Nikolai Volkov-Rusnak governs the Chicago Bratva, and he does it with an iron hand. His shadow stretches across every street, every alley, every corner. I’ve never seen him, because he’s very elusive. Only appearing in person to make permanent messages.
But I’ve heard enough. Ruthless. Unforgiving. The kind of man other Bratva won’t even whisper about without lowering their voices.
But he’s very close with the L.A. and Southern Bratva, so no member of these outfits can come to Chicago to make a mess without his permission. That’s the only reason I’m still alive and roaming free.
I peel off my gloves, scrub the blood from my hands, and push into the hallway. I’ve barely taken a step when the back door slams open.
Boots pound against the floor—fast, heavy, too many.
Before I can think, I’m already ducking low, gun out, finger on the trigger. My heart doesn’t even stutter anymore. A year ago, I would’ve frozen. Now, survival is muscle memory. The Bratva saw to that. They made it mandatory that every worker in any of their establishments learn to at least handle a gun.
Weapons are out everywhere. Our soldiers flood the corridor, voices barking in Russian, barrels raised and ready.
The air goes razor-sharp.
Then I see the intruders. Black jackets, hard faces, tattoos curling up their necks—Rusnak enforcers. You only see them when someone has crossed the line. They enforce punishments. They take lives.
I hold my breath, pulse thrumming in my ears, wondering why they’re here. Why now. Why in the clinic. They hardly come here.
To my horror, they move straight toward me.
“What the hell—” I start, but one of them yanks my name tag off my chest, and another rips my phone from my pocket. My ID is plucked from the lanyard around my neck. A third disarms me before I can even twitch, stripping my gun away like I’m a child playing dress-up.
Cold steel bites into my wrists. Handcuffs. Tight and final.
“Stop!” My voice is raw, panicked, cracking in the empty hallway. “What is this? I’m staff—I’m supposed to be here!”
They don’t answer at first. Their silence is worse than shouting.
Finally, the tallest one, face like carved stone, tilts his head at me. “You were dating Anton Vostrikov in the past, yes?” His accent cuts the words into blades. “You knew his identity as a Bratva soldier, yes?”
I freeze, blood draining from my body so fast I sway on my feet.
Anton.
The evil gift that keeps on giving.
Despite my desperation, I don’t deny it. What’s the point? Everyone knew about Anton and me. We didn’t exactly keep it a secret.
“Yes,” I force out, my throat dry. “I used to date him. He’s my ex. That’s all.”
The enforcer holding my arm tightens his grip until my fingers go numb. His eyes are cold, merciless. “Your ex has been arrested. Fraud. Funneling money. Leaking information to a rival Bratva.” His lip curls. “And the account he used to transfer funds is yours.”
My brain stutters. “What?” The word bursts out like a gasp. “That’s impossible. I—I haven’t done anything—”
But the look on their faces tells me my pleas are useless. They’ve already judged me.
“This is a misunderstanding,” I push out, shaking my head hard enough to make my vision blur. “I swear, I don’t know anything about this. I didn’t transfer money. I didn’t leak anything—”
The tall one cuts me off with a single sentence, flat and final.
“You are under arrest. For treason.”
The world tilts. My knees almost buckle, but the cuffs keep me upright, biting deeper into my wrists.
“Treason?” My voice cracks. “You can’t—I have no idea what Anton was doing. If he used my name, my account, I didn’tknow about it!” My chest burns as panic claws through me. “I’m just a medical student. I only work here to save money so I can finish school. That’s it. That’s all I am.”
But the words sound small and weak against their silence.
