Page 102 of The Bratva Betrayal

Three years ago, for his birthday, because he’d seen it in a window and mentioned it once, and I remembered.

That’s how it’s always worked between us. He mentions things once, and I remember them and make them happen, and he just accepts it.

I’ve been cleaning up after Misha since I was a child.

This is the last time.

“You need to leave,” I say.

He looks up, startled. “What?”

“The city. Tonight. By ten at the latest.”

He stares at me. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m going to have papers made up. New name, new plates, and a car waiting. I’ll put enough money in an account to start somewhere. That’s everything I can do for you.”

“Artem.” His voice has changed as the vodka confidence drains from it. “You can’t be serious. Because of one night⁠—“

“Cady Gallagher’s brothers will see her face in the morning.” I let that sit for a second. “And when they do, Killian Gallagher will make a decision that has nothing to do with strategy or alliance or anything Benedikt wants. It’ll be personal. And Rian will let him. I’m not going to war with the Gallagher family because you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“Then protect me,” His voice is younger and more stripped down than I’ve heard in a long time. “You’ve always protected me. That’s what you do.”

“Not this time.”

“Benedikt—“

“I’m not going to bring Benedikt into this, and you won’t, either. What do you think he’ll do when he finds out you’re three million dollars in debt to Lucas Manifold? You think he’ll look at that and decide you’re worth the trouble?” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’ve kept that from him. That’s the last thing I’m keeping.”

Misha sits on my couch in his boxers, looking every bit like a man with nowhere left to go.

That’s because he doesn’t have anywhere left to go.

He never built anything. Every room he’s stood in comfortably has been mine or Benedikt’s. Every connection has been borrowed, every safety net woven by someone else’s hands. He’s thirty-one years old, and if I pulled every thread I’ve stitched into his life, there would be nothing left.

I let it continue because he’s my brother, and because it was easier than the alternative. Each time I thought about cutting the cord, I’d remember something from when we were kids, and I’d give it one more month, and one more month after that.

No more months.

“Don’t bring that girl with you,” I tell him. “She’s a liability, and she’s not your problem to take with you. She goes back to whatever she was doing before tonight, and she doesn’t hear from you again.”

He nods once, small and automatic.

“Pack light. One bag. The less you take, the faster you can move, and the better your chances.” I stand. “Everything you need will be on the counter within an hour. Don’t use your phone after you walk out the door. Don’t contact anyone you know here.”

“Artem—“

“Anyone, Misha. This is your only chance for survival.”

“You’re really not going to cover for me.” The reality of the situation is hitting him hard.

“No.”

“What is this about?” He looks at me, suspiciously, and he has every right to. We’ve never fought or come to these kinds of terms over a woman.

“What do you mean, what is this about?” I push back with annoyance. “You hit⁠—”

“She means something to you.”