Page 9 of The Bratva Betrayal

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The house is comfortably quiet when we head downstairs.

Everything about this place is oversized. High ceilings, wide hallways, and rooms that echo when you walk through them.

It’s intentional because Misha’s brother is paranoid and perfectly on the ready for someone to fuck up.

Families like his don’t just build homes. They build distance, layers, and places to disappear if they need to.

Protection.

Or at least the illusion of it.

However, I get none here because I feel him before I see him.

The subtle shift in the air lets me know someone dangerous is close.

Artem.

He’s in the kitchen when Misha and I turn the corner. Leaning back against the counter with one shoulder, looking at ease in a way that feels calculated.

He’s bigger than I remember.

It’s not just height, though he’s quite tall. It’s the way he fills the space without trying. Broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose strong forearms, and veins faintly visible beneath his skin.

Solid.

He doesn’t just handle violence; he’s comfortable with it.

His dark hair is slightly messy and falls just enough to soften what is otherwise a very unforgiving face. Strong jaw, sharp lines, and nothing gentle about his features.

He’s focused right now, locked on me like he’s decided I’m a problem.

Good.

That makes this easier.

Misha is either oblivious or choosing to be because he walks right past Artem and heads for the counter like this is any other morning.

“You’re up early.” Misha casually reaches for something behind Artem.

Without responding, Artem reaches for the laptop sitting beside him and holds it out. “Watch the damn thing.”

Interesting.

I’m not surprised. If Artem wants to catch me red-handed doing something to betray the Volkov bratva, he wants to be the one who handles me.

I lean against the doorway and cross my arms like I didn’t notice the way his eyes flicked toward me when he said it.

Like I’m not the reason he’s saying it.

Misha lets out a quiet laugh, taking the laptop from him. “Relax. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Artem’s voice is low and even. “You leave it sitting around like that again, it won’t be there when you get back.”

I’m not stupid enough to steal something from the Volkov bratva. Benedikt Volkov is savage. He built his family’s business, kept his head down, and handled it.

But there are stories that prove how merciless he is, and I don’t plan to discover if they’re true.