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Home / Mafia / A Taste of the Bratva King / Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

All Chapters of A Taste of the Bratva King: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

158 Chapters

81

TamaraThe leather seat is firm against my spine as Melor takes another sharp turn.My phone weighs nothing in my palm, but the echo of Jason's voice makes my fingers cramp around it.I know who killed your father.The words loop in my head like a broken record. I dig my nails into my thigh, trying to ground myself in something concrete. Something true."Who were you talking to back there?" Melor's question is innocent enough, but for some reason, I feel a surge of guilt in response. In the rearview mirror, his pale eyes find mine. Hold them."Just an old friend from Boston." I'm relieved that I can say the words without my voice trembling.He nods. Once. But those eyes don't move.Does he think I'm lying?Oh, for God's sake, Tamara, why would he think that?My conscience is turning everything into a drama.But Melor doesn't ask questions without reason. Doesn't speak without purpose. Every word from him costs something."American friend?" he presses."Yes." I glance away, focusing on

82

TamaraMy stomach lurches.I sprint to the bathroom, skidding on the polished marble. I barely make it to the toilet before my body convulses, trying to purge itself of the impossible truth. Everything comes up— dinner, coffee, the lies I've been swallowing for weeks.The floor is cold against my knees as I collapse. Real. Solid. More honest than anything else in this house. I press my palms flat against the stone, trying to ground myself in something that won't shift beneath me.When the retching stops, I sit back on my heels. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The taste of bile coats my tongue— bitter truth in a world of sweet deceptions.I can't stay here.The thought cuts clean through the fog. I can't breathe his air for another second. Can't pretend this is home when my skin crawls at the memory of his hands. Can't sleep in the bed where he made love to me while knowing what he'd done to my family.Did he know?I don't even know what's keeping me anyway. The baby is gone. T

83

SergeiThe heavy glass doors of Beacon Hill Orphanage swing shut behind me with a finality that echoes through my bones.The sound might as well be the closing of a coffin lid— mine, his, ours. The conversation with Simpson plays on repeat in my skull like a broken record.Slava has been adopted.He is going to have an amazing life with great parents.Amazing life. Great parents.Not with me. Never with me.The rain hits my face the moment I step outside the building, cold and merciless as the truth I've just been force-fed. Boston's autumn weather has turned vindictive, the sky weeping the tears I refuse to shed in front of these people. Cold trails stream down my cheeks, but I don't bother wiping them away.What's the fucking point?My legs carry me to the bench just outside the ornate iron gate— the same gate that's now a barrier between me and the son who's being torn from me. The wrought iron is slick with rain, the metal cold enough to bite through my expensive suit, but I colla

84

SergeiI pace the sidewalk like a caged animal, thinking movement will somehow ease the terrible thoughts clawing at my skull. But rage and frustration and pure pain keep escalating, and I find myself fumbling in my bag for the strip of sedatives I've taken to carrying everywhere.One pill.Then another when the first does nothing to touch the raw agony eating me alive from the inside out.The medication combines with stress and exhaustion— I've been flying all night, living on adrenaline and desperate hope— and suddenly the world starts to blur at the edges. My eyelids feel heavy, my limbs loose and uncoordinated. I stumble back to the bench and collapse, letting the rain wash over me as unconsciousness threatens to pull me under.Give up, Sidorov.Slava deserves better than you.Go back to Budapest and pretend this never happened.The thought whispers through my drug-addled brain. It would be easier. Safer. I could go back to my carefully constructed life, my expensive club. I could

85

TamaraThe driver doesn't speak on the way to the airport, which suits me perfectly.I need the silence to process what I've just done.I actually did it.I got out.The city lights blur past the window, each one taking me further from the man who's torn my world apart. Further from the twisted love that's been slowly destroying me from the inside out. The evening air seeps through the taxi's windows, carrying the scent of freedom and fear in equal measure."Terminal 2, yes?" the driver confirms again in heavily accented English."Yes." My voice sounds foreign to my own ears— hollow, determined.Just a few more hours and I'll be gone.Vanished.Free.But even as I think it, I know Sergei will come for me. Men like him don't let go of what they consider theirs. And God help me, despite everything, part of me still belongs to him.The part that's been slowly killing me.The taxi slows as we approach the airport, and my stomach drops. "I'm sorry, miss," the driver says, pulling to the cu

86

SergeiThe jet's leather seat feels cold against my back as I settle in for the flight to Budapest.My clothes are still damp from standing in the rain, but I can't be bothered to change them. Through the oval window, Boston's skyline shrinks into gray distance, taking my son with it. Slava's face is burned into my retinas— the way he looked at me through the car window before his new parents carried him away.Forever.I press my palms against my thighs, feeling the tremor in my hands that I can't seem to stop. The flight attendant approaches with her professional smile."Something to drink, Mr. Sidorov?""Vodka. Double."She nods and retreats. Smart woman— she can probably smell the violence rolling off me in waves. I'm barely keeping it together, and everyone around me seems to sense it.The vodka slides down my throat like liquid fire, but it doesn't touch the ache in my chest. Nothing will. I have unlimited resources, connections in every major city, enough money to buy politician

87

SergeiThe house greets me with silence.Not the comfortable quiet of people sleeping, but something else. Something wrong. I drop my bag in the foyer and listen to the emptiness settle around me. No soft sounds from upstairs. No hum of the refrigerator or whisper of air through the vents. Even the regular outdoor night bird sounds have gone silent."Tamara?" My voice echoes off the marble floors, bouncing back from the high ceilings. "Melor?"The echo mocks me with its emptiness.I move through the ground floor first, checking the kitchen where I expected to find evidence of dinner— maybe a plate left in the sink or the lingering scent of whatever she'd cooked. Nothing. The granite counters are spotless, the dishwasher empty. It's as if no one has lived here for days.The living room is equally sterile. Cushions arranged perfectly on the sofa, not a single book or magazine out of place. This isn't how Tamara leaves a room— she's neat but lived-in, always leaving small traces of herse

88

TamaraThe car's leather seat feels cold against my back, expensive material that should mean comfort but instead amplifies my terror.Every bump in the road jolts through my spine, each one a reminder that I'm trapped, helpless, at the mercy of faceless men who murmur in the front seats beyond the partition. My wrists burn where the zip ties cut into my skin. The cotton stuffed in my mouth tastes like dust and sweat, making every breath feel stolen. But it's the blindfold that terrifies me most— thick fabric that turns my world into nothing but sound and sensation and the wild hammering of my own heart.Calm down, Tamara.Think.There has to be a way out of this.Through the partition, fragments of conversation drift back to me. Words I can't quite make out, but the tone is clear— impatient, agitated. One voice rises above the others: "...should have been easier..." Another responds with something harsh that makes the man beside me shift restlessly.They're arguing.That's good, righ

89

TamaraMy bare feet pound against the concrete, backpack thumping against my hip. Behind me, someone shouts: "Hey! The bitch is out!"Shit!Just keep going!The terminal— get to the terminal!More shouts ring out, but I don't look back. Can't look back. The terminal building grows larger with each desperate step, glass doors promising sanctuary and crowds and cameras that might keep bullets from flying.Inside, the chaos of Liszt Ferenc Airport swallows me whole. The terminal stretches endlessly ahead— polished floors reflecting harsh fluorescent lighting, massive windows letting in light from the runway, departure boards flickering with destinations in Hungarian and English. Voices blend into a dozen different languages: German tourists arguing over gate numbers, business travelers barking into phones in rapid Hungarian, children whining in French while their parents drag wheeled suitcases behind them.So many people.Too many witnesses.They can't do anything to me here, can they?I

90

SergeiI weave through Budapest's evening traffic like a man possessed.Every red light is a personal insult. Every slow-moving suka in front of me might as well be signing their own death warrant. The engine of my BMW roars as I downshift and cut between two buses, their horns blaring behind me like the soundtrack to my rage.Tamara.Her name pounds through my skull with every heartbeat. The image of her pale face burns behind my eyelids. She's been through hell— the emergency surgery, the infection that nearly killed her, the days in the hospital where I couldn't even see her. And when she finally came home to the mansion, she was different. Distant. Like she'd built walls I couldn't see.Fuck that.I press harder on the gas, the speedometer climbing past one-twenty. The city blurs into streaks of neon and shadow outside my windows. My chest feels like it's being crushed in a vise, each breath a struggle against the panic clawing at my throat.She can't just leave. Not like this. No

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