Bound to the Bratva (Bratva Dominion #1)

Chapter 1 Ivan

IVAN

The reflection in the mahogany table betrays him.

I see the glint of steel before Viktor Sorokin realizes what he's revealing, before the other men in the room even register that a knife has been introduced into a conversation about territory.

Viktor believes the table hides his hands.

He thinks my attention is fixed on the contracts spread between us, on the maps of the South Side his crew has been bleeding into like an infection.

Viktor has always stared hard at the world while missing the bigger picture.

"The terms are fair." My uncle Boris stands near the window, the Chicago skyline backlit against him, turning his silhouette into a cutout. He wears the role of a reasonable mediator as comfortably as his bespoke suit. "Viktor brings distribution networks. We provide protection. Everyone profits."

I ignore Boris. My eyes track the tendon shifting in Viktor's wrist, the tightening of his fingers around a concealed handle. A folding knife. Fast. Deniable. The desperate tool of a man seeking an exit strategy.

Behind me, the air doesn't stir, but I know Maksim is there. Near the door. Close enough to intervene, distant enough to witness. I don't check. Checking implies doubt, and Maksim is a fixed point in a chaotic universe.

"The terms," I say, keeping my voice low, "are what I decide they are."

Viktor's jaw tightens. Forty-five, built like a dock loader, a man who has spent a lifetime winning arguments with shoulder checks. He mistakes patience for weakness. He looks at a man who doesn't shout and assumes there is no bite behind the bark.

"Your father and I had an understanding," Viktor grates out. "Before."

"My father isn't here."

"No." Viktor's gaze flicks to Boris, then snaps back to me. "He isn't."

The implication lands heavy on the polished wood.

The Pakhan has been a ghost for weeks. Illness, the rumors say.

Distance, if you know the man. Viktor thinks I am an unattended heir, exposed.

He doesn't know I've been watching him meet with the Italians.

He doesn't know the Rosetti family has been whispering in his ear, promising him scraps if the Baranovs fall.

"You're expanding into territory that isn't yours," I say. "Moving product through unapproved channels. Meeting with men whose names should make your blood run cold."

Under the table, Viktor's hand freezes.

There it is. The dissection. The moment he realizes this wasn't a negotiation, but an autopsy. He walked in here a dead man; he just hasn't stopped breathing yet.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lies.

"The Rosetti family. Halsted. Cermak. You were careful with the locations, Viktor. But you got lazy with the cars."

The color drains from his face, receding like a tide leaving debris on the shore.

Behind me, the pressure in the room shifts. Maksim senses the change in pheromones, in the spike of adrenaline radiating from Viktor.

"Ivan." Boris steps forward, radiating practiced warmth, trying to cool a room I am intentionally setting on fire. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately before making accusations that could damage a—"

"The relationship ended when Viktor started shopping for a new master."

I hold Viktor's gaze. Panic tries to hide behind pride, but the cracks are showing. He knows the knife won't save him. He knows he walked into a trap.

This is the precipice. This is where fear makes men stupid.

Viktor's shoulder drops.

I don't flinch.

Maksim is a blur of kinetic energy, cutting through the space between the door and the chair. He doesn't run; he arrives. His hand clamps over Viktor's wrist before the blade can clear the mahogany edge.

There is a wet crunch.

Viktor makes a sound—half-gasp, half-shriek—as Maksim drives his thumb into the nerve cluster. The fingers splay. The knife clatters onto the hardwood. Cheap tactical folder. Black handle. Gas station courage.

It's over in a heartbeat.

Viktor, thick and brawling, looks diminished in Maksim's grip. Maksim doesn't speak. He wrenches the arm up at an angle that threatens to snap the elbow, his face a mask of bored efficiency. He waits for the command.

Boris stares at the knife on the floor, his expression unreadable, carefully blank.

"Viktor." I stand slowly. I let the silence stretch, letting the weight of the room settle on his shoulders. "Did you really think that was going to work?"

"I wasn't—" Viktor wheezes as Maksim applies more torque. "Protection. Just protection. I didn't mean—"

"You brought a weapon to my table. In my house. After conspiring with men who want me dead." I round the desk, stopping only when I can smell the sour sweat rolling off him. "Explain to me how that translates to 'didn't mean anything.'"

Viktor's eyes dart to Boris, pleading.

My uncle examines his manicured fingernails.

"Please," Viktor chokes. "Ivan. My children. My wife. A mistake. Just a mistake."

"Several mistakes. The first was thinking I was blind. The second was assuming I'd care about your bloodline when you threatened mine."

I have no children. Viktor knows this. But in this world, legacy is the only currency that matters, and he just bet his family's future on a bluff.

"What do you want?" The bluster is gone, leaving a terrified, hollow shell. "Anything. Territory. Money. Names."

"Names."

Viktor blinks, the speed of my answer throwing him off balance.

"You've been meeting the Rosettis. I want the offer. I want the promise. And then I want the names of every other captain, lieutenant, or foot soldier they've approached." I lean in. "Every. Single. One."

Viktor swallows hard. He looks at the hand crushing his wrist, then back to me. "They'll kill me."

"Probably. But I will definitely kill you if you hesitate." I look at Maksim. "Take him downstairs. Make him comfortable. I'll join you shortly."

Maksim gives a sharp jerk of his chin. He hauls Viktor up by the twisted arm, guiding him toward the exit with the inevitable force of gravity. Viktor stumbles, corrects himself, and submits. There are no other options left.

The heavy oak door clicks shut.

Boris exhales, a long, rattling sound. He moves to the bar cart, crystal clinking as he pours vodka. He doesn't offer the bottle. He knows the rules.

"That could have been handled with more finesse," Boris says, back turned to me. "Viktor is connected. People will ask questions."

"His cooperation will answer them." I move to the window, looking down at the grid of Chicago—glass, steel, and rot. Somewhere below, Viktor Sorokin is about to learn the price of disloyalty. "The Rosettis have been probing. Viktor was just the first loose brick."

"And if there are others?"

"Then I'll pull the wall down until I find them."

I turn. The afternoon light catches the lines on Boris's face. Fifty-two, my father's shadow, a fixture in the organization since before I was born. He knows where the bodies are buried because he dug half the holes.

He is also the only person, aside from my father and myself, who knew about the safehouse on Ashland.

The one that is currently a pile of smoking rubble.

The one I was scheduled to visit the night it exploded.

"You're tense, Ivan." Boris downs the vodka, sets the glass down, and adjusts his cufflinks—a nervous tic. "Viktor, the Italians... perhaps you're seeing ghosts where there are only shadows."

"Perhaps." I study him. "Or perhaps the shadows are finally taking shape."

Boris meets my gaze. For a second, the avuncular mask slips, revealing something cold and calculating underneath. Then the smile returns, warm and paternal. "Your father would be proud. You're becoming the leader the family needs."

He walks past me. I hear his breathing, steady and controlled, as he exits the room.

I am left with the skyline and the silence.

The penthouse is freezing. I keep the thermostat low—comfort breeds complacency—but tonight the chill feels internal. The Glass Fortress, my mother called it. Before the Town Car. Before the blood on the Kennedy Expressway. She hated the exposure.

So much glass. Nowhere to hide.

Someone tried to kill me. The list of suspects with the intel is short enough to carve onto a bullet.

I prowl the apartment, checking sightlines, furniture placement, shadows. My body moves on instinct, hunting for threats in the negative space. Paranoia is the only reason I'm still upright.

The elevator chimes—soft, polite.

I turn. Maksim steps out. Alone.

"Viktor?"

"With Alexei. He'll talk before the sun comes up."

Maksim crosses the room to his post by the main window. His stillness is absolute, a predator at rest. Six-foot-two of dense muscle, trained to disappear until violence is required.

I pulled him from the recruit pool years ago. The file said he needed structure, that he craved command. The other recruits were loud, hungry dogs barking for scraps. Maksim was silent.

"What are you good at?" I'd asked him.

"Following orders."

Not fighting. Not killing. Obedience.

"You moved before Viktor's hand cleared the table," I say, watching his profile.

Maksim doesn't look at me. His eyes scan the horizon for threats that aren't there. "I saw his grip change."

"Most men wait for the flash of the weapon."

"Waiting is a risk."

I close the distance between us, stepping into his personal space, close enough to count the lashes, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. He doesn't retreat. He holds his ground because I trained him to stand fast. Retreat is an admission of guilt.

"Boris was watching you," I say softly. "When you broke Viktor. He was studying you."

A flicker in Maksim's jaw. A tightening. "Your uncle doesn't trust me."

"My uncle doesn't trust anything he can't bribe." I search his face for a tell, for a crack in the armor. "He thinks you're a weakness. A dog I let sleep too close to the bed."

Maksim waits. He accepts the judgment. He accepts the scrutiny.

"He might be right," I continue. "You know my schedule, my codes. Which doors lock and which don't. If someone wanted to gut this organization, they'd start with you."

Maksim's breath hitches, minute, almost imperceptible.

"You think I'm the leak."

"No." The silence stretches, heavy and electric. "I think someone wants me to believe you are. Someone is framing the shot so that putting a bullet in you looks like the logical move."

"Who?"

I turn away, facing the glass. The city lights are blooming now, an ocean of artificial stars. Somewhere down there, Viktor is screaming. In this building, Boris is making phone calls.

And somewhere in my house, a traitor is painting a target on Maksim's back.

I hear the shift of fabric. Maksim is preparing to leave. The elevator is waiting. The hallway to the staff quarters is long and full of blind spots.

"No."

Maksim freezes.

He doesn't ask. His body realigns to the new reality instantly.

"Not tonight." I turn back to him. The air between us is thin, charged. "You don't leave this room."

Recognition flashes in his eyes. Not surprise—preparedness. He glances at the door, then back to me.

"The chair," I say, nodding to the leather wingback near the entrance. "Lock the door first. Then you sleep there."

Maksim moves. The deadbolt slides home with a heavy, final thud. He drags the chair, angling it to cover both the entrance and the window. He sits.

He asks no questions.

The room feels sealed now. A vacuum. Just us, the glass, and the drop.

"The safehouse on Ashland," Maksim says into the dark. His voice is rough, stripping gears. "I wasn't told about the location."

I look at him. The man I created. The weapon I honed. He looks at me with anything but obedience.

It's fear. For me.

"I know," I say.

Maksim holds my gaze. He is an anchor.

My phone buzzes against the table, cutting through the quiet room.

One message. Alexei.

Viktor gave names. One is blood.

I read it. I read it again. The letters blur into white noise.

My hand stays on the phone. I glance at Maksim, sitting in the chair, guarding a door that can't keep the danger out because the danger is already inside.

The screen glows, casting long shadows across the floor.

I don't put it down.