Page 22 of Forced By the Bratva

He settled into another armchair beside me and crossed his legs. “As Father always said, ‘If they can predict your actions, they can understand you.’”

Of course he’d say that. He’d always been the closest to our old man before he passed. Those two were more alike than one might think.

People thought I was cold and ruthless, and they weren’t wrong. But whatever evil I’d committed in my lifetime, Ivan was guilty of worse. The man literally had ice in his veins.

He was the internal security commander for the Bratva. His job was to oversee discipline, internal investigations, counterintelligence operations, and enforcement of organizational laws across the Tarasov-controlled network.

Ivan was discipline personified. He believed survival depended on structure, loyalty, and the absolute enforcement of rules without emotional interference. The man operated through authority, procedure, and consequence. He wasn’t impulsive or cruel without purpose, but he was uncompromising when a line was crossed.

I rose to my feet, heading toward the minibar in the corner. “Vodka or whiskey?”

“Vodka.”

I pulled the bottle out, cold from the small fridge under the counter, and grabbed two glasses. The vodka caught the light as I carried everything back to the side table between us, sharp and clear against the dark wood.

I set the glasses down and poured. The scent hit first, clean and biting, something that cut straight through the air between us.

I slid one glass across to Ivan and kept the other for myself.

He picked it up and took a sip. “Tell me, brother. What is this I’m hearing about a breach tied to Tarasov Imports?” He swirled the glass in his hand, his gaze locked on me.

“It’s nothing to worry about.” I sipped my vodka. “I already handled it.”

A beat.

He didn’t take his eyes off my face. “Handled it how?”

“I don’t ask you how you do your job, brother,” I replied, holding his gaze, my voice calm as always. “The situation is under control, and the compromised materials have been recovered.”

He stared at me with the same expression he always wore each time he thought I wasn’t being completely honest.

“You’re deflecting,” he said. “Why?”

A pause.

“You’re being nosy,” I replied. “Why?”

A knowing grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he reclined in his chair. “I overheard the maids talking about a female guest—a certain…Miss Hart.” He looked right at me. “Who is this Miss Hart, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Unfortunately, I do mind you asking.” I drained the remaining vodka down my throat and began pouring myself another glass.

He huffed. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

I didn’t respond.

“The girl from the breach—the one you were supposed to eliminate—she’s Miss Hart.”

“Is that a question or a statement?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“I don’t know; you tell me, brother,” he replied. “Are you harboring a Bratva fugitive?”

The words landed harder than they should, especially because I knew my brother’s stance on issues like this. He’d always been one to do things by the book; the rules mattered in every ramification of his life.

For every rule broken, there were consequences. And my older brother, Ivan Tarasov, was the man they sent to make sure those consequences were carried out. Cleanly. Without hesitation. Without exception.

“Need I remind you, brother, that witnesses such as Miss Hart are never spared in our line of work?” He let the words marinate for a moment. “Need I remind you that exceptions create weaknesses?”

He uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet, then drained his glass in one swallow. “You know what to do. You know the rules.” He set the glass on the table, fingers fastening the button on his coat. “Eliminate the witness before this becomes a bigger problem.”