Bratva Beast: A Dark Romance

Until the ball smashed into the face of Uncle Cormac himself.

Nobody spoke. It was like watching Jesus get kicked in the throat. Connor turned so pale I thought he might topple over. Cormac only smiled, grabbed the ball, and threw it back. But we stopped playing after that, too afraid of the great Doyle leader to keep pressing our luck.

That night, Daddy went to Connor’s room for the first time.

I didn’t understand. I was maybe ten. Connor was eight. I heard Daddy’s voice through the walls, heard Connor crying and saying how he didn’t mean it—then heard the jingle of my father’s belt buckle.

Why would Daddy take his pants off?

Then the hitting started. Then the screams. That was the first time I hid in my closet.

Afterward, I snuck into Connor’s room and found him curled up on the floor. The back of his shirt was stained red. I peeled it up and the cotton ripped from the newly formed scabs. He sucked in a wincing breath as I gently cleaned it off with isopropyl alcohol from the big brown bottle like Daddy showed me, dabbing softly with some cotton balls. When I was done, Connor’s back was red and puffy.

He looked up at me with those big, handsome eyes, dripping with tears. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said and I hugged him tight.

Daddy started whipping Connor regularly after that.

It wasn’t every day. I don’t think Connor could’ve survived if it had been. It wasn’t even every week—though sometimes he did it a few times in a row.

It happened randomly, sometimes for no reason. Daddy would show up, maybe drunk, maybe not, take off his belt, and whip Connor until his back broke and bled.

I’d hide in my closet and hate myself with every crack of the leather on my brother’s back. I’d cry hard enough to make me sick, especially at first.

After a while, I learned to keep myself calm.

That was how I mastered my emotions.

Not that it helped any. Connor got whipped, and soon his back was crisscrossed with scar tissue. I’d sneak into his room and clean him and hold him, though after the first few times, he stopped crying.

He stopped asking why.

I never stood up for him. Not one single time.

I’d sit in that closet and listen to him cry out in pain and wish I was a better person.

That was when I realized I wasn’t strong at all.

No, I wasn’t anything. Not good enough to save Connor and not even worth getting whipped by Daddy.

If only I were better then maybe I could’ve taken some of the burden from my little brother.

It never mattered.

My room in Mack’s house felt like that closet. Which maybe wasn’t fair—I was trying to do something for once in my life. I was going against my family, trying to get information when I shouldn’t, desperate to try to keep my little baby brother alive for just a few days longer.

And I had Mack. I had our little deal.

Even still, the way the shadows from the blinds over the windows reminded me of the slats in the closet door, and when I pulled the sheets up over my face and thought about what it might be like to get my back whipped raw and red and bleeding, I was that little girl again, helpless and pathetic and weak.

I didn’t deserve comfort. I sure as hell didn’t deserve protection.

If it weren’t for Connor, I might as well just give myself over to whoever wanted me dead.

In the morning, Mack was gone. I checked his room, but he wasn’t there. I made coffee and eggs and sat in his living room, in that bare empty space, and wondered how a man could live like that.

Like his life was a blank slate.

Only good for killing.

He had no DVDs, no CDs, no vinyl records. No entertainment at all. His TV didn’t even have cable, which was almost creepy—everyone had cable.

Even serial killers had cable.

But not Mack. The house was quiet, deathly quiet, heavy as a shadow. Even though he told me that story about how he ended up in the Morozov family, I still didn’t know him—didn’t know what he liked, what he disliked, what his favorite movies were and what he liked to drink after a hard day.

Everyone had comforts. Except for Mack.

I curled up and wished I were back at my place. At home I’d probably make that blue box of Kraft Mac’n’Cheese and maybe drink a bottle of wine.

Not exactly healthy, but I was going through some stuff.

I flipped through my phone, idly staring at Instagram, at the girls I went to high school with, all of them trying so hard to seem normal and happy with their filters and fancy exercise clothes and big smiles in front of mountain ranges and their cute pets and I wondered if I’d ever have something like that.