Raze (Scarred Souls 1)

Alik ran his teeth over his bottom lip, eyes leaden, his cock hardening and bulging under his towel.

“Get out of here, Kisa, before I fuck you against that wall and make your papa even more pissed at me for being late.”

With this dismissal, I turned on my heel and fled down the stairs into the waiting black Lincoln Navigator. Serge, the driver and my papa’s most trusted Byki, bodyguard, glanced back at me in the rearview mirror and politely asked, “Where to, Miss Volkova?”

I loved Serge. He was like an uncle to me. He’d been driving me everywhere and protecting me my whole life. He’d never married or had any children. I think he regarded me as his daughter in some way. I could tell him anything and he’d never tell another soul. He was an old man now, in his seventies, but I knew he would be with my papa until he died.

“Home to change, then church, please,” I replied.

Serge stared at me for a fraction too long in the rearview mirror. I could tell he was concerned. Of course he wouldn’t dare say it aloud, but I knew he disliked Alik and that I was worried about my duty, my fate, to be Alik’s wife. His silent fear for me seemed to grow every day.

Stowing his concern, Serge pulled out into the always bustling traffic of Brooklyn. I watched the bright lights glare through the darkened window.

At least for tonight, at church, I would taste a few hours of much-coveted freedom.

Chapter Two

Kisa

“Kisa, you’re distributing the care packages on the street tonight, okay?”

I smiled enthusiastically at Father Kruschev, but inside, my stomach rolled. I hated distributing the food on the streets, preferring to serve it from the safety of the truck. It was too humid outside. I hated walking down the dark alleys and narrow streets of Brooklyn—they were clogged with the homeless, not all of whom had good intentions.

The food truck halted, and I moved next to Pavel, a graying, short, fat man from our church.

“Looks like we’re buddying up tonight, Pav.”

Pavel’s pale, crinkled face smiled at me warmly. “The Lord will provide you with his gratitude, Kisa. You are doing His work after all. You are doing a good thing. An honorable thing. It is good for you.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes and tell him my life was so fucked up that I didn’t think the Lord gave a damn about me. Instead, I nodded in fake agreement. Pavel had emphasized the words “good” and “honorable” because of my papa. The word “good” and Kirill “The Silencer” Volkov didn’t normally feature in the same sentence. Pavel had been around a very long time and witnessed, many times, the destruction the Pakhan and the Bratva had wrought upon their enemies.

But as much as people feared my papa, I loved him. I always wanted the best for him. I made sure I attended church and gave alms because: (a) my papa ordered me to do so, to appease Father Kruschev—my papa was eternally worried about the brutality of my family’s business and its effect on our souls. And (b) if there was a God, I needed to rack up some good deeds on behalf of my family, to bargain with on our respective judgment days. By my reckoning, as it stood right now, our scales were heavily imbalanced on the side of bad, and we were all completely damned and looking at a long stretch in the flames of hell.

Call me optimistic, but I was hoping these small weekly acts of charity would bring us all one step closer to not being completely unsaveable and labeled “evil sinners” for eternity. Plus, I actually enjoyed helping the needy. Not only did it give me a break from the twenty-four-seven surveillance by my papa’s thugs, or Alik’s ever-watchful eye, but it also served to remind me that, although I was trapped in a life I didn’t want, I never went without food, I lived in the best of houses, I wore the best of clothes… I was blessed in this life of material needs, and I felt good helping change someone else’s life.

“Okay, we’re ready to begin,” Father Kruschev called out.

All of us volunteers unbuckled our seatbelts. Sighing, I zipped up my ill fitting unshapely thin turtleneck and loose jeans.

I stood and headed to the small kitchenette at the back of the truck. Father Kruschev handed me my first round of care packages and smiled at me in thanks.

“Stick to your group tonight, Kisa. Dangerous people come out when this kind of heat hits the city.”

Returning a comprehending smile, I turned and stepped off the truck into another boiling summer’s night.

The first truck had already pulled in and my best friend, Talia, made her way toward me. She was Ivan Tolstoi’s—the third boss in the Bratva—only daughter. I watched her walk my way, all tall with blond hair and bright brown eyes. I had to smile at her four-inch heels. Even distributing cold cuts and blankets to the homeless was an excuse for her to wear her knee-high leather Gucci boots.

“Kisa! I thought you were giving tonight a miss to go out with Alik? Or has he let you off his short leash for a while?”

I shrugged off Talia’s pissy comment, trying to act all nonchalant. “He had business to attend to with our papas, so I decided to come here tonight. Father Kruschev asked me at church on Sunday if I could help.” I gestured to the care package in my hands. “So here I am.”

Talia’s eyes softened and she pulled me into her chest, careful not to crush my bundle of food and blankets. I winced as her shoulder pressed against the large bruise on my arm from last week when I’d displeased Alik at a business function. I’d been talking to a male business associate of his father’s “too long,” and he’d warned me of his “displeasure” with his vise-like grip and hushed, harsh words in my ear, but I held back my reaction and accepted the pain. I would never question Alik; my life wasn’t worth the strife.