God of Wrath (Legacy of Gods #3) by Rina Kent

I swing the bat that’s soaked with blood on my shoulder and stare down at the guy.

He’s younger. Probably just started at TKU or maybe he’s a sophomore. Either way, he’s new blood, which makes him scared, unsure.

Usable.

His lips purse, probably unconsciously, and his face is red, due to being crushed by Nikolai’s weight.

“I know you’re Serpents,” I say. “What I don’t know is why you think you can take us out. So how about you clarify that for me and I’ll consider letting you live to see another day.”

“We…” he strains with a hint of a Russian accent. Nikolai is completely oblivious to the struggle since he continues smoking leisurely. “We wouldn’t…know until we try.”

“My, my. What do you know?” Nikolai grins. “Serpents have a suicide squad who are out to get us with guerrilla tactics?”

“Is it worth it when we’ll catch you and kill you?” I say matter-of-factly.

“I say, you guys are not on our level, especially kids like you who haven’t had proper training.”

“It’s the only way to get accepted to the club,” the blond grunts, his voice muffled. “Into the Bratva.”

I share a look with Nikolai. Those snakes aren’t only getting bold, but they’re also spouting lies to younger guys, whispering promises in their eager ears, and taking advantage of their youthful, adrenaline-filled energy to get to us.

That’s both smart and stupid.

It doesn’t matter how many times we’re ambushed. Not only will they never get us, but we’ll retaliate twice as hard.

I applaud the effort, though.

“You want to get into the Bratva, kid?” I shove the bat against his head. “Don't go using sleazy methods to be admitted. That might work at the beginning, but you’ll always be viewed as a cockroach who can be sacrificed at any moment. If you want to sit in the inner circle, be a man about it.”

“And don’t go interrupting people’s rides. That’s the number one rule to stay off assholes' shit lists. I’m assholes. And you’re somewhere in the middle of my list. Can I kill him, Jer?”

The kid stares at me with bulging eyes. Not at Nikolai. Me.

Fucker is smart and probably heard that I’m the only one who can keep him on a leash. If I’d left him to his own devices, Nikolai would be a death-row prisoner by now. Or just dead.

“We did promise to let him go,” I say, and the kid nods once.

“I did no such thing, you did.” Nikolai slides the burning end of his smoke toward the guy’s eyes. “The insolence of this motherfucker pisses me off, and I can’t let it slide. What’s your name?”

“Ilya Levitsky.”

“Russian. I like that, but I don’t like you, Ilyusha. Any last wishes?”

Ilya keeps his eyes open and continues staring at the burning end of the cigarette. Anyone on this island, or even back in New York, knows of Nikolai's crazy episodes. If he says he’ll burn holes where your eyes are, he’ll do it.

This kid must be aware of that, too, but even though his body shakes, he doesn’t close his eyes.

Just when the fire is about to touch the cornea, I say, “No.”

Nikolai’s attention remains on Ilya and his chosen weapon of harm. “Why the fuck not?”

“I gave him my word.”

“Your word isn’t mine. Fuck off.”

“It is. You promised, Niko.” I shove the baseball bat against his shoulder and he finally stares at me with eyes so unhinged that no amount of violence will be able to satisfy them.

A long time ago, when we were kids and Nikolai realized how deranged he can get, he asked me to stop him when he slips out of control.

When his violence starts to mess with his head.

When blood is all I see in his eyes.

I don’t right now, but he’s getting there.

“Can I at least beat him up?”

“You did that already.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Nikolai stands, but not before he kicks the guy in the ribs.

He grunts, but he knows better than to retaliate or stay around. He gets up, hobbles to his bike that Nikolai made him abandon earlier, and escapes in the opposite direction of the descending sun.

“Kids these days.” Nikolai shakes his head.

“You mean you, nineteen-year-old baby?”

“Oh, fuck you. I’ll be twenty soon.” He throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground and steps on it, then he hauls up his bike that he practically threw down and let slide into a tree earlier.

After straightening it up, he leans an elbow against it and pats his pocket for another cigarette. “What are we going to do with these cockroaches?”

“Let them fester.” I hop on my bike. Riding, preferably alone, is the only thing that I like doing for myself. No duties or expectations—just me and the wind.

“Won’t they become harder to deal with when they multiply?”

“On the contrary. We can take them out when they’re gathered in one place.”

A slow grin stretches his lips. “I knew you were my favorite. When do we start?”

“Patience, Niko.”

“That word doesn’t belong in my limited vocabulary.”

Don’t I know it.