“Yes.”
“Why?” she asked.
It wasn’t suspicion. It was something deeper. A need to understand.
I met her gaze and held it. “Because I could,” I said.
I didn’t raise my voice.
I didn’t need to.
Anya blushes a pretty shade of pink before turning her attention back to Alexi. “How come you haven’t come to see Father? He was devastated when you disappeared.”
“I haven’t decided if I’m coming back,” Alexi says.
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you come back? Don’t you want to take over the business?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I don’t understand. Why? I thought you wanted to eventually run Stepanov’s Import and Export? I thought you liked working there?”
“Because I wouldn’t just be taking over the import and export business. It’s the other role that Father expects me to claim, and I don’t want to claim it.”
Anya appears confused, so I lean forward. “What do you know about the Bratva?” I ask her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: ANYA
“Anya,” Alexi said softly, turning to face me. “What we’re about to tell you isn’t something our father ever wanted you to know.”
My stomach tightened. “You’re scaring me,” I said, hugging my arms around myself. “Just tell me.”
Vladimir leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He doesn’t touch me this time, doesn’t smile. Whatever this is, it strips him of all pretense. “You know the word Bratva,” he said. “You’ve heard it whispered. You’ve seen how people react when your father’s name is mentioned.”
I nodded slowly. Of course, I had. Alexandr Stepanov didn’t walk into rooms—he commanded them. I grew up surrounded by bodyguards, secrecy, and a quiet understanding that certain questions were never asked.
“The Bratva isn’t just an organization,” Vladimir continued. “It’s a network. Old. Powerful. Global. And your father is not simply part of it—he leads it.”
The words landed like a physical blow. “No,” I whispered. “He’s a businessman. He owns shipping companies, real estate—”
“That’s how it looks,” Alexi cut in, his voice sharp with bitterness. “That’s how it’s designed to look.”
I looked at my brother, really looked at him. The scars—some visible, others not. The way he never truly relaxed, even at family dinners. “Alexi,” I said, my voice shaking, “what does that mean?”
“It means,” Vladimir said carefully, “that many of the world’s illegal trades move through channels your father controls or influences.”
I felt cold all over.
“The Bratva is involved in arms dealing,” he continued. “Money laundering. Extortion. Cybercrime. Drug smuggling on a scale that moves entire economies.”
My breath became shallow as he spoke, each word digging deeper. Drugs were bad enough—poison flooding cities, destroying families—but then Vladimir paused.
“And human trafficking,” he said.
I flinched. “No.”
“Yes,” Alexi said quietly. “Women. Children. Forced labor. Sex trafficking. People moved like cargo across borders using our father’s ships.”
The room tilted. I stood abruptly, pacing, my hands trembling. “You’re lying,” I said, even as my voice broke. “My father would never—”
