by V. F. Mason
Dominic’s twin sure knew how to inflict pain on people, if his collection of knives, wires, chains, and pliers was anything to go by. He was the one who brought it all here.
“I’m sorry.” The guy begged, while breathing heavily in fear. He struggled to get out of the chair, but all he accomplished was banging it against the floor.
Ignoring his apology, I put on latex gloves and ran my fingers over the metal chains, enjoying the source of power rushing through me.
Yes, it would be truly freeing to finally deliver revenge on those who deserved it, a generous gift the pakhan allowed me, considering our archaic rules.
The sovietnik, the counselor, was the left hand of the pakhan, and his job was to oversee the actions the boss ordered and everything related to the Bratva dealings, take care of the legal aspects of the organization, and the financial situation. But the most important part for the sovietnik was to be an impartial adviser to the pakhan and solve internal conflicts. For this purpose, the sovietnik should be devoid of any interest or ambition, meaning he didn’t know half of the shit that went under the radar.
And more importantly, he should never engage in any kind of fight or touch any illegal aspect of the Bratva. Being present during beatings and other stuff was one of the things he should not be associated with. Before Vasya, our old pakhan—may he rest in peace—granted me the position as his sovietnik, I used to be the enforcer, which meant I was the best when it came to fighting and weapons. In addition, he trusted me with new recruits, and those little shits put me through a lot with their stubbornness and no-fucks-given attitude.
But I couldn’t allow anyone else to avenge my lost years, and Dominic might have been a pakhan, but he was my friend first.
Besides, no one except him understood the need for revenge.
Smirking, I played with the pliers, causing a metallic sound, and the man swallowed loudly, fear evident in his body. Droplets of sweat ran down his forehead, while his eyes frantically searched for a way out, which wasn’t possible considering who designed this establishment.
“Please, I had no choice.”
Chuckling at those absurd words, I leaned down and grazed the metal against his knuckles, and he closed his eyes, whimpering. But instead of chopping off his fingers as he expected, I cut the rope and freed his hands and legs from the chair.
Gasping, he rubbed his wrists while chanting, “Thank you, thank you so much. I will pay you as much as you want.” I raised my brow in amusement, because the fucking American was hilarious. Did he really think I would let him go so easily, just because he asked for it?
Generosity was a gift not to be expected from a man who lost everything in the span of five years.
My life, my status, and my woman were stolen from me. Mercy was a gift none of my enemies would get.
Putting on brass knuckles and with a knife in my right hand, I threw him one. He barely caught it, grasping it firmly to his chest while trembling in fear.
“I do play fair, even with people who don’t deserve it.” The streets had raised me, where the strongest always won. My values and the code I lived by didn’t allow me to torture him without giving him a chance.
This way, he could at least hope, because no one could ever best me. But sure as fuck, it would be amazing to see this man try.
“Fight.” With that, I swung my fist at him and he blocked it. In fighting stances, we pushed each other back as he scanned me for weak spots.
Stepping back, I forced him forward as he tried to push the knife into my liver, but I slid to the side and instead hit him square on the chin so his head swung back. Not giving him much time to recover, I stabbed him in the back, but not before delivering a blow to his face.
Groaning, he fell to the floor as blood slipped through his fingers, but I didn’t give a fuck.
All I could see were the memories flashing through my mind like a vivid black-and-white movie.
“Mr. Harrington, you are a witness in this case. Did you see how Radmir Abdulabekov delivered a fatal knife wound to Cliff Harrington on September 19, 2011?” the judge asked from under his glasses, as I sat next to my lawyers. The hearing was closed so no one in the audience could watch it like some kind of circus, while the jury looked at me with scorn and distain.
Conrad straightened up and smirked in my direction, but he quickly covered it with sadness as he hung his head. “Yes. As you know, I came to see my brother, Cliff, on that day, and as I entered his house, this man”—he pointed at me—“held a knife in his hand after stabbing him. Thank God the police were with me, or he would have killed me too.” Then his eyes lit up with anger as he addressed the judge, his voice laced with hatred. “People like him deserve to rot in prison for life.”
The fucker’s words echoed in my ears as the cuffs were put on my wrists while the judge announced my life sentence.
Snapping out of the past, I kicked him hard in the stomach. He groaned louder. Unable to stand up, he crawled on the floor, his white shirt quickly soaking with blood. Whistling loudly, I picked up the gun and pointed it at his forehead while he shook his head, still apparently hoping for mercy.
“You were right, Conrad. I did kill a Harrington after all.” With that, I fired the gun, and he fell on his back with his eyes open, dead.
One down, ten to go. I’d wanted to kill him for so long—his testimony had been the last nail in my coffin—but I couldn't enjoy it much without torturing his mind first. My next victims wouldn’t have it so easy.
I had yet to experience satisfaction from the act.
Removing the latex gloves, I threw them in the bin and washed my hands in the sink then called Vitya.
In five minutes, he showed up along with Misha, to my shock. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Misha rolled his eyes, while smirking at me and giving me a bear hug despite being shorter than me by a few inches. “Dominic sent me. We can’t risk you breaking any laws in the US.” He placed his black briefcase on the floor while rubbing his hands. “Some nice work you have for me here.” He put his gloves on while excitedly sighing in appreciation at the dead man in front of him.
Misha was the Bratva’s cleaner, meaning whenever someone was killed or we needed to dispose of evidence, he would show up and make sure the cops could never trace it back to the Bratva or anyone else. What he did, I had no fucking clue, but he was good at it. The dude was seriously fucking sick. He was lean and nerdier compared to other members, and he never believed in physical violence—although it wouldn’t be good for anyone to underestimate him. He could kill someone and make sure no one ever found the remains.
“Have fun,” I muttered, while he waved us off, not liking to be interrupted during his process.
Exiting the warehouse, two Jeeps waited for us, and Vitya answered my silent question. “Petor will take you to the penthouse so you can rest and stuff.” He was hiding something, but I had no desire to dwell on it. Clearing his throat, he added, “We are leaving tomorrow morning, can’t stay long, Dominic needs Misha there.”
Speaking of the pakhan. “How is he?”
Vitya’s eyes darkened in sadness. “Not good.”
Yeah, he had his tragedy with his own woman and barely had time for the brotherhood. Good thing he had such a loyal man as Vitya by his side.
“I still have ten people to punish.”
“Not now, Radmir. You need to lie low for a while, and then do whatever you please. But you aren’t a prisoner anymore. You are a sovietnik.”
Nodding in agreement, I slapped his back. “Don’t worry, Vitya. Everything is going back to normal.”
His mouth lifted in a mocking smile. “The pakhan and sovietnik suffer and go around inflicting revenge on the people who wronged them. Nothing is normal until both of you can move on from your pain.”
I had no reply for his statement.
Moving on was out of the question until all the people involved had died a painful death. Only then, my heart and mind would settle.
Director
Radmir Abdulabekov was released from prison, no matter how hard I had tried to keep him there.
The fucking asshole had a lucky star or something else attached to him.
Crying out in anger, I pushed away the laptop, lamps, and notebooks from my office table as I stood up, my rage too overwhelming to ignore as my mind hectically searched for a solution to this situation.
Finally calming myself down, a soft smile marked my face as I raised the framed photo of Vivian Jordan and traced her beauty with my fingers.
She’d be mine, but I wouldn’t hurt her for anything. Even killing Radmir was never part of the plan, because she loved the man. I could have been mad about it; after all, we belonged together, and she shouldn’t dream or cry over another man. But her illusion of loving him kept her away from other men, and it worked for me.
Subconsciously she was saving herself for me; she just hadn’t met me back then to understand our connection.
He got in the way.
I was ready to be generous toward anyone, but it looked like they had left me no choice.
Everyone who stood between Vivian and me would have to die.
Even her kid represented the past she had shared without me, and it wouldn’t do. Kids were innocent, but she didn’t listen to me when I tried to convince her to give him up all those years ago. The only choice they had left me with was cruelty.
The game had officially begun.
May the strongest one win.
Texas
July 2011
Vivian
Passport, tickets, and booking documents, check.
Luggage, laptop, camera, and smartphone, check.
Scarf, water, cereal bar, and gum, check.
If someone told me just a few days ago that I would pack a bag and leave all this behind, I would have laughed in their faces.
Vivian Jackson wasn’t capable of such things, such spontaneous and reckless things.
Vivian was the perfect daughter, the kind of child all parents dreamed about.
Harvard graduate summa-cum-laude that she earned from a scholarship and hard work. Perfect manners, charity work, always polite and kind. Always put her family first and never partied wild. No bad rumors, reputation, or pranks. Loved by teachers, and she had only a few close friends.
There was no time for fun with all those responsibilities, but Vivian never once complained about that. She was happy her family needed her, even though some friends didn't understand it was her life. Maybe that was why they all faded away within time.
Like I said, Vivian was perfect, and gazing at her reflection in the mirror, I never hated her more.
I was tired of being the perfect Vivian who everyone adored and used.
I had no life.
Nothing to care about, nothing to be proud of.
Waiting for that right guy to come along, and guess what? He never did, and I hated that imaginary guy as well. Resented him even.
I thought my useless existence would be at least worth some epic love story, but no such thing.
I’d had enough.
The last straw was my dad’s decision to marry me off to Alex Jordan because he did business with his father and this merger would benefit both families. He just informed me of it, as if it was a done deal.
As if my life belonged to him, and I was a doll with no emotion. And before I could even protest, he reminded me how much my life depended on him, since I worked in his company and helped him out. He had a heart attack one year ago and the responsible daughter in me stepped in right after graduation, in hopes of taking away his burden just for a while. I never expected my sacrifice to be thrown in my face.
I had one prestigious degree, but no job, because all my energy went into the family business to help my dad. My one true love was photography, but even that relationship ended. I poured all my energy into family business, and constant rejection letters from galleries, newspapers and magazines didn’t help my case. My website didn’t have much luck either. No one visited it, and I had to constantly listen to my dad crack jokes about his investments in my little hobby because it brought no profit. Although how he considered buying me a professional camera a few years ago an investment was beyond me.
Who the hell lived like that? Without self-respect where no one cared about my desires, hopes, and dreams? How could I have allowed it? Were all those luxuries worth it? Was the fear of the unknown worth it?
I used to think it was.
But not anymore.
For the first time in my life, I was showing my middle finger to responsibilities, duties, and everything else that implied I had to be the perfect kid while my life passed by like a blur.
Fuck this shit.
No more.
Grabbing my bag in one hand while the other reached down for the luggage, I glanced one last time at the place I called home. I used to adore the massive ranch house where you could appreciate the beauty of nature.
Now, looking at it made me feel nothing but nauseous. My own prison that was slowly suffocating the life from me, and to survive, I had to get away.
Before anyone could stop me, I climbed inside a cab, put my sunglasses on, and gazed ahead.
Nothing in this world could have changed my plans.
Life was waiting for me.
April 2017
Radmir
Leaning on the cold tile, I groaned as the hot beads of water eased my sore muscles while the shower stall filled with steam. The dirty water at my feet went down the drain, taking the prison time and all the filth from that place with it. I soaped myself up, savoring the luxury of not being tense or always having to look over my shoulder in case of danger.
Such small things as a shower, which are a necessity, can strip you of your pride or anything else in prison. I could never allow myself to shower properly when someone was there with me. People should fucking cherish the things they have and not take them for granted.
The water started to chill, so I closed the valve and got out, picked up a towel, wrapped it around my hips, and then exhaled loudly as I curled my toes into the fluffy fucking carpet.
Such a contrast to the rugged, cold, broken tile in prison. I still had a few blisters and cuts on my feet from the last time someone smashed a glass on the floor and took away my shoes so I would step on the shards.
Life in prison was no fucking piece of cake; someone made sure of it. The amount of shit I got there could only be explained by a personal vendetta against me. Those people missed one important fact though.
Don’t send sheep to kill a wolf.
Each beating, fight, scar, pain only made me stronger so I could survive for my revenge.
Wiping away the fog from the mirror with my palm, I studied my reflection, trying to recognize this bearded beast of a male with Mohawk haircut as Radmir Abdulabekov.
I used to be the most clean-cut one from the Bratva. Suits, sophisticated haircuts, and usually clean-shaven. But now, several new scars marked my chest and back from knife wounds. New tattoos across my hands and back provided a permanent memory of the years I lost, and finally, rough, damaged skin from the beatings that would never be the same.
My eyes, which used to be gray with laughter and mischief, held nothing but fury and anger at the injustice served me.
Growling at the unsettling thoughts, I turned off the light and stepped into the room only to stop dead in my tracks as I noticed a stranger there.
A young woman with long blonde locks was decked out in a tight black dress that barely reached her thighs, and high heels, which allowed her hips to sway from side to side as she approached me. Her green eyes slid down my body as they lit with appreciation at my physique.
I liked sex as much as the next guy and had often amused myself by treating my one-night stands with expensive dinners and good manners, but none of them meant anything.
However, I always recognized the look i
n their eyes when they thought they had scored big.
“Sovietnik,” she murmured. Her accent was thick, so there was no question she was from Russia. When her perfume washed over me, I flinched at how strong it was. What the ever-loving fuck? “I’m here to make you feel better.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder. “Direct order from the Bratva.” Right before her hand touched my six-pack, I grabbed it and pushed it back… to her surprised gasp.
“Get the fuck out of here.” She tugged at her dress, confusion written all over her face. In my old life, I would’ve been gentler, as I used to fucking adore women, but at the moment, my mood wasn’t exactly welcoming.
“But you are out of prison… I’m a gift.” She still insisted, licking her lips and showcasing her more than generous cleavage, but I didn’t give a fuck about it. My mind was trying to make sense of her words.
Then it dawned on me.
The Bratva had several rules, the code everyone lived by, and they were never broken. One of them said that should a member find himself in prison at any point in his life, if he was unmarried, a woman should be delivered to his house or room to give him pleasure for all those lonely years.
Dima was simply following the rules, probably without consulting the pakhan first, because Dominic knew my stance on this.
“I won’t repeat again. Get the fuck out.”
She frowned, opened her mouth to argue once more, but must have seen something in my eyes as she quickly grabbed her jacket from the chair and moved toward the door. With a force she flung it open and stepped through, but not before screeching, “A normal man would want a woman,” and slamming the door shut behind her. Walking to the huge-ass window, which brightened the room with the city lights reflected in it, I rested my arm on the glass as I focused on the flicking lights below.
Oh, she was right.
I did need a woman.
But not any woman.
I needed Vivian, as pathetic as it sounded, and before I would be permanently done with her, I would experience the pleasure of her body one more time. Maybe then the idea of hurting her would be less painful.