Page 22 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

Pavel laughed coldly.

"You think you know me?"

"I know who you used to be."

"Used to be?" His voice suddenly rose. "Even you know that was in the past!"

Pavel's chest heaved violently, like long-suppressed rage finally finding an outlet.

"When your father was alive, the bratva wasn't like this. We didn't bow to politicians, didn't watch the cops' faces, didn't hide our guns for a few business deals!"

"Back then people died in shootouts every year."

"That was war! That was honor!" He glared at me, teeth gritted. "Now you've turned the bratva into a bunch of damn businessmen in suits. You sit with lawyers, bankers, those filthy politicians and drink with them. You make us yield to cops, let people who used to fear us climb on our heads!"

"I made everyone more money and kept them alive longer."

"Merely surviving, you mean."

"Being alive is being alive."

"Coward!"

The word fell and the warehouse went briefly silent. My right pinky throbbed with stiff pain again.

When I was twenty, they demanded I prove myself. I cut off my own pinky in front of everyone, swore to God I'd protect the bratva. Pavel was there.

"You call me a coward?" I grabbed his collar, dragging him and the chair up. "Then what do you call secretly collecting evidence, preparing to send your men and the whole bratva to prison while claiming you won't bow to cops?"

Pavel's breathing stopped for a moment.

"You destroyed the bratva's bloody traditions. You don't deserve to inherit your father's legacy, don't deserve to be pakhan."

"Your so-called traditions just sent people to die with guns in their hands."

"At least they died like men!"

My fist smashed into his face. Pavel and the chair crashed to the floor.

"They joined the bratva to live better, not to satisfy your nostalgia." I watched him struggle to lift his head. "They have families. Wives and children."

Pavel spat bloody saliva.

"You've gone weak, Varlam."

"Real weakness is refusing to admit times have changed."

Pavel stared at me, eyes still full of hate.

"Go on, kill me!" He raised his head and roared. "If you think killing me will shut everyone up, then do it."

I watched him for a long time.

This man once stood behind me when I faced doubt, once respectfully called me pakhan. I gave him a chance to explain, a chance to turn back. But he chose to turn past loyalty into today's knife in my back.

"I don't want to shut everyone up," I said. "You can question me, question my decisions, but I will never let anyone hand over the bratva."

I knew dissatisfied voices still existed in the organization, but as long as they didn't cross the line, I wouldn't say anything. My father and I had completely different philosophies, though we both did our best for the organization. I didn't care what they thought. I cared what they did.