Page 75 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
Instead, I take the narrow staircase that descends beneath the house.
The basement is quiet.
Cold concrete walls. Steel doors. Dim lighting.
The kind of place where truths are forced out of people.
I walk into the central room and sit down at the metal desk facing the reinforced chair bolted to the floor.
Then I open the network.
Our internal system links every major member of the organization. It’s where intelligence reports, operational briefings, and strategic updates are distributed.
Tonight, it will carry something else.
I upload everything.
The warehouse override logs.
The offshore transfers Timofey uncovered.
The intercepted communications during the ambush.
The falsified shipment route Sergei leaked.
Every piece of proof.
I attach the final evidence last: the real-time trace from Sergei’s encrypted device during the attack on my decoy car.
Beneath the files, I write only one line.
Traitor identified.
Then I publish it.
Within seconds, notifications begin lighting up across the network. Commanders, lieutenants, and captains opening the files.
Seeing the evidence.
Watching Sergei’s reputation collapse in real time.
By the time I close the laptop, the entire organization already knows.
The door behind me opens.
Heavy footsteps echo down the corridor.
Sergei is dragged into the room between two guards. His hands are bound, his expression tight with confusion and anger.
They force him into the chair.
He looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Boss,” he says slowly, glancing at the restraints on his wrists. “What did I do to deserve this kind of treatment?”
His voice carries just the right mixture of indignation and wounded loyalty.
It would almost be convincing.
