Page 9 of Cruel Obsession

“The kind who was never supposed to be there in the first place.”

“That wedding tookmonthsto arrange.” His voice rises. “Months of negotiation with Sergei. Territory agreements. Trade routes. Alliances that would have protected us from the Georgians—”

“I don’t care.”

“—and you destroyed it all.” He’s shouting now, face flushing. “In front of the entire Bratva. In front ofeveryone who matters. Do you know what Sergei is saying right now? What calls he’s making?”

“Da, and I don’t care. I have my property business. It’s doing well. The very reason I built it was to get out of this bullshit.”

The silence that follows is worse than the shouting.

My father stares at me. Then he laughs—quiet this time, ugly. The sound of something breaking.

“I have bad news for you, son.” He leans forward again, close enough that I could headbutt him if I wanted. Part of me wants to. “You were born into the Bratva. There is no way out for you. Not while I’m breathing. Not while you carry our name.” He taps my desk with one finger. “You think you can play businessman? Pretend you’re clean? You’re not. You never will be.”

The words settle into my chest like a fucking life sentence. Which is what the Bratva is, after all.

“Every disappointment,” he continues, voice dropping to something softer, more dangerous. “Every failure. Every time you’ve embarrassed this family—it all comes back to the same thing, doesn’t it?”

My hands tighten on the armrests.

“Mishka.”

I pull in a breath, forcing down the visceral response to ram my fist into his face.

For a second, I’m fifteen again. The weight of the Makarov in my hands—heavier than it should be, unfamiliar, the metal still warm from my father’s palm.Hold it like this,he’d said.Respect the weapon.

I’d been trying to do everything right. Checking the chamber like he taught me. Finger off the trigger until—

The crack splits the air.

Mishka’s face—surprise first, then confusion, then nothing. His small body crumpling. The blood spreading dark across his shirt, too fast, too much. My mother’s scream ripping through the house, raw and animal and endless.

The gun clattering to the floor.

My hands shaking so hard I couldn’t make them stop.

Blyad.

I’m gripping the desk now. Knuckles cracking. The wood grain digs into my palms, but the pressure isn’t enough to ground me. Gunpowder still fills my nose—nearly fifteen years gone, and I can still smell it. Still hear the click that came a second before everything ended.

“You destroyed this family, Arkady.” My father’s voice comes from far away. “First, you killed your brother. Then you broke your mother’s heart. She was never the same after. You know that.”

I know.

I know because I watched her fade. Watched the light drain out of her eyes day by day until there was nothing left but an empty shell that stopped eating, stopped speaking, stoppedliving. The doctors said heart failure. But we both know what really killed her.

Me.

“And now,” he says, “you’ve destroyed the only alliance that could have saved us. Again.”

He straightens. Crosses his arms.

“And let’s not forget Operation Blackout.”

The words land like a second bullet.

“Six years ago,” he continues, “my own son—my ownblood—sabotaged my operation. Cost me millions. Humiliated me in front of the other families.” His lips curl. “The ultimate betrayal.”