Bratva Beast by B.B. Hamel
Fiona
Islept fitfully, caught somewhere between waking and dreaming.
It was like he stood at the end of my bed, watching me all night. I’d open my eyes—but he’d be gone.
There was some part of me that was terrified he’d sneak into my room and do something terrible to me while I slept.
And another part that wanted exactly that.
So I drifted between the two, suspended in perpetual anxiety until the morning sun spilled through the blinds. I got up, rinsed off in the shower—he had clean towels in the closet, which was shocking, I didn’t think hitmen were the type to have extra clean towels—then put on my same clothes.
Downstairs, I made coffee, then rifled through all his drawers.
It wasn’t like I was snooping—well, okay, I was snooping. His kitchen seemed normal and was filled with regular kitchen stuff, although he didn’t have much food in the refrigerator. I moved on to the living room and found mostly junk in the junk drawers. Nothing in the hallway table, nothing in the powder room, nothing under the sink or down in the basement except for an ancient water heater and the furnace.
His house was shockingly boring.
There were no personal items or pictures. I didn’t know anything about this guy—where he was from, who he was friends with, what his parents were like, nothing. That set me on edge a bit, and I hoped I might find out something by looking around at his things.
With most people, their personality existed in the objects they surrounded themselves with. Their living space was a reflection of their brain, mostly.
Except with him, there was nothing, only a blank slate. I didn’t know what that meant.
I sat back down at the kitchen table and drank coffee. He came downstairs a little while later wearing a pair of gym shorts and nothing else. I stared at his muscular body and the tattoos covering his skin and wondered what I did to deserve any of this.
It would’ve been so easy if he weren’t so freaking gorgeous.
“Morning,” he said, sipping his coffee and leaning up against the island.
“Morning.” I spun my phone on the table. “I have a shift later today.”
“All right. And I figure you’ll want to stop at home and get clothes.”
“Ideally, yeah.” I didn’t meet his gaze for a second. “I’ve been thinking about what that guy said last night.”
“About German?”
“Yeah. Your family’s going to keep sending people to kill me, right?”
“They might.” He sounded almost amused. “Though I sort of doubt many people will want to take the job after what happened to Boris.”
“They’ll still come sooner or later, and you’ll be in the middle of it.” I tapped my finger against the coffee mug. This part had been bothering me the most. “How do you plan on handling that? When someone else comes, I mean.”
“I’ll kill him if I have to.”
He said that like it was no big deal.
I sighed and leaned my head back. “I can’t keep asking you to kill for me.”
“You’re not asking me. I don’t murder on command.”
“Except for when your gang leader tells you to do it, I guess.” I looked back at him, frowning a little, head tilted. I didn’t know how a hitman for a mob could possibly say he didn’t kill on command.
That was his entire job.
He smiled and sipped his coffee. “How much do you know about the Morozov family?”
“Not a lot. You’re a bunch of Russians. There are a lot of you, I think. And it’s all run by some guy you call the Pakhan.”
“Pakhan is like the Don in Russian. Our leader’s name is Evgeni, and when I was twelve years old, he saved my life.”
I shifted in my chair and tucked one leg underneath me. “What happened?”
“It’s not a nice story.” He leaned toward me, eyes dark as hate. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
I should’ve said no, walked away, forgotten about the whole thing. When he looked at me like that, I could remember what he was: a monster, a killer, a beast.
“Tell me,” I whispered.
“When I was ten, my mother died.” He paused for a second, looked away, his gaze tunneling deep into the past where I couldn’t reach him. “Things were bad for a while. My father wasn’t a nice man and he turned his rage on me.” Another pause. He closed his eyes then opened them again. “One afternoon I came home from school and found my front door standing open. My father sat in the living room with a gunshot wound to his gut. Blood everywhere, gushing out of him in slow waves, like his body had a tide. He told me to get towels but I just stood there, staring at him, until another man came out from the kitchen smoking a cigar.
“That was Evgeni. He looked at me with this stare I’d never forget then shot my dad in the face. I remember screaming, clawing at Evgeni, cursing him, trying to kill him, then nothing. I woke up in a room in the back of an unfamiliar house, and ever since then I’ve been a ward of the Morozov family.” He stopped speaking, and I let the horror of that moment sink in.
He was just a child, a little boy still. His mother was gone, and then he had to watch his father get murdered in front of him. I couldn’t begin to fathom what that did to person.
Let alone living with the man that pulled the trigger.
No wonder he was so broken and strange. No wonder when he looked at me, it was like nothing stared out from those beautiful eyes—nothing but hunger.
There were versions of that story in the Doyle family. There were cousins that thought Cormac was the next coming of Jesus himself. They all craved his attention and his approval, and he was stingy with it, probably to keep them hooked on the drug of his loyalty and respect.
Young Mack must’ve been the same—addicted to that feeling of being special and a part of something.
Except none of them were.
The whole thing was a fraud.
I saw through it when I was a little girl. The families chewed up these young, troubled men. It gave them an outlet for their anger and aggression, paid them pretty well, took care of them in a lot of ways, but it also threw them into a world of danger and violence and death.
I saw with my own eyes what my family really thought of their children. The sound of a belt against bare skin echoed in my mine. The screams of my brother as he struggled in the back room.
My helpless tears as I hid in my closet.
Young Mack might not have grown up into a professional murderer if Evgeni hadn’t shown up that day.
He would’ve been scarred. Ruined, even. Maybe dead.
But he wouldn’t be the man sitting across from me now.
Jaded, dark, and ripped to shreds.
“Thanks for sharing that with me,” I said softly. “I was just sitting here wondering who the hell you were.”
“I’m nobody,” he said and put his coffee down. “I’m a boy from the neighborhood. I’m like any number of men struggling on these streets.”
“But none of them are killers like you.”
“No, they aren’t.” He watched me carefully, and it felt like his eyes peeled me open and looked down deep into my core. “I’ll go get a shirt on then we’ll head to your place.”
“Right, yeah. You go get a shirt on.”
“Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”
“I think I’m good.”
He smiled tightly and disappeared upstairs. I watched him go, still trying to digest that story.
Nobody watched their father get murdered at twelve years old and managed to walk away unscathed. Nobody grew up in a mafia around the men that crumpled his world like a piece of trash and still managed to keep himself together.
And yet he managed to survive.
When I was twelve, I only cared about boy bands and learning how to wear makeup.
He was busy learning how to kill.
I couldn’t imagine what life must’ve been like for him afterwards. His whole existence was dedicated to that family—and yet he went against them to save my life.
He even murdered one of his own.
I didn’t understand it, but I wanted to.
* * *
He dropped me off a few blocks from work hours later. I had a suitcase packed full of anything I might need in the trunk of his car.
“I’ll be nearby,” he said through the window.
“You can take a break if you want.”
“And have someone come in here and kill you? No, I think I’ll hang around.” He rolled up the window and drove off.
I watched him go, not sure what to make of it.
At least work was quiet. I tended bar with my usual enthusiasm, which is to say, not a whole lot. A couple of the family’s cousins came through and I made a good show of smiling and saying hello and even put a round on my own tab. I figured, they’d go back to Cormac and all the others and say how Cousin Fiona was being a ‘very good girl’ or something stupid like that.
Meanwhile, I thought about Mack.
I didn’t understand why he’d seemingly sacrifice everything for me.
His family would come after him if they knew he was working to protect me. They’d rip him to pieces if they thought he was a traitor.
The mafia families didn’t mess around with loyalty.
And yet I needed him. Even if this whole thing might drag him down into the mud and destroy him, I couldn’t walk away.
My little brother was in danger and every day that I delayed was another day he spent in Lionetti custody.
Mack was my only chance at getting him back in one piece.
I wasn’t stupid. I understood what would happen when the Lionettis got tired of me. There was no way they’d ever send Connor home, not after keeping him captive for so long—that would only spark a horrible war. Cormac wouldn’t be able to keep the Doyle family out of it, and the whole city would be ripped into pieces. Bad enough the Lionettis were battling themselves, but it would be even worse if everyone were involved.
Maybe that was why the Morozovs wanted me dead. Maybe they somehow knew—
But no, if they knew, none of this would be happening.
My mind was in a thousand different places, but at least bartending helped keep me focused. It was a boring job but it forced me to concentrate and use my hands, and I couldn’t spend too much time lost in the dark, black labyrinth that was my brain.
The night ended and the regulars drifted out. Two in the morning felt so much later when you were sober.
“One for the road?” Tom asked, the other bartender working that night. He was a young guy, blond hair, bushy beard.
“I think I’m just heading out.” I closed my register and gathered my tips. I shoved them into my pocket.
“Yeah, all right.” He grinned at me. “Sneaking out the back again, I guess.”
“Don’t take it personally.” I threw him my best smile.
He only waved as I slipped out and headed down the back hallway. He’d finish closing without me—I knew Mack was out there waiting, and I didn’t want him sitting alone in that car all night.
I reached the back door and stepped out into the dark, dim alleyway. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and I spotted a person standing not far away.
For one second, I thought it was Mack.
Until he turned to me.
The door to the bar swung shut just as I turned to grab it. Too late—there was no handle on this side.
“What’s the matter, Fiona? You’re not happy to see me?” Renzo stepped closer, his foot landing in a puddle.
I didn’t look at him for a few beats of my heart. I willed myself to get it together—I had the information he wanted, so this wouldn’t be so far. I turned to him and let out a breath.
“You just surprised me, is all.”
“You on edge?”
“For obvious reasons. I’m being blackmailed by a bunch of asshole Italians.”
He pretended to look wounded. “How dare you. We’re not assholes, we’re perfectly pleasant. This is just business, after all.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m here to collect what you owe.” His smile dropped away. “No more games. No more delays.” He pulled something from his pocket them flicked it open.
The knife gleamed in the moonlight, glittering off the sharp blade.
I stared into his eyes.
“It’s happening in an abandoned middle school out in Mt. Airy.”
He tilted his head, a little surprise on his lips as he stepped closer, knife gripped tightly. I glanced over his shoulder, hoping Mack would be there, or someone, anyone that might keep this bastard from hurting me, but there was nothing.
“When?” he pressed.
“I don’t know. Can’t you figure that out?”
“We could, but there’s a reason we’re blackmailing you instead.” He looked thoughtful. “Which abandoned middle school?”
“I doubt there are many. Why don’t you go drive around until you find it?”
He scowled at me and held the knife up, the blade horizonal across his face. “This isn’t much. You know that, right? You’re coming to me with this thin shit and you expect me to be happy.”
“I’m giving you what you want,” I said, a hint of desperation creeping into my tone. “Just please don’t hurt Connor, okay? This was as much as I can get you without ruining everything. You don’t want me to get caught already, right?”
He hesitated, lowered the knife. “You’re not as smart as you think you are and you don’t know what we want.” He flipped the knife closed and I nearly threw up with relief. “If this doesn’t pan out, you will be hearing from me. I’ll send a box to your apartment with your brother’s tongue wrapped in aluminum foil.”
He shoved the knife into his pocket and walked away.
I watched him go and slumped back against the wall. I felt tears in my eyes and gripped my hands into fists, banging them against the brick wall.
God, I hadn’t been expecting this. I should’ve been prepared to see Renzo, but instead he surprised me, and now I was a mess.
More footsteps. Someone splashed into that same puddle. I opened my eyes, expecting Tom, but Mack stood a few feet in front of me instead, breathing hard.
“I saw him leave the alley,” he said, eyes narrowed. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said weakly. “He didn’t hurt me.”
“I should’ve waited in here for you. I’ve been circling the block and he must’ve slipped in while I was on the other side. Fuck, Fiona. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” I reached out on instinct, wanting to comfort him for some insane reason. I touched his arm and he drifted closer, his hands moving down to my hips.
I let him touch me. I craved the comfort he could bring, even if the comfort was a poison.
“I know this is complicated, but I’m going to get you out of it. I promise, Fiona. I’m all yours.”
“Don’t talk like that.” I stared into his eyes, trying to understand what this man saw when he looked back at me. There was only devotion there—devotion and rage. “You don’t owe me anything, right?”
“I don’t owe you a thing,” he said, moving closer, his lips parted, his eyes like two lightning bolts running down my spine, “but I want you anyway. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” I put my hands on his chest.
He kissed my cheek, his lips warm and inviting. I pressed myself against him and squeezed my eyes shut against the tears.
He held me quietly in that alley until I felt calm enough to head back to his car. We drove back to his place, and he listened as I told him about work—listened as if he gave a shit about me pouring beer and whiskey for a bunch of drunks.
But he seemed interested, like the details of my life were fascinating.
He carried my bag inside and took it up to my room.
“I think I’m going to shower and go to bed,” I said, stretching my back. “I’ve been on my feet for a while and I really need to get out of these clothes.”
“I can help. I’m very good at washing backs.”
“I suspect that if I let you anywhere near my shower, you won’t be doing any cleaning.”
“That’s very true.”
I shook my head and waved him off. “Go do whatever you do when you’re not killing people.”
He sighed dramatically. “When I’m not killing, I’m planning my next kill. It’s a simple life, but a good one.”
I didn’t know if I should smile or laugh or feel terrified.
He went downstairs and I locked the bathroom door.
I stood in the shower and let the hot water run down my face. I closed my eyes and thought of Connor in some Lionetti basement, suffering needlessly, dying because I couldn’t save him fast enough.
And I knew then I’d do whatever it took to bring him home.
