Bratva Beast: A Dark Romance

“Thank you for the warning,” I said and push my chair back. “Is that all you wanted?”

“That’s all.” Evgeni spread his hands out, another false smile on his lips. “You should come around more often, Mack. Speak with the other men in the family. Come deeper into the fold.”

“I’m fine where I am. Unless that was an order.”

Evgeni sighed. This was an old argument. He wanted me to take his place one day, and I had no interest. I wanted to kill, and that was all.

But it took a certain special kind of beast to run the Bratva.

“No, that’s not an order. I won’t force you to take on more than you’re ready for. I only wish you’d reconsider.”

“Please don’t send Peter.” I looked down at the man that raised me, broke me, and built me back up again, and wondered how I’d ever had a normal day in my entire life with him shadowing my past.

“It’s much too late for that. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to step aside.”

I turned away, hands shaking. I didn’t want Evgeni to see my weakness, but anger rolled down my spine in waves and my breath came ragged.

“I don’t step aside. Tell Peter not to come.”

“For once in your life, Mack, you’ll have to deal with this. I am your Pakhan, after all.”

I let out one sharp breath. “Now you want formality?”

“Now I want loyalty. Step aside and let Peter handle this kill. You need a rest, Mack.”

I walked away then. I couldn’t stand there a second longer and listen to him without saying something that I’d regret.

He knew what he was doing. He knew I wouldn’t let Peter anywhere near my mark—but I also wouldn’t want to hurt one of the few friends I had in this world.

Peter, fucking Peter. I remembered his big smile, his booming laugh, his hands like split logs. The earth shook when Peter walked.

I had a couple days at least. He’d have to get a flight from Moscow, and that wasn’t a short trip. Then he’d likely need another day to recover before getting out on the streets.

There had to be another way. Peter was fiercely loyal to Evgeni, even more than I was, and I had no doubt that he’d do whatever he was told. If Evgeni wanted him to kill Fiona, then he’d find Fiona and kill her.

Whether I got in the way or not.

Bastard Evgeni. I got behind the wheel of my truck and gripped the steering wheel so hard my vision turned black.

That bastard was doing it again.

All through my childhood, after he took me in, Evgeni pushed me, used me, and manipulated me. He beat me when I failed and beat me when I succeeded. He’d promise to go easy, then break my arm the next day. My teenage years were spent in terror, getting stronger every day, but never sure when Evgeni would do something horrible.

I never knew what the limits were, and that was the worst part of it all.

Poor damn Peter. He only wanted to lift weights and live the high life out in Moscow. Now Evgeni dragged him back to murder some strange girl.

And I had to stop them both.

“Fuck,” I whispered, rage flowing through me.

Evgeni could have left this alone. He could have trusted me.

Instead, Peter.

And now I had to decide what mattered more: some strange girl that drew me to her like an addiction, or the family that broke me, trained me, and raised me.

I started the engine and drove slowly back home, my mood black and crackling with anger.

9

Fiona

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to let Mack hear me crying.

A long time ago, I thought I was strong. Back then, I had a hundred cousins, most of them boys, and I loved them all. I thought they loved me too—at least they said they did. Daddy always said family was more important than anything else in the world, and I believed him.

Connor and I were best friends back then. We went everywhere together, cruising through the streets on our little bikes, meeting up with other young Doyle kids, laughing in the park, playing hide and seek and tag and manhunt. We were the kings of the neighborhood, our little pack of children.

I thought I was home. I thought I could never get hurt when I was surrounded by my people.

Daddy said we were safe.

But of course, he lied.

I didn’t think my first real taste of pain would happen under our own roof. But one morning we were playing stickball in the street and Connor whacked the tennis ball so hard it seemed like the fuzzy green part would come undone. We all stared as it soared over our heads like an eagle in flight, and I remember thinking how proud I was of my little brother—