Page 32 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
“Where?” I insist.
“Temporary,” he says quickly. “That matters.”
“Say it.”
He takes a breath, then he speaks fast. “South of the city… past the rail yards. The old estate. If you don’t know what it is, it looks like a boarding school.”
His voice drops, tight and rushed. “You’ll ruin me,” he says. “I don’t want this traced. I don’t want my name anywhere near?—”
“Talk to me, what’s the window?” I ask.
“They won’t keep her long,” Lev says, and he sounds tired. “This place is for sorting. They check, they break, they decide. You know how it works.”
“And then what?” I ask, because I’m not here for his excuses.
“That depends on how she behaves. Marriage, or they keep her as a pressure point.”
He doesn’t mention execution. That tells me enough.
“Security?”
“Layered,” he replies. “Same as before. Cameras outside, interior monitored. Guards rotate every four hours. Men on the perimeter. Women inside.”
“How long before she moves?”
Lev exhales. “A day. Maybe less. Once they decide she’s… suitable.”
I don’t thank him.
“You paid your debt,” I say. “Disappear.”
The line goes dead.
I don’t bring anyone else in. This isn’t a team job, because teams talk and talking leaves trails. If I’m going to pull this off alone, I’ll need resources, money, access, and the kind of leverage that doesn’t ask questions.
The estate sits exactly where Lev said it would, past the city sprawl, past the point where anyone bothers to ask what a place like this is doing here. I park my car near a bend, three blocks out, and walk the rest.
Standing in the shadow of a huge oak, I lift the night optics and let the details resolve. Two guards man the entry. Good.
I know this place. I know high walls ring it, unbroken, except the thick iron gates at the front. There's no soft edge and no obvious weak point, nothing that would make them question their security.
I watch the building.
Silence and darkness wrap the structure. This place isn’t for living or pleasure. It’s for pressure. No music bleeds throughwalls. No laughter drifts into the night. No windows are lit for anyone passing by.
I’ve been in this building before. Not as a guest. As the man who controlled the door. I followed orders, checked IDs, and looked away when I was told to.
Women arrive here dressed for meetings they didn’t understand, leaning on the arms of powerful men who rented them for exactly one night. I’ve watched them leave smaller, walking alone, bitter that the men never even bothered to learn their names.
Other times, these houses don’t use fists. They use time. They keep people awake. They keep them waiting. They ask the same questions until the answers start to change.
Then they offer “choices” that aren’t choices at all. By the time the men in charge consider using force, it isn’t necessary anymore. The breaking has already happened.
I lift the optics and look for cameras on the gates and along the walls, then I note their angles from this spot.
I watch the sweep on the corners and along the gate posts until I can see where the lenses stop and restart.
The blind spot sits on the left side of the wall where the oak blocks one angle and the corner camera can’t quite reach. I wait until both guards turn their heads at the same time, one to light a cigarette and the other to check his phone.
