“Was that your entire crew?” I press.
“Yes, yes!” he screams, panting with relief when I release his leg as a reward for his answer.
“Who do you work for?” I repeat.
“Valentin,” he grits out. “Valentin Lebedev.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? And how many men does he command?”
The man shakes his head, so I reach for his wound once again.
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait!” he pleads. “I don’t know. Really. Before the raid, maybe twenty, thirty men? The captains were divided after thePakhandied, so no one faction has all that many men.”
I share another glance with my brothers at the confirmation of our suspicions.
The Russian forces have split without Pyotr to unite them, their numbers too pathetic to offer much of a threat.
“And what would this Valentin give me in exchange for you, I wonder?”
The man swallows visibly, his face paling with fresh fear. That’s all the answer I need. Valentin isn’t a leader with much desire to bargain—that means any of his men who fall behind know they will be left there.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Dominik,” he says, his tongue clearly loosening.
“Well, Dominik, maybe now that your leaders have abandoned you, it would be an appropriate time to reflect on your life choices,” I point out. “Consider where your loyalties should lie.”
The man nods frantically, his expression turning pleading. “What are you going to do with me?”
Rising to my feet, I gesture to my men. “Take him inside and patch him up.”
“Miko, what the hell?” Sandro asks, his eyebrows buckling in disapproval.
I shrug. “We need men, right? What do I care if they’re Italian, Russian, or damn Martians? He can’t go back to his clan, so perhaps he’ll wise up and join us.”
Gio chuckles, and Raf gives a noncommittal shrug as he shares a glance with his twin.
Before Sandro can argue further, movement from the shadows along the property line catches my eye, and I turn my head to watch, my intuition tingling.
“What?” Gio asks, following my line of sight.
“Someone’s out there,” I state, taking a step toward the still trees.
Then I spot the source of movement, almost imperceptible beneath the dark canopy.
Creeping behind the sunless tree line is a slight figure.
They hug the shade, moving cautiously as they make their way toward the south entrance, where Valentin’s men fled.
Even in the deepening light of dusk, I recognize Anika’s slight frame, the careful way she treads across the ground—as if calling attention to herself might make her disappear entirely. She’s trying to make a break for it. Again.
“Take the wounded inside,” I command without letting her out of my sight. “I’ll deal with them later.”
My brothers’ protests fade into the background as I stalk toward the sneaky little mouse who thinks she can run from me.
She likely intends to ask her dead husband’s men for protection. But that’s not the Bratva way—not when their numbers are this divided.
Their dynamics are different from the Italian Mafia, which prizes respect for your superiors over all else. In the Bratva, strength is all that matters.
