fit so perfectly in my arms, or for his laughter to become the highlight of my day. I certainly didn't expect him to call me Mama with such complete trust.The Vorobevs pay me well— extraordinarily well, by nanny standards. But money was never the real draw, not after the first couple of days. It was Slava's smile when I walked into his room each morning. It was the way he'd reach for me when he was scared or hurt. It was teaching him new words and watching his face light up with pride.I've been lying to myself, pretending this was just a job. But jobs don't break your heart."Where the hell are they," I mutter, frowning through the window into the darkness. We're well past dinner now, the evening light long-since faded into pure darkness. The antique clock in

110

SergeiI sink into my chair, the morning sun cutting sharp angles across the hardwood floor.My coffee's gone cold in the mug balanced on the armrest, but I don't give a shit. The silence in this house presses against my skull like a migraine— too much space, too much quiet, too much time to think about what I've lost.I flip through channels with the remote, the Perspex cool against my thumb. Some reality show bullshit— plastic women screaming at each other over champagne flutes. A cooking program where some chef pretends pasta is an art form. Financial news predicting market crashes that never come. The familiar CNN jingle cuts through my restlessness, and I pause.The remote feels heavier in my hand than it should."Breaking News: Private Plane Crashes Into Ocean – Two Confirmed Dead."The screen fills with aerial footage— helicopters circling like vultures over a debris field scattered across dark water. Pieces of white fuselage bob among the waves, twisted metal and scattered cus

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