Not so far from the truth.
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Sneak Preview of NIGHTFALL Tsezar Bratva
By Nicole Fox
I just discovered the don’s darkest secret. Wait ‘til he finds out mine…
The Bratva don and I made a deal:
Spare my father. Take me instead.
But Dmitry Tsezar wasn’t satisfied with my body.
He wanted everything else, too.
My obedience. My submission.
My heart. My soul.
And when that still wasn’t enough, he came to take my life.
But then I found something.
Something twisted. Something wrong.
Something hidden in a locked room of his mansion, in a wing he warned me never, ever to wander near.
When I opened the door and discovered Dmitry’s secret…
Everything changed forever.
Dmitry
The footage is grainy. Dots and whirls of gray and white flutter around the screen as though I’m seeing the scene through a snowstorm.
Still, it isn’t enough to disguise his face.
“It’s Sevastian,” someone says.
I don’t respond. I already know. Plus, I don’t want to look as surprised as I feel.
Sevastian Nikitin has been one of my closest friends since I was a kid. We practically grew up together. The Bratva is a family, but within that family, I considered Sevastian a brother.
And now, I’m watching him spill his guts to the FBI.
“Who knows what he told them,” someone whispers. “We could all be fucked.”
I glance down at the stack of papers on my desk—pictures, dates, and locations. All of it proof of Sevastian’s meetings with federal agents.
When I first got word that he might be a rat, I didn’t want to believe it. So, I had him tailed. For weeks, he was monitored and followed, and I hoped it would turn out to be nothing more than a Bratva rumor. Maybe even a case of jealousy. Another member wishing they had Sevastian’s close connection to the boss.
But now I know the truth.
“We can’t let this stand.”
I look over my shoulder and see Rurik Zaytsev standing behind me. He’s leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His face is half hidden in shadow, but he stands tall when he sees me looking.
Next to Sevastian, Rurik is my second most trusted lieutenant. Though, with Sevastian’s betrayal still fresh, I wonder whether I can truly trust anyone.
“Obviously,” I say, sharp enough that the rest of the men in the room straighten their spines. “Do I strike any of you as a forgiving man?”
The question is rhetorical, but a few men shake their heads.
“A good leader is merciless to those who betray him and his family. You’re my family and Sevastian has betrayed us all. So, he must die.”
There’s no room for emotions in the Bratva, especially for the leader. There are relationships, but they’re founded on trust. When that trust is broken, the relationship breaks with it. If I want my men to respect me, I have no choice but to kill Sevastian.
I can’t give him an opportunity to defend himself—because there is no defense. There is nothing he could say that would excuse the fact that he met with federal agents on numerous occasions without once telling me.
My father before me, and my grandfather before him, led the Tsezar Bratva with an iron fist. Ruthless. Unforgiving. They had no time for regret or disappointment. There was only anger and a sense of satisfaction when justice was dealt.
I intend to lead in the same way.
I pause the video, my office plunging into silence except for the nervous breathing of my men.
I point to Rurik. “Send for Sevastian.”
Rurik answers with a sharp nod. “Should I tell him to meet you at headquarters?”
I think on it for a moment and shake my head. “My house.”
I don’t often conduct business from my home, especially when it will require a cleanup, but Sevastian will be nervous if I tell him to meet me at my office. He may guess I know something and dive into the rat’s nest prepared for him by the FBI. I have to make him believe things are just as they should be. As they always have been.
“Actually,” I say as Rurik is leaving. “Take two men with you and pick him up. If he asks any questions, tell him I told you it’s an emergency. I don’t want to give him the chance to run.”
Rurik grabs two other lieutenants and the rest of the room follows them out, leaving me behind with the paused video showing Sevastian taking an envelope from the undercover agent he met at the restaurant.
I study the screen for another moment, assuring myself that the blurry man there is really Sevastian. The camera work is sloppy, but I see the tattoo peeking out from the collar of his sweater as he reaches across the table. It’s the brown bear he had tattooed on his back the day he turned eighteen. A symbol of his love and loyalty for our family. Our organization. Our purpose.
A symbol that, in the end, meant nothing to him at all.
I turn off the television and leave. I have to be at the house when Sevastian arrives, so there is no time to linger.
Sevastian has always had pitch-black hair. As a child, even into his teen years, his face peeked out from under the mop like a friendly ghost, smiling and laughing.
While I followed the example set for me by my father and grandfather, greeting people with a stoic nod and burying my laughter behind a clenched jaw, Sevastian was jovial. He pulled pranks on maids, told dirty jokes loud enough for my grandmother to hear, and followed me blindly through every bad decision I ever made.
When I see Sevastian walking up my stone driveway, flanked on either side by lieutenants, it’s that pale, smiling boy I see. Not a traitor—my friend.
Weakness. That’s
