Bratva Beast by B.B. Hamel
Mack
The rough buzzing of my phone on the nightstand yanked me from a black sleep. No dreams, no nothing. One moment, I was staring up at the ceiling—and the next, I grabbed my phone and answered it, throat thick with sleep.
“What do you want?”
It was German, and he didn’t sound happy. “Pakhan wants to speak with you.”
That woke me up.
“Right now?” I checked the clock and cursed. It was quarter past five in the morning.
“He’ll be at his usual breakfast spot at six. I hope you can make it.” German hung up before I could reply.
I sighed and leaned back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
One room over, Fiona was swaddled in her covers, probably with one hand between her legs thinking about my lips against her throat.
I could walk in there right now, tear the sheets away, and stare down at her smooth, creamy white skin. Her lips would open, her voice would tremble, and maybe she’d ask me to stop—
I wasn’t sure that I’d listen.
Which was the problem.
The girl woke something up in me that I hadn’t experienced in a very long time—it was a longing and a hunger.
I wanted her body, her delicious lips, her round hips and tight ass, her legs wrapped around my waist as I plunged my cock deep inside her, but I also needed her approval.
I craved that look in her eyes—needed her to stare at me like I was worth something.
Very few people in this world ever looked at me like I was anything more than a weapon.
Definitely not Evgeni Morozov, Pakhan of the Morozov Bratva, my mentor and ersatz father.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. All those years living under his roof, and I still didn’t feel like I knew Evgeni at all. He was a mystery, a black figure on the periphery of my memory.
He was the fight in my stomach, the fire that fueled me. He was my rage and my killer instinct. He taught me how to take a life and how to close down my emotions before they overwhelmed me.
Before him, I was a regular boy. But he put ice in my veins.
He turned me into a knife.
I squeezed my eyes shut and reached up toward my shoulder. The scar was still there—perfectly round puckered flesh from where Evgeni put his cigar out on my skin. You think this hurts, boy? Imagine getting shot. Imagine getting stabbed. You still have to fight, even when it hurts.
He was right about that. I still had to fight, no matter what.
I got up and showered. I threw on a black t-shirt and a leather jacket then found my truck and rolled out into the early morning city. Joggers and dog walkers maneuvered down the relatively quiet sidewalks, though it’d get packed over the next few hours as more and more workers came out for their commute.
I found a spot down the block from Evgeni’s usual Russian deli. Two thugs stood out front, guys I didn’t recognize, but they knew me by sight. Both nodded respectfully as I stepped inside.
It wasn’t normal for Evgeni to have muscle standing around outside, but then again, the city wasn’t normal these days. Not with the Lionettis warring with themselves.
Evgeni sat at a small round table toward the back. The place smelled like pickles and cooked meat, and the employees behind the counter ignored me. Evgeni had a paper in his hands and a coffee in front of him, dark and richly black. German sat at the table next to him, scrolling through his phone.
Neither man looked up as I lingered there, staring down.
It was clear disrespect, but I kept myself under control.
You still have to fight, even when it hurts.
“Thank you for coming to see me, Mack.” Evgeni shook his paper and folded it shut. His cold eyes met mine as he gestured at the chair across from him. “Please sit down.”
I did as ordered. German still didn’t look over. Asshole.
“What can I do for you, Pakhan?”
Evgeni’s smile was tight as he waved a hand. “Dispense with the formalities, please. We’re not in an official meeting right now. The rest of the Bratva isn’t here.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “All right, Evgeni. Why’d you wake my ass up only to come to this filthy little hole-in-the-wall at some ungodly hour?”
Evgeni grinned. “That’s more like it.” He sipped his coffee daintily and tilted his head. “You’ve been struggling lately, haven’t you?”
I looked away. I could never hold his gaze for long.
It reminded me too much of his training.
He wasn’t a gentle man. Probably why I turned out the way I did.
“I wouldn’t say I’m struggling.” I tilted my head and watched his hands. Those rough fingers, the callused knuckles I knew so well.
I had permanent bruises from where his punches connected when we’d spar when I was only a kid.
“Then why isn’t that Doyle girl dead yet?” His voice was soft, almost kind. He leaned closer. “You’ve never taken this long before.”
“It hasn’t been the right time. Do you want her dead, or do you want her gone?”
He laughed. I knew he’d understand what I meant. Anyone would take a life, but there were few men in this city with enough skill to murder a person and make sure they disappeared forever.
“I want the job done.”
“That’s why you sent Boris, isn’t it?”
His smile faded. “And you got in the way.”
“You know I’m protective of my kills.”
“I know you have some foolish sense of pride. I thought I beat that out of you a long time ago.”
He certainly tried, at least.
“I am what you made me, Pakhan.” I showed him my teeth. German glanced over, frowned, and looked away.
Evgeni sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I called you in out of respect for you, Mack. You know I think of you as my own son, but you’ve delayed this hit for long enough, and now one of our own is gone because of your foolishness. I won’t wait around for you to decide to do your job any longer.”
My jaw tightened. “What are you proposing?”
“I’m proposing nothing. I’m warning you. I called in Peter.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Peter? I thought he was in Russia still.”
“Moscow. You know how he likes the old world. But he’s still loyal to the family and he’ll do what needs doing.”
I looked away, back toward the counter. Peter was an old friend of mine from back in the day. Our paths diverged as we got older, but Evgeni trained the both of us.
Peter was massive. He was a giant, really—nearly seven feet tall and rippling with muscle. He consistently won Moscow’s Strongest Man competition every year, and Evgeni only called him when situations looked dire.
He was almost as good as me. Though Peter was more brawn than brains.
The thought of him getting involved set my teeth on edge. I liked Peter, always had—he was one of the few people I considered a real friend, and going up against him would be more than a little difficult. I didn’t want to fight him, and definitely didn’t want to kill him, but I had to keep Fiona safe.
My desire for her warred against my loyalty to my family, and I wasn’t sure which would win.
“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.
