Paying The Bratva’s Debt

high school,” she says thinly. “When I was seventeen.”
My body feels like it’s caving in on itself. I feel cold, and gross, and just sick all over.
“Look, it was a long time ago. He told me at the time it was a mistake, and that he’d been drinking and texted the wrong person. I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but I really wanted to. And he never brought it up ever after that.”
I breathe shallowly, shaking in disgust. “Zoey, I’m…I don’t even know what to say. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I’ll live,” she sighs. “Sorry, I know you probably never needed to hear that. But I had to tell you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the mental image.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “You think I can come visit you in New York?”
I wince. “I… I’ll be home pretty soon, Zoey.”
“Yeah…” she sighs again. “Alright, sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m the one who’s sorry. God, that’s so freaking gross.”
“Politicians, huh?” she mutters dryly.
“Ugh.”
“Alright, well go back to your fancy job offer and your hot growly boss. If he’s got a brother, let me know.”
I smile. “Night, Zoey.”
“Night.”

10 Viktor
The car comes to stop beneath a flickering streetlight. I get out, the gravel, broken glass, and grime of the warehouse district crunching under my shoes. It’s a depressing place, but it’s also quiet—perfect for my guests, and for the violence that will come to the others tonight.
We’re parked in front of two small, dark warehouses. The door to one opens. Light floods out across the gloomy parking lot as Lev steps out.
“How are they?”
“Scared,” Lev growls. “But safe. Doctor Turgenev is looking them over now, but they seem okay. They’re eating.”
My brow furrows. “Good. That’s good. And the others?”
His smile twists. He turns and nods to the second warehouse. “Slowly accepting their fate. Sobbing like little girls.”
My lips thin into a hateful line. “Even better. I’ll see them in a few. But I’d like to meet our new arrivals first.”
Lev nods and heads back to the first warehouse. I follow, but at the door, I stop and turn to my men.
“Stay outside. If anyone is to come in, your guns stay out here. Is that clear?”
“Da, boss,” a few of them grunt. I nod and turn back to Lev as he opens the door for us. Inside, there’s a small entryway with a little office desk, and then another door. Wordlessly, we step through that one into the next room. Two dozen faces suddenly lift to me, and my heart both soars and breaks.
The children look scared, and dirty—ranging from perhaps six or seven to seventeen. They’re all sitting at long cafeteria-style tables eating from platters of food. A few of the older kids stand to one side, eying me and Lev. This is the third group to come through Chicago. Even as we stand here, two more are being taken in by my people in New York and LA. But this is the last, at least from the monsters currently waiting to die in the warehouse next door.
But I could have seen this a hundred times before and it wouldn’t matter. My heart still breaks a little when I see them. My fury still surges to hatred at those responsible.
A middle-aged woman with a stethoscope around her neck looks up from a little girl and nods stiffly. She says something with a smile to the girl she’s been talking to, and then walks over to us.
“Mr. Komarov, hello.”
“Dr. Turgenev. How are they?”
The doctor sighs heavily. “They’re terrified, of course. Emotionally battered, a few were beaten.”
In the distance, in the warehouse next to this one, I hear the occasional sound of a lumber saw. It steels my resolve. It gives me the strength to face this horror.
The children in this room are the lost—the discarded, the forgotten. My jaw clenches tightly. They’re the easily preyed upon. They’re me, before I became the me I am today. These ones, like the others who came last month and the month before, and the ones tonight in LA and New York, are part of a trafficking operation.
Even thinking about it brings the bile into my throat. It makes me want to forget the saw and use my bare fucking hands on those responsible.
This whole thing is my own project. While the Bratva takes no part in shame like this, they don’t involve themselves in the active role I’m taking against this shit either. But for me, it’s personal. This is how I fight the demons from my past. This is how I try and fight the horrors of this world that I witness as a forgotten child of the streets—a casualty of the broken system.
This is the work of evil, evil men. I’ve been tracking them and using shell companies and fake entities to string them along, in order to free these children and others like them from… well, it’s best not to think about. Mercifully, what could have happened, didn’t happen. I’ve made sure of that in my dealings with the pieces of shit running this operation. They believed they were selling these children to a ring of predators here in the city. But when they arrived to the meeting…
Well, they won’t be making any deals at all ever again. Or breathing.
My teams in LA and New York tonight are dealing with groups trafficked from Southeast Asia. But these here tonight are mostly from Russia, Ukraine, and other Balkan states. They’re orphans, mostly. Some of them refugees from small wars the world doesn’t care about. They’re the children who would otherwise fall through the cracks and be swallowed up. Exactly the kind I’m trying to save.
Eventually, they’ll have a place to stay, all under one roof. I’ve told Fiona the true purpose of the property she’s helping me with, but not the gritty, horror-show details. I’ve chosen not to give her nightmares knowing the full evil of the world we live in—that there are those who would prey on the most