Arranged Bratva Bride (Sharov Bratva #9)
Prologue - Erik
In the bowels of an old warehouse, the air is thick with the scent of blood and damp concrete, weaving a stifling tapestry that hangs over the space. The room is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single bare bulb that swings slightly overhead, casting long, wavering shadows across the cold stone floor.
I sit in a high-backed chair, my posture rigid, the fabric of my suit immaculately tailored to accommodate the grim necessities of my profession. The sleeves are rolled up, a precaution against the inevitable staining that comes with interrogation—bloodstains being particularly stubborn.
Before me, bound to a chair with thick ropes that cut into his skin, is Alejandro. His face is a mosaic of bruises, his eyes swollen from the blows he’s already endured. Blood trickles from a split lip, staining his chin red, and he looks up at me with a mixture of fear and pleading in his eyes. His voice, when he speaks, trembles with desperation.
“Erik, please, it was a mistake,” he begs, his words echoing slightly in the cavernous room.
My expression remains impassive, my eyes cold and unyielding as I survey the man I once considered not just an ally but a friend. “Loyalty is everything, Alejandro,” I respond, my voice steady and devoid of emotion. “To betray me is to sign your own death warrant. You know this as well as any.”
The silence that follows is heavy, filled with the unsaid and the unforgettable. I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees, my hands clasped loosely in front of me.
“We uncovered the truth,” I begin again, my voice never rising above a conversational tone, yet each word rings out with the weight of finality. “For months, you have been feeding information to the Mexican Mafia, compromising our operations and endangering lives. My brother’s life. My life.”
Alejandro shifts in his seat, wincing as the ropes dig deeper. “I was forced into it,” he pleads, his eyes searching mine for any sign of mercy. “They threatened my family. I had no choice.”
I watch him, my face a mask of stoicism. Inside, a storm of anger and betrayal rages. My hand moves almost imperceptibly toward the knife laid out on a small, metal table beside me. The blade is clean, untouched, but not for long.
My grip on the handle tightens, a subtle indication of my fraying patience.
The tension in the room thickens, palpable and suffocating, as I stand slowly, the chair scraping softly against the concrete. I take the knife, feeling its familiar weight in my hand, and approach Alejandro. He recoils slightly, his fear palpable as he watches every motion of my arm.
Without a word, I press the point of the knife against his shoulder, the sharp tip breaking the skin with ease. Alejandro’s scream slices through the quiet, a sound of pure agony that fills the room and reverberates off the stone walls. I push the blade deeper, twisting it slightly. Blood seeps around the edges of the wound, pooling on the fabric of his shirt.
“This is not for the secrets you sold,” I say quietly, leaning in so that my words are a soft but deadly hiss against his ear. “This is for the trust you broke.” My breath is cool on his sweaty skin, my presence an unyielding force he cannot escape.
I pull the knife out slowly, deliberately, the sound of metal against flesh unnervingly soft. Alejandro gasps, his body slumping as the immediate threat of pain withdraws, though the echo of it lingers, a phantom that will haunt him in the moments he has left.
His eyes lift to meet mine, and in them, I see a dawning realization—the understanding that there is no way back from this, no redemption from betrayal. This lesson, taught in blood and pain, is the foundation upon which the Sharov family has built its empire. It is a lesson he learned too late.
The room settles into a quiet more profound than before, filled only with the sound of Alejandro’s ragged breathing and the distant drip of water from the ceiling. I turn away from him, setting the knife back on the table with a clink that sounds like a verdict being passed.
As I wash my hands in a basin on the side of the room, the cold water turning pink and then red as I scrub, I think about loyalty and the cost of it. In our world, trust is both currency and weapon. Once spent, it can never be earned back, not truly.
I glance back at Alejandro, his figure slumped and defeated, a man undone by his choices. This is the life we have chosen, or perhaps the life that has chosen us—a life dictated by power, fear, and the unbreakable rules of loyalty and retribution.
His breaths are shallow, his chest rising and falling with labored effort, each inhale a testament to his rapidly approaching end. Yet, even in this state of desolation, there are truths yet to be unearthed, secrets that he holds that must be extracted before the end.
Turning back to face him, I step closer, the knife back in my hand, its blade stained with his betrayal. “Alejandro, we’re not finished,” I say, my voice a low rumble of authority in the dimly lit basement. “You will give me every detail—every interaction with the Mexican Mafia. I want names, dates, locations. Everything.”
The dim light glints off the knife as I emphasize my demand, a silent but effective threat. Alejandro’s eyes, wide with a raw fear that speaks of understood finalities, flick to the blade and then back to my face. “Yes, Erik,” he stammers, the words scraping from his throat like gravel. “I’ll tell you everything.”
He starts hesitantly, each piece of information a struggle to relinquish. The meetings, the exchanges—money, drugs, sensitive information—trickled out amidst the occasional sob of pain or fear. With each detail, his voice grows weaker, more resigned, as he spills the secrets that sealed his fate.
However, I remain vigilant, acutely aware of the nuances in his tone, the flickers in his expression that hint at deceit or omission.
“Don’t lie to me, Alejandro,” I warn, the knife edging closer to his skin, a silent promise of the consequences of deceit. He winces, understanding the severity of the situation, and his admissions become a flood, desperate and unchecked.
As he divulges the names of his contacts within the Mexican Mafia, the locations of their meetings, and the details of what was exchanged, the scale of his betrayal unfolds—a long list of treachery that had cost us dearly. He details the strategies devised to undermine our operations, the plots to turn our allies against us, and the deadly costs of his actions.
“Everything, Erik… that’s everything,” he finally murmurs, his voice barely audible over the sound of his labored breathing. He slumps forward as much as the ropes allow, a broken shell of a man.
I stand silently, processing the magnitude of his betrayal, the implications of every word he has uttered. It is a weighty catalog of treachery that cannot be undone, but it can be ended.
With a finality that feels as cold as the blade in my hand, I step behind him. His body tenses, a primal recognition of the impending end. With a swift, practiced motion, I drive the knife into his heart. The action is precise, devoid of hesitation—a mercy in its quickness.
Alejandro’s gasp is sharp, a truncated noise of surprise and pain, then he slumps forward, completely lifeless. The finality of the act settles over the room, heavy and absolute. I pull the blade from his chest, the sound muffled by the dense air of the basement.
Wiping the knife on a piece of cloth, I maintain my composure, my face as unreadable as when I first walked in. The deed done, it is time to erase the traces of his existence from our world. I turn to the shadows where my men have been waiting, silent sentinels of the night’s grim work.
“Clean this up,” I command, my voice betraying no emotion. “Ensure that there is no trace of him left behind. Not a hair, not a fiber.”
They nod, stepping forward to carry out the orders with mechanical precision. The body is untied and carried away, the chair cleaned, the floor wiped down—every surface sanitized of the night’s dealings.
As they work, my mind turns over the night’s revelations, the necessary recalibrations of trust and power that must follow.
Before I exit the basement, I take one last look at the space that held a man’s final moments. “Betrayal is a cancer,” I mutter to myself, the words a reaffirmation of my actions. “It always gets cut out.”
Leaving the cold basement behind, I step into the chill of the early morning. The air outside is crisp, refreshing after the heaviness of the interrogation room. The world is quiet, still wrapped in the embrace of night, unaware of the brutal necessities that play out in the shadows.
I climb into my car, the engine humming to life with a soft purr. As I pull away, the city begins to stir, the first hints of dawn painting the sky with strokes of pink and blue. The normalcy of the world outside contrasts sharply with the dark undercurrents that govern my life.
Such is the existence within the Mafia—a world built on power, fear, and the ruthless enforcement of loyalty.
As the city wakes, I drive through the streets, the weight of leadership and the burden of necessary evils heavy on my shoulders. In this life, one must be both judge and executioner, for the stakes are high and the penalties for failure are deadly. The battle for control never truly ends; it merely waits, quietly gathering strength for the next confrontation.