Brianna (Shadow Wolves MC Book 2)

by Daniela Jackson

  “You want my men to put the bullet into her skull or you’re going to do that yourself?” Tank smirks at me.

  “I want your men to find her and let me know where she is. Don’t any of you dare touch her.”

  Tank emits a raspy chuckle and shoots me a glance like he’s having fun at my expense then his face turns into a cold mask. “Sixty thousand.”

  “Twenty and Samael will remember about your support.”

  He nods. “You have connections indeed.” His eyes narrow, and he resembles a soulless hyena. “Twenty five.”

  “Deal,” I say and we shake hands.

  “Now, have some fun, Your Highness. I have two new girls I’m happy to share.”

  Repulsion stirs in my chest.

  The Broken Crusaders do drugs, guns, and human trafficking. Every chick in their club is a slave. They use them. They trash them.

  I’m not able to help those girls so I don’t want to look at them either. I don’t want to remember their faces because none of them will have a happy life here. Their fate was sealed the moment they stepped into this clubhouse. Some of them will die soon, either committing a suicide or dying at the hands of one of the Broken Crusaders.

  I could take my club and attack theirs. I could. I have numbers.

  But some of my men would die trying to kill one cell of the evil cancer spread across the world while it’s already metastatic.

  “I’m busy,” I say. “Samael—“

  “Yeah, yeah, the connections.”

  Samael is a powerful ally. The sound of his name can open many doors for me.

  I leave the photo on the table. “I will visit you in a week or so to check on the progress.”

  Tank nods at me and I rise to my feet.

  “How is my sister?” Tank asks like he doesn’t care at all, but I sense rage from him, concealed, bubbling, strangled with a veil that can tear apart at any moment.

  “You have no sister.”

  “I once had a sister.”

  “My mother stopped being your sister the moment she left this place. And she’s only your half sister by your father.”

  Tank promised he would give Ma to Grim when she was sixteen, but she didn’t fancy being Grim’s punch bag so she had a chat with two cops who offered her a chance for the witness protection program. Unfortunately, there was not enough of the evidence and Tank left the prison after four years. He reanimated the club and came for Ma. She was happily married to Dad at that time.

  Dad fought for Ma’s life with Tank and Grim and honourably smashed them in a not so honourable fight. Everything was sorted between the two clubs.

  Tank never forgot that he’d been humiliated though. He will do business with me at the same time considering Ma as the dead person. He just hasn’t put the bullet into the back of her skull yet.

  “One day,” Tank says.

  “As far as I remember the gang we smashed some time ago said the same.”

  “You never know, Your Highness.”

  “I guess Samael knows for sure. Together we’re untouchable.”

  I leave the clubhouse and jump on my bike.

  Doubts cross my mind whether I’ve made a good decision.

  The Broken Crusaders are good at finding people, the best I know in fact and they do business properly, putting their personal animosities aside.

  Tank is rotten to the marrow of the bone, but he’s aware that he’s no match for the Shadow Wolves now.

  “You see, sweetheart,” I say to myself. “I will even hire a devil to find you.”

  My bike shoots forward. Two hours later, I check in to a cheap dirty motel and sleep for five hours.

  Then Samael calls me and I go to his place to meet Mike.

  Chapter 6

  Brianna

  So I have my little flat and a nice job. Now, I need to buy a cat and my life will be perfect. My glance flicks over one of the newspapers spread on my kitchen table as I breathe in the scent of detergents rising from the floor and the worktops and drop into the chair. I bought the table and four matching chairs in the charity shop below my flat. I love those shops. They smell of memories and old age like good grandparents would. There are at least five of them around my place and I visit them regularly to buy some decorations and books. In fact, I’m sinking under all that stuff I’m getting from the charity shops as my flat has only one bedroom and a small kitchen. The bathroom resembles a dark cell, but I managed to get rid of the damp eating the walls there. I also hung a yellow curtain so I don’t feel like a prisoner from the Middle Ages each time I use the toilet. The tiny square space accommodating the sofa and the row of cupboards is connected with the kitchen with an arched passage.

  I don’t need more. My life is stable and organised. I love tidying up my flat. In my old life, a maid and a cleaner took care of everything so initially I struggled with being on my own. I struggled until I learnt everything. Now, I just love doing things myself, cleaning and dusting in particular.

  Travelling by bus is very exciting too. I’ve never done that before like so many other things. Zumba classes for instance. The instructor is my age, but the rest of the group consists of the women aged sixty and over. They’re adorable though. I love talking to them. I don’t dare call them my friends because I’ve never had any real friends and don’t know what friendship is but at least, I have some social life now.

  In my previous life, I lived in my father’s dark castle, sheltered and isolated. I had private teachers, tones of books, and a very lonely life to live.

  My eyes scan the back page of the newspaper and I read an advertisement. Somebody wants to sell a kitten at a laughable price. That’s something for me.

  I arrange everything over the phone with a man sounding very friendly. The next day, I wake up early, have a shower, put the clothes on and leave my flat. It takes me twenty minutes to get to the town centre. Then I walk along the High Street, passing shop windows exhibiting clothes and cosmetics. Many people are shopping today as it’s Saturday.

  The pavement descends towards a roundabout so I cross it and turn into an area that looks poorer than the High Street. A translucent greyness in the air and the ugliness of the trash scattered here and there almost make me turn back. I huff and clench my teeth. It’s just a stupid ugliness, and I really want the kitten.

  Two rows of doll-like crumbling white houses guard the road that opens into a park. I climb the stairs of the house 56 and knock on the door. Excitement surges through me. I’ve never had a pet.

  A man in his late twenties opens the door for me.

  “Hi,” I say. “It’s about the kitten. We talked over the phone.”

  “Oh, yes. The kitten.” He tosses back his curly blonde hair.

  A handsome man, one can tell, tall and oozing the air of mystery. Except I’m not interested.

  “Come in,” he says.

  Something stiffens inside me. “I—“

  “Come in. I’ll show you the cat and then you’ll decide. I don’t bite.”

  “Okay.” I step inside and the smell of damp fills my nostrils.

  The house is dark and a bit dirty like it hasn’t been cleaned for a month. The man leads me across a narrow living room and then into a claustrophobic kitchen where I lean against the tiled wall. The kitten is lying on a towel by the washing machine.

  “How much?” I ask.

  I’m sure there was a typo in the text of the advertisement.

  The man sends me a beguiling smile. “Have a drink with me and we’re even.”

  “I don’t think—“

  “I don’t bite, Conchita.”

  “Brianna,” I say with hesitation. “My name is Brianna.”

  “Nice. I’m Ron.”

  We shake hands and I squat down to see the kitten. It’s asleep. Kind of thin and dirty, to be honest. The sound of the glasses slamming on the kitchen worktop makes me shudder and I rise to my feet, turning to Ron. He hands me one of the glasses.

  “Drink,” he says. “It’s rea
lly good. My own recipe.”

  “What is it?”

  “Taste it. You will like it.”

  He smiles at me, but something about his pale eyes sends a grisly freeze into my veins.

  “What is it?” I ask in a bit of a sharp voice.

  I know nothing about normal life, but I know a girl shouldn’t drink anything offered by a stranger. A subtle feeling that the whole situation is wrong creeps into my head.

  Ron emits a hoarse chuckle. “Just some vodka and orange juice. Relax, Conchita.”

  “I don’t drink alcohol.” I put the glass on the kitchen table and dig my hand into my bag, my eyes travelling to the kitten. Its body trembles like it is very cold. A hand touches the back of my neck and my glance shifts to Ron’s. “No fucking touching.” My heart skips a beat and a lump forms in my throat.

  “Conchita, relax.”

  I pull back, but Ron follows me, grabbing my arms.

  “Hey,” I hiss.

  “Why did you come in, huh?”

  Now, I notice a flicker of insanity in his eyes and the signs of drug abuse on his arms.

  “I’m warning you, Ron.”

  “Conchita.” He shakes his head.

  I’m so fucking naive. No wonder my father found me a good husband.

  Ron tightens the grip on my arms and leans towards me. My mind sharpens and I steel myself. Adrenaline fills my veins. I rotate my arms abruptly as my father and Kolya taught me then crush Ron’s foot with mine.

  His hand slaps me across my cheek. “Fucking crazy bitch. Why the fuck did you come in?”

  A burning sensation spreads across my cheek and a pulsating pain follows. I sweep my leg and kick Ron in the crotch. He groans, bending forward. I grip his wrist and twist his arm up until the sound of his bone breaking tears through the air.

  Ron falls to his knees then curls into a ball on the floor as I grab the kitten into my arms. My eyes fix on Ron for a moment. I’m not angry with him, not entirely. I’m angrier with my father who might as well be the reason for Ron’s distorted black soul and insanity. If there were no people like my father, Ron could even be a nice guy. He wouldn’t be a drug addict for sure.

  I draw the kitten closer to me and escape from the house.

  I just want to be normal. I don’t want to meet people like Ron who will remind me of who I really am. Of where I come from. Tears blind my eyes as I run across the town, elbowing my way through the crowds. People stare at me with pity or fear in their eyes.

  I can’t recall my way when I finally find myself in my kitchen. I sit on the floor, leaning against the cupboard. My eyes travel to the kitten. It’s not moving. It’s dead and cold like my soul.

  Ron must have starved him to death. My fingertips feel its ribs under the thin skin.

  My chest shakes as blood dribbles from my nose and contaminates the cat’s body.

  “Zane,” I whisper. “Zane. I’m so lonely.”

  I’m like a plant torn out of its habitat and thrown into a hostile environment to die. I wish Zane were here to comfort me. I’d be weak and he’d be strong. His arms would shelter me.

  Well, that’s not going to happen and I have a dead body on my lap.

  I wrap the kitten’s limp form in a towel and wipe the blood from my face then go to bury the animal by the church across the road. Digging into the dark soil between two gravestones takes me more than half an hour. Well, the spoon I’m using is not the best tool for such a task. I must look ridiculous. Thank God, a high bricked wall encircles the church and burial ground.

  I put the kitten into its little grave, cover it with a few layers of soil and rub my hands against my thighs then step into the church. The sacred silence of the medieval interior muffles me like a funeral veil. I settle myself into one of the benches and say ‘Our Father’ for the kitten. The poor animal deserves it.

  Memories enter my mind, good and bad, happy and sad. I drift away to the past.

  I’m five.

  My mother strokes my head with her tiny delicate palm.

  “Sleep, my little treasure,” she says in a melodious voice, putting her hand back on the steering wheel.

  We’re driving through the darkness. Rain is tapping against the car body. A snap of lightning crosses the night’s sky then the rumble makes me stiffen.

  “Where is daddy?” I ask in Russian.

  “Daddy is not going with us,” my mother says in Spanish. “Just you and me. We’ll have fun, I promise.”

  “Will you buy me ice creams, mama?”

  “Of course, honey. I will buy you toys and we’ll go to a zoo. Just don’t speak Russian or English. From now on only Spanish, okay?”

  I nod at her. I’m happy we’re going to talk only in Spanish because it’s the easiest language for me. “Can daddy go with us to the zoo?”

  “No, daddy is very busy now. We’ll live without him for while, okay? Just you and me.”

  “Okay.” I don’t quite understand what my mother is telling me, but my daddy is always very busy so I don’t ask more questions.

  “Chocolate ice creams?” my mother asks. “I can buy them for you at the nearest petrol station.” She takes a cell phone out of the pocket of her red biker jacket and throws it out of the car through the window.

  I giggle and fall asleep.

  I’m six.

  My mother and I are building a snowman in front of our little house in the Spanish Pyrenees. The freeze is biting my face, but we’re having a lot of fun, just me and her.

  “When is daddy going to come to us?” I ask.

  My mother kisses my forehead and lifts me off the ground covered in a layer of sparkling snow. “We are going to live here for a while, Brianna. Just you and me.” Her long black hair slipping out of the chunky beanie tickles my cheeks.

  “I want my daddy,” I cry out.

  “You daddy is a bad man. He can’t live with us.”

  “No, he isn’t. He loves me. He isn’t bad.”

  “Hush, Brianna.”

  “I want my daddy.”

  “You have no daddy,” my mother yells and I cringe into myself at the tone of her voice.

  She carries me inside the house and we enter the kitchen. My mother’s body shakes and she starts crying.

  I’m so scared that I can’t move.

  Chapter 7

  Brianna

  At the age of seven, I realise at last that my daddy is not going to come to us because my mother and I escaped from him and hid in the Spanish Mountains.

  I start school in September. My mother is working in the local grocery shop. We’re happy even though my clothes have holes and our food is very simple. My mother reads books to me, teaches me how to dance samba and cha-cha, and we hike in the mountains.

  I remember the crispiness of the air, the coldness of the water from the well in front of our house and the fire of the sun. My fear while watching the world from the mountain peak. The freedom pervading my whole being at the sight of the river meandering in the green valley. The wildness of the green forest. The love between my mother and me—her hugs, her kisses and her soothing words.

  “One day everything will be just fine, Brianna,” she says every day. “It must be. It will be. We just need to pray and have hope. Never give up, my little treasure. Never.”

  “I know, mama.”

  We have good souls around us. They’re all the old women from the village near our house. They’re teaching me to sew, to sing and to be modest. To enjoy the life even though it’s hard. My mother’s helping them in whatever way they need her. In return, they’re looking after me when she’s at work.

  I like them. They smell weird like mothballs and herbs, but they are very nice to me. The scarves on their heads and the flowery aprons on top of their long skirts remind me of the Matryoshka dolls my daddy bought for me.

  One evening, my mother and I visit the village chief. He lets her use his phone. My mother and I go to one of the bedrooms, closing the door behind us and she calls her parents, using
a funny red phone that looks like the ones from old movies. She cries and forbids my grandparents to visit us.

  “It’s too dangerous for you and for Brianna and me,” she says. “I love you. I will always love you. One day... Maybe one day...” She disconnects.

  “Why can’t we go to your parents?” I ask.

  “Your granny and grandpa are too old.” She strokes my head, but I feel she doesn’t want to talk to me at all.

  “Where do they live?”

  “In Majorca.”

  “We could go there.”

  “No, Brianna. He will be looking for us there.” Her voice falters and she sniffles then inhales deeply.

  “Who, mama?”

  “The bad man.”

  I want to ask her more questions but she looks at me sternly. “No talking, Brianna. I mean it.” Her cold glance makes me speechless. She averts her eyes and freezes. “Your granny and grandpa are both writers.” Her face softens as she glances at me. “They’re good people. Tolerant. Wise. One day we will visit them. One day.”

  “Si, mama.”

  The chief’s wife serves us supper and we return to our house to lead our simple life.

  I’m eight.

  One night, the front door of our house bangs, shaking me out of my dream, and my father walks into the kitchen where my mother and I are sleeping in one bed.

  I jump out of the bed and fall into his arms. “Daddy, you’ve found us at last.”

  He kisses my head and crushes me in his embrace. A loud sigh escapes his mouth.

  “Brianna,” my mother says in a sharp voice as she crawls out of the bed and corrects her long nightgown.

  My father plants me on the floor and I jump onto the bed then dive under the duvet.

  “Reyes,” my father says in a cold voice, making me scared of him like never before.

  “I’m not going back,” my mother says in Spanish. “Get out of my house.” She stands opposite him, so fragile and tiny compared to him. It’s like a fairy is facing a warlock. “Get out.”

  “You call that ramshackle building a house?” My father shakes his head as his eyes sweep over the metal stove. The fire inside of it is dying and coldness replaces the warmth in the kitchen.