Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Tatiana would be spared, seeing as she was a female. But she’d still be used like a pawn, sold off to a man of my father’s choosing simply to gain power and make political moves.
Nikolai… He would be the weapon my father needed to deal with the ugly side. Nikolai would be the emotionless brute who’d use his sociopathic tendencies to do what no one else could.
“By the wall, boy. You know what to do.”
My father didn’t wait for me to respond or act. He turned away from me and walked over to where he kept his tools.
I instantly felt the fire racing along my skin as I moved to the wall, pressing my back to it. I rolled up my shirtsleeves, placed my arms on either side of me, and breathed in and out slowly. He hated when I showed pain and fear.
Sometimes it was unavoidable. But I had trained myself all these years to bury those emotions deep down.
My father came back around, the bamboo cane in his hand rusty. My blood. Nikolai’s blood. And God knew who else he’d used it on.
He stopped a foot from me and looked down at me, the severe expression on his face enough to make a weaker man cower.
But I was used to it. I was immune. Numb.
Without preamble or another word spoken, he brought that cane down across my exposed forearms repeatedly, beating me until they ran red with blood and the viscous fluid slid down to my fingertips before dripping onto the floor.
And still I stood exactly as I had from the beginning—stoic. I stared him in the eye, biting my tongue so hard I tasted a metallic tang fill my mouth.
One day things would change.
One day I’d be stronger.
And Leonid would be the one who had to bite his tongue so he didn’t scream.
I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart thundering so hard I could hear it in my ears. I ran a hand over my damp face, wiping away the beads of perspiration covering me from head to toe.
“You fucking bastard,” I murmured and closed my eyes before pushing myself up with a grunt.
Even from the grave, my fucking father haunted me, reminders of my horrendous childhood and the abuse at his hands.
I got up and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, and then leaning on the vanity and just trying to calm myself. I stared into the mirror, looking at the man I’d become.
On the outside I was strong, big, someone you didn’t fuck with or I’d take your life without a second thought.
Women from the Old World crossed themselves when they saw me.
Children cried to their mothers when I walked by.
Men glanced down so they didn’t make eye contact.
I didn’t get sadistic pleasure out of these reactions. I wasn't my brother, after all. But it was a necessary evil when you were the leader of the Russian mafia in Desolation, New York.
I looked down at my arms. The ink trailed from my wrists, marking the backs of my hands and snaking all the way up my shoulders and neck, covering my back. It wasn’t just art.
It was a shield, camouflage. Especially on my forearms, where the scars from the cane took piece after piece of me.
The marks my father had given me to “toughen me up” were forever part of me now.
You couldn’t see them anymore, not unless the light hit them just right. Not unless you ran your fingers over my skin and felt the raised marks.
There was no shame in what I carried. They weren't something I ever wanted to forget, even if I covered them up.
The memories of my childhood abuse brought me back to when I’d met with Marco Bianchi, how I’d stopped him from hitting his fifteen-year-old daughter.
The rage I felt that day was something I hadn't experienced in so long.
On the outside I’d looked collected. Calm. But on the inside I’d been simmering with rage, wanting nothing more than to snap his hand and bust his nose until blood poured out of it.
I knew most men in our circles saw women as nothing but property. Our own father had been that way, had seen his children as nothing but heirs, replacements for when he was gone.
He didn’t love us, didn’t give two shits about us. That’s how most of these men were. But things had changed—were continuously changing—now that Nikolai and I ran the Desolation Bratva.
We wanted our women to be strong, to fight for themselves and be independent. We wouldn’t fucking stand for abuse. No longer.
The reign of terror from Leonid Petrov was no more.
I growled as my thoughts went back to Marco. That fucker. Just thinking about him annoyed the shit out of me. I curled my hands into fists as I remembered him about to hurt his daughter. He was lucky I’d let him go with just a fucking bruise, the mudak. Asshole.