Bratva Beast: A Dark Romance

It was bloody and it was ugly, and my family wanted to stay far away from the action.

And then there was me, sucked right into the middle.

“What do you have for me?” He looked down at his phone and started tapping away. He wore dark slacks and a white dress shirt, rolled at the elbows.

“I talked to Tully and Ferris last night, but—”

He looked up and interrupted. His dark eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re about to make some bullshit excuse.”

“I tried,” I said, feeling that desperate creep in my spine—the same desperation I felt last night when I kissed Mack.

Except last night, my desperation was tinged with a very confusing desire.

And this one definitely was not.

“Clearly not hard enough.” His scowl bit me to the core.

“I’m not part of the business. When I ask questions, it only looks really suspicious, and last night they got mad. I pressed really hard, believe me, I tried, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Renzo sighed. “That’s a shame then. I guess I’ll have to go break the bad news to your brother.”

“Wait,” I said quickly. “Give me more time.”

“How much time do you think your brother has?” He looked down at his phone and started typing again. “Your cousins have a shipment coming in a week and I want to know where. Figure it out for me, and I won’t cut off your brother’s hand. You keep fucking up and failing and your brother will come back to you shoved into a hundred tiny boxes.”

A lump worked its way up my throat like a beetle trying to escape. I felt like I might be sick and had to press my hands against the bench to keep from falling over.

Nobody knew. Nobody knew but me.

I don’t know when it happened. Two weeks earlier, I was at work, doing my usual thing, keeping my distance from the family and just trying to get through this shitty world when Renzo approached me. At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on—

Until he showed me a picture of Connor tied up in some basement with black eyes and blood leaking from his mouth.

Instantly, I thought of my father kicking Connor’s door open when we were still just kids.

I thought of the sound a belt makes over bare skin.

Renzo said nobody knew they had Connor. Renzo said everyone thought he was dead.

And he was right. When I got home, my father broke the news—Connor died in a shootout with a Lionetti crew.

Which wasn’t true, but Renzo made me swear that if I told anyone, he’d finish my little brother off.

All I had to do was bring him information. Spy on my own family for him, and eventually he’d send Connor home.

That night, he let me speak to my brother on the phone. Connor begged me not to listen to them, not to do what they asked—

But of course I agreed. Connor was eighteen and only just started working in earnest for the Doyle Family. I couldn’t leave him to rot and die in some safe house basement.

Not when I owed my brother my life. Not when I failed him, over and over again, every night my father got drunk and stormed into my brother’s room with a thick brown leather belt stained with dark red spots where it bit too deep.

I’d sit with Connor afterward and clean the bloody wounds with cotton balls and isopropyl alcohol, the stuff in that big brown bottle. He’d wince and dry his tears and try to make jokes, and I’d smile back and laugh at them—

All the while hating myself.

Because I never tried to stop it. I never said a word.

I hid in my closet and cried while my little baby brother took his beatings.

Years and years went by and Connor hardened.

So did the scars on his back.

I never forgave myself.

Now, Renzo owned me because I’d do anything to try to fix the past.

Which was why I had to find out about the drug shipment.

“Let me talk to him,” I asked softly, pleading. “Just to make sure he’s okay.”

Renzo snorted, not looking up. “Why would I do that? You failed me, Fiona. You don’t get rewards for failure.”

“Please, I just want to hear his voice, make sure he’s alive.”

Renzo stopped typing and sighed. He dialed a number and held it to his ear, glaring at me. “Yeah, it’s me. Get the kid and put him on.” Renzo waited while I sat there, heart racing. An older couple walked past with little yapping white dogs on leashes. I had to pull away from one as it growled and lunged at my ankle.

Renzo held out the phone. I tried to take it, but he shook his head. I pressed my head to the receiver. “Connor? Connor, it’s Fiona, tell me you’re okay—”

“Fi, don’t help them.” It was him, definitely him, but he sounded bad and distant. “Don’t do it, Fi. I’m okay, I’m—”