Bratva Triplets (Barkov Bratva Brothers #1)

Chapter 1 - Aleksei

Aleksei. A voice echoes in the distance. Aleksei. Again, now closer. The whispers continue to chant, a steady crescendo with each repetition until I am buzzing with the word. It feels foreign, intangible. Looking around, I can see nothing but fog —a thick, heavy thing obscuring everything around me. Feeling nothing but a heavy sense of foreboding blossoming within me that is amplified with each repetition of the word.

I look around, trying to dissipate the mist with my hands, but my limbs feel like they are made of lead. Horrified, I look down, registering that I do not see my arms at all. The feeling of dread morphs into a feverish sense of panic, one that only subsides once I hear it again. Aleksei. No more than a whisper lingering in the heavy air.

Then there is red, the misty heaviness having gone like it was never there in the first place. But now, all I can see is the dark crimson and what appears to be a body. The closer I advance, I realize it is someone smaller—a woman. Her face is a pallid white, with lips turning a sickly blue-grey color. It is with a sick feeling in my stomach that I realize it is her .

My hands are on her in an instant, though just like the fog before, the thick red liquid seeping through is permeating everything. I recognize her dark navy sweater, now an endless abyss of crimson. There is nothing but red. I can see my hands now, an extension of hers, completely covered in the thick liquid.

The ringing brings me back, and for the first time in what seems like an eternity, I’m grateful for the obnoxiously annoying ringtone of the alarm.

6:55 a.m.

I blink, eyelids heavy, trying to shoo away whatever remnants of sleep my body clings to. Not that I’d ever be able to fall back asleep after that .

It used to happen often after her death. The nightmares plagued me for months before I found solace in the stale yellow pill bottles of my prescription meds. They were the only way to sleep back then. But the more time that passed, the less often they happened —until they stopped altogether. It’s been years since then and I thought I was free of that image burnt into my mind by now. Of her lying cold and lifeless on the ground. The gunshot wound in her stomach seeping blood into the navy sweater I gave her as a gift after graduation. And the damn red liquid drying all too fast on my hands —I was too late.

Trying to rid myself of the bitter taste in my mouth, I haul myself off the bed. It is foolish to think that a shower could help since I find even the steady flow of the cold water fails to bring me back completely.

Despite my best efforts to stay afloat, I can feel my mood dampening on my way to work. We are close— so close —to finally getting the bastard who killed Anya. I huff to myself, feeling a smile perk up my lips for the first time today. If she heard my train of thought right now, she would probably stone me—because that’s the type of person she is. She was . Kind, forgiving, giving out more love than this world ever deserved.

I focus my eyes on the weak sunlight reflecting off the bodega at the corner of the road, evidence that the day is slowly sinking into dawn. The sedan slows around the corner, and the eventual low rumble of the engine—the telltale sign that we are getting close to our garage—alerts me to our whereabouts. It is an inconspicuous part of Queens, well settled in-between commercial buildings. Enough so that one could be forgiven for not noticing the deceptively average-looking building in which our headquarters are housed. The inside, though, is another tale entirely.

Stepping out onto the cold pavement, the chill breeze manages to permeate through the thick material of my suit. It is the beginning of summer, though the mornings still have a sharp edge to them. I approach the unassuming entrance, a barely there nod to the two men standing enough to have them opening up the glass doors. Their faces are vaguely familiar, though, at this stage of our expansion, it is harder to keep track of our personnel on a one-by-one basis.

The foyer is a large space, the winding marble staircases on each side leading to the elevator being one of the few remnants of the theater that this building used to house. Dmitri stands at the bottom of the stairs, jaw set into a hard line as he watches me close the distance.

Off to a great start to the day, by the looks of him.

He’s eerily quiet as we make our way up the stairs, though I remind myself that this is his usual state. He’s even more introverted than I am, which is a stark contrast to the rest of our brothers.

The moment the metal doors of the elevator shut, he hums. He often does this before delivering bad news. Today, though, the silence is more than warranted, marking the ten-year anniversary of our sister’s death. It’s always a somber affair, one that all of us dread and count down towards, if only to know how long until the torment of the memory would be over.

“Akim and Maksim are missing,” he remarks, almost like it’s a common occurrence—which it was starting to become. I scoff as I readjust my cufflinks.

“Again?” I don’t try to mask the annoyance in my voice. “Tell me again why they keep acting like fucking kids.”

“I have my men on it,” Dmitri replies, stoic as always. I nod in response, knowing he’s ten steps ahead even before he mentions it. Beyond his quiet and reserved nature lies a wildly efficient man, though unfortunately, that capacity is mostly used to keep tabs on Maksim nowadays. If it wasn’t for Dmitri, I would’ve beat some sense into that man-child years ago. It’s him I’m worried about, the tragedy that marks our family seemingly haunting him the most when he goes on his week-long benders out of nowhere.

The meeting room is permeated by the pungent scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air long after being smoked. The large space we hold our meetings in is already fully occupied by the time we step in, the air growing heavier with each footstep. Rigid faces turn in our direction, somber expressions illuminated by the dim yellow glow of the overhead lights. Now, there are only two seats empty at the head of the table, for Dmitri and I. Clearing my throat, I begin with the usual.

“Grigor, Dmitri, start the rundown,” I command, taking a seat.

Much of what we discuss each morning is the same, though I try to stay present because the devil is in the details—a small deviation in the behavior of our rivals could signal something happening. It is precisely that devastating day ten years ago that reminds us of all that growing lax at any time will result in a catastrophe. That’s an outcome we’re not going to be able to afford.

Dmitri’s baritone sends me plummeting back into the present with the mention of a certain Lansky, a minor player in the East side’s cartel, who’s been causing us trouble.

“Hold on,” I interrupt, motioning to Grigor. “He did that again . We warned him and his bastards only a few weeks ago, and they’re already trying it again?” I huff incredulously. So that’s how they’re choosing to play the game.

There are no adversaries in our world. No antagonists. We’re all morally questionable, and it’s something we readily accept. Though, even when it comes to the Bratva, we have a basic set of rules we stick by. When necessary, murder is permissible. Violence is always a means to an end, but we still have some basic principles to regulate what we do —just to make the whole process smoother . Though in the past few months, the Italians—particularly the Rossis —have been getting more and more ballsy, looking to expand beyond what is theirs and infringing on our territory. Maybe Lorenzo Rossi’s old age is making him demented, but it’s still crucial we reassert ourselves. There are a few things more enjoyable than putting those who don’t know where they belong in their place.

Today, especially, my hands yearn to spill some blood. Though it’s been ten years, not a day goes by that I don’t remember her. How our entire world fell into chaos, how both mother and father felt the pain so deep, they died only a few months after her. It’s an indescribable loss, and though painstakingly slow, we have been making more and more progress at uncovering who exactly it was that took my baby sister from us. On days like these—the anniversary of her murder—I feel the pain like it’s just yesterday that she died. And it makes me want to punish someone— anyone , really—who might be even remotely related to her death.

The opportunity comes soon enough when Grigor begins talking about a new loose thread he noticed in one of our casinos he frequents for maintenance. Sometimes payments are missed, but at this specific branch, it was much more of a common occurrence.

“There’s someone working with the Rossis in our downtown casino. I have him detained and ready to be dealt with—whenever you are. Though we might want to wai—”

“Should’ve mentioned that earlier, Grigor.” I let out with a small, impatient smile. “Finally, someone to play with.” He sighs, knowing exactly where this is going. I know it, too. All of us know just how bloodthirsty I can get on days like these. I desperately seek an outlet, and these poor treacherous bastards provide it to me.

“I wanted to say that maybe we should wait . It seems he knows more than he lets on, and from a few of my sources, he has information about Anya .”

Anya. Since the day of her death, her name has become somewhat of a trigger for me. A scent of blood I pursue like a bloodhound on the hunt, ready to do all it takes to stomp those responsible into the ground so deep they will never be found. Erased from everyone’s memories, just like they attempted with our family.

The meeting is cut short at that point, everyone’s eyes trained on me to gauge my next course of action. It’s not long before I storm out of the room. Dmitri is the only one who dares to follow, always the loyal guard a few steps behind me. He knows all the information and probably anticipated the way I’d react—of course he would. He’s ahead of the game, so much so that he himself types in the address of our compound where we are keeping the filth.

The building is just as run down as I remember it to be, the glare of the sun making the structure seem even less threatening. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been here, thanks to Dmitri handling all my dirty work when it comes to those who need a warning. Though this one in particular requires a little more persuasion, and I find myself somewhat excited to be back in the outhouse. When I was young—before I took over our family business—my father often sent me out here. He encouraged me to learn the art of persuasion , as he used to call it. He claimed it a good lesson in leadership —and it was. It acquainted me with the reality of our job and what we needed to do to survive as a family. Unless we reinstated our dominance on our turf, it would be over for us.

The old interior smells fusty, evidence of the lack of care for the building. There is an unpleasant tang of mildew that burns my nostrils as I breathe in, and it brings back all the memories of the times I spent here back in the day.

The man is a stocky, short thing, bound to the chair he is sitting in with his head lulling to the side. He’s already unconscious, though that is very easy to remedy.

“Wake up,” I shout, and his head jerks up immediately. There’s something so endearing about grinding these men down to their essence and seeing their survival instincts kick in. “Don’t you know it’s rude to not pay attention when someone is speaking to you?”

I feel myself laugh a deep, rumbling laugh that stretches my lips wide across my face. This is the main reason I stopped coming here, my insanity growing with each visit. My father denied me access to the outhouse after he realized just how much I enjoyed interrogating our guests. Everyone in the outhouse knew we needed to roughen them up to make them understand we were serious, but when it came to me… Well, I just really enjoyed making them squirm.

His eyes glance up at me, pleading with me. He is already somewhat initiated into the process, sporting several darkening bruises on his face, one of his eyes almost entirely swollen shut.

“I heard you were good so far.” I pause, sizing him up. “We need a few more things from you, and we’ll let you be.” It takes only a few light taps for his head to fall back. How pathetic.

“Please, he-he didn’t give me any information,” he starts, a blabbering mess. They always end up like this, and it almost makes me sad how little decency they have that they give in so readily. There’s no fun in such easy prey. “He said there was some cash to be made. And I-I got a family to feed. So when he—I said yes. I knew it was stupid, and I planned to alert you—” He stops sputtering, eyes widening as I grab him by his hair, forcing him to look me directly in the eyes.

“Listen to me when I tell you that I don’t give a fuck about any reason you could give me for betraying us. You knew the consequences.” I spit in his face, feeling my hands beginning to tremble. “Who. Was. He.”

A spark of recognition glints in his eyes, though it is there for only a moment. “I don’t kno—“ He sputters, heaving from the punch in the gut I deliver to him. It’s his penance, and maybe it will finally be motivation enough to speak. If not, there were other—more persuasive—methods.

Waiting a few seconds and noting that he still isn’t speaking, I land another punch in the same place, intent on making him hurt.

“Speak the fuck up.” I angle my face closer to his. “I don’t have all day, and if you’re going to take your time, I won’t choose to take it lightly.”

There. He is finally beginning to see what I mean. Other than the generic look of fear in his eyes, there is something more. He is terrified, but beyond that, he knows his life hangs on a thread now, a place we don’t have language to describe.

Perhaps he is finally beginning to comprehend that the consequences of his actions extend beyond a few beatings. That they are long-term and would seek him out wherever he decides to flee after this. Something flashes across his pummeled face—I assume it is resignation—and he finally begins to speak.

“Davide,” he utters, almost poetically. Like it is a final word for him—which it may be, I haven’t decided his fate yet. “Davide. He works with the Rossis. I only knew because I had a few of my friends verify his identity after he came the second time to get information. He offered cash, more money than I’ve ever seen in my life. I just…” Noticing me leaning away and letting go of his hair, he looks up in pure terror, unknowing and fearing what will happen to him next.

I turn away, back towards him, having decided on what his punishment will be.

“Two fingers. You’ll get shot in the leg. It’s a reminder to never betray the one who feeds you. I made sure your employment with us was more than generous in what we offered you, and yet you chose to go off and be a rat.”

***

When we arrive at the gravestone, I take a quick look around and note Maksim and Akim are still gone, taking a mental note to get an update from Dmitri about them later. Nikolai excused himself earlier during a meeting, heading out for urgent business down south. This is the one occasion we all try to attend, however painful, so the absence of a few of my brothers bothers me.

The weather seems to understand the sadness this day always brings to all of us, pouring down relentlessly. The end of the day— June second —always seems to be like this. We stand around the gravestones for what seems like an eternity, though it is probably no more than ten minutes, paying our respects. Though that means nothing now when that which we loved so deeply is nothing but a piece of engraved rock. It won’t bring Anya back. But revenge feels like it could . It will, at the very least, be some sort of closure.

“I’ll kill them, Anya,” I whisper. I place the flowers down onto the wet granite. “I know you wouldn’t want this, so I’m here to ask for your forgiveness.”

I’ve never uttered those words to her before, but now that we’re so close, it feels freeing to finally vocalize them to her. I pray that she can hear me somewhere, that I’m not crazy and just speaking to an engraved rock. Sometimes, I wonder what we all do this for, being in a sad state to call the unit we’ve formed a family. But then you remind us, Anya. We do it for you.