Bratva Beast by B.B. Hamel
Fiona
Isqueezed my eyes shut and tried not to let Mack hear me crying.
A long time ago, I thought I was strong. Back then, I had a hundred cousins, most of them boys, and I loved them all. I thought they loved me too—at least they said they did. Daddy always said family was more important than anything else in the world, and I believed him.
Connor and I were best friends back then. We went everywhere together, cruising through the streets on our little bikes, meeting up with other young Doyle kids, laughing in the park, playing hide and seek and tag and manhunt. We were the kings of the neighborhood, our little pack of children.
I thought I was home. I thought I could never get hurt when I was surrounded by my people.
Daddy said we were safe.
But of course, he lied.
I didn’t think my first real taste of pain would happen under our own roof. But one morning we were playing stickball in the street and Connor whacked the tennis ball so hard it seemed like the fuzzy green part would come undone. We all stared as it soared over our heads like an eagle in flight, and I remember thinking how proud I was of my little brother—
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.
Probably not.
“You’re up early.”
I nearly jumped off the couch. I turned and Mack stood in the hall, looking in at me with a scowl. “Couldn’t sleep,” I said. “Where were you?”
“Had some errands to do for the family.” He strode past me into the kitchen. I got up and drifted after him.
“What kind of errands?”
“Nothing that concerns you.” He was cold and biting. His body was closed off to me and he wouldn’t meet my eye.
“What happened?” I pressed.
He poured himself some coffee then took a deep breath, his back still turned to me. The muscles along his spine flexed as he turned his head to the side and cracked his neck.
“Sometimes, my business is only for me.”
I let out a sharp breath. The bastard had me staying in his house, following his rules, and he couldn’t even have a simple conversation about what he was doing. I didn’t need details, didn’t need him to tell me all his secrets—but my life was hanging in the balance.
I didn’t really care what he got up to. I just hated being treated like I didn’t matter.
Because some dark, awful part of me thought I really didn’t.
“Yeah, well, right now your business concerns me.” I stepped closer.
He turned and took a sip of his coffee before putting the mug down on the counter. His eyes were almost blank, and I felt a quick patter in my chest.
“Stop pushing, princess.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
He moved past me. I glared after him and followed into the hall. I wanted him to explain why he was being a dick, but no explanation seemed forthcoming, and that only pissed me off more.
I felt trapped in this place. I didn’t want to be here—didn’t want any of this. I hadn’t asked for Mack to spare my life, and I certainly didn’t want Connor to get taken as a hostage and used against me.
I was powerless. I was in a cage and there was nothing I could do about it.
Mack paused at the foot of the steps. He looked back at me and his expression softened. I glared back at him and wished I could make him understand how deeply I was drowning in all this.
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself, shook his head, and walked upstairs.
“Asshole,” I said softly.
I heard his bedroom door slam shut.
This was too much. The sound of leather against bare skin echoed in my brain, and I tried not to picture Connor tied to a chair in some dirty basement bleeding from multiple wounds all over his body.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I grabbed my phone and stormed outside.
It was a nice morning. The sun was bright and a cool breeze blew across my skin. I marched down the stoop, onto the sidewalk, and walked down the block, not thinking about where I was going. I had no plans, no clue what I wanted, but I was too angry to stay back in that house for a second longer.
But I didn’t get far before Mack’s warning came back.
There’s no telling who’s watching.
I crossed my arms over my chest and considered going back, but then the bastard would win. He’d think he could push me around however he wanted and keep information from me about his business, even if that business was to kill me.
No, I couldn’t go back right now.
So I called an Uber instead and went back to my apartment.
The place was just as cluttered as I left it, except the trash smelled terrible. I took it out then straightened up a bit. That kept my mind occupied for a while, and kept me from obsessing about Mack.
About why he’d be in a foul mood at nine in the morning, about what kind of errands he’d be running.
And why he wouldn’t tell me.
The bastard. The stupid bastard.
Even in my own apartment, I felt trapped. I collapsed back onto the couch and grabbed my AirPods from the coffee table. I shoved them in and put on the first song that popped up: “It’s Not Living (If It’s Not With You)” by the 1975. Jangling guitars, upbeat drums. I threw myself back against the couch and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about Mack.
His hands on my skin, his fingers between my legs. The desperate gasp of my throat as I came.
I closed my eyes, trying to banish the flood of emotions.
For so long, I worked hard for independence. I moved out of my father’s house despite his protests and I paid for my own rent. I didn’t even live in Doyle-controlled territory, which my father hated with a passion, but if he had it his way then I’d shack up with the first eligible Doyle boy—one I wasn’t actually related to—and pop out a bunch of cuddly little future gangsters.
I wasn’t interested in that life. I wasn’t interested in having my world prescribed and inscribed, explained in detail and written out like a long novel outline.
I wanted my own life.
Which was why feeling trapped in Mack’s place stung, and stung doubly when he treated me like some annoying stray he didn’t want anymore.
My fists clenched hard. The smell of my father’s living room, beer and air freshener. The sound of leather against flesh.
My days spent in anger and my nights lost in terror.
I didn’t hear the door at first. Just a banging in the distance that I chalked up to the music. The song changed to the next one on the album: “Surrounded by Heads and Bodies.”
I heard the banging then. Someone pounding on the door.
I stood up, not sure what was happening. Nobody showed up at my place like this. I checked my phone, but no missed calls, no texts, no nothing—of course not.
I was invisible to my family, at least until they needed me.
“Go away, Mack. I’m still pissed at you.”
But the pounding kept coming. I cursed and took one earbud out. The knocking sounded violent and desperate, like someone trying to escape a predator. I lingered in the hallway, staring at the bolt—
I forgot to lock it.
I reached forward, thinking I could slam it home and tell Mack to fuck off—
When the door exploded inward.
I screamed as little shards of wood scattered all around, some of them smashing against my chest and face and falling to the floor. I ripped my other earbud out and threw them down as I staggered backwards.
A man stepped into the room.
My first thought was, oh my god, he’s a giant.
He was enormous. His arms were as thick as fire hydrants, his neck was like a monster truck tire. His nostrils flared. His head was bald.
He held a gun in his hand. It looked like a toy.
“Fiona?” he asked, his voice like a supersonic boom.
I ran.
It wasn’t even a question. I’d been through too much lately, and I knew the look on that guy’s face.
He wasn’t there to have a friendly chat.
Gunshots cracked behind me. A bullet lodged in the wall as I sprinted toward my bedroom, breathing hard and desperate. I heard the giant’s footsteps behind me pounding on the floorboards and I had one wild and giddy thought—maybe he’d fall through and crash down into the basement—but when I reached my room and slammed the door, it instantly flexed against his weight. I locked the knob, but what the hell was that going to do?
I backed up, scrambling for the window. I was on the second story, but the drop wouldn’t be so bad—
The door broke open and banged against the wall.
“Fiona?” the giant asked again. He held the gun pointed at me chest.
I turned slowly, hands raised up.
Like that would matter.
I opened my mouth to say something—
Then Mack exploded into the room.
He smashed into the giant like a wrecking ball. The gun went off and I screamed, flinching away. The bullet broke the window behind me, a scream of glass.
Mack was shockingly large and muscular. He was a killing machine, a beast made to slaughter—
But the giant was even bigger.
Mack struggled with the man, cursing in Russian, and the giant cursed back. Mack managed to smash his forehead into the giant’s nose and ripped the gun away, but the giant backhanded the weapon, sending it careening away.
The giant grabbed Mack by the skull and squeezed.
Mack shouted in pain. It looked like his skull might snap right there, but Mack jammed his thumbs into the giant’s eyes. The giant screamed and threw Mack aside.
Mack hit the floor and bounced before climbing slowly to his feet.
The giant rose up like a mountain.
“You don’t need to do this, Peter,” Mack said, breathing hard. He wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth.
“Since when did you help some Doyle bitch?” Peter rumbled and gestured at me. “What is wrong with you, traitor fuck?” Peter’s words were heavily accented and slurred through his shattered nose.
“The girl’s mine.” Mack took a step forward. The giant, Peter, bristled and growled like a lion. “Go home, Peter. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Peter laughed and banged his chest. “You little shit. Pakhan loves you, but you do not deserve his respect. Come now, I will show you a man.”
Peter lunged at Mack, but Mack was faster. He ducked sideways, punched Peter in the gut, then neck, then face, but Peter smashed his forearms into Mack’s face. Mack staggered, hit the wall, and Peter grabbed him with a roar.
I was in the closet again. Trapped toward the back. Hyperventilating like a little girl. My brother, screaming in pain. He had Mack’s voice now. I was in that closet, listening to my father beat my brother until his back bled in long ruddy rivulets.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I broke out and threw myself forward.
Peter slammed his fist into Mack’s face. Mack grunted, grinning. His gums were bloody. He spit into Peter’s face then hit him hard in the chest, making some space.
I dove between them, throwing myself out into the hall. I smashed against the far wall as Mack punched Peter again, and again, and again, but Peter backhanded Mack across the face so hard that he nearly lost his feet.
“Enough, little shit,” Peter roared.
I picked up the gun.
Mack ducked out of the way of a massive fist. Peter hit the wall behind him and grunted as Mack glanced back over his shoulder—
And his eyes went wide.
I threw him the gun.
It was stupid. You shouldn’t throw guns—I mean, that’s probably something they teach in gun safety.
Not that I’d know. The Doyle family wasn’t huge on being safe around guns.
But Mack grabbed it out of the air, and as Peter managed to rip his fist from the hole in the wall, Mack shot him twice in the skull.
The giant slumped sideways like a train car smashing into a cliff.
I slid down the wall and stared at the blood and brains that coated my carpet.
Mack stood panting, staring down at the giant. He sighed and tucked the gun into his pants and turned away.
His eyes felt like a spotlight.
“Are you okay?” He walked over and crouched down.
“I’m okay. Is he dead?”
He nodded once. “Dead. Very dead.”
“That guy. He was massive. What the hell was he?”
“His name was Peter. We were friends.” He put a hand on my thigh.
I flinched away, looking down at the carpet.
I helped Mack kill that man.
God, what was happening to me?
“I’m sorry, Fiona,” he said softly, hand on my arm. I looked back at him. Blood trickled from his mouth and from a cut on his forehead. “For earlier, especially. I found out that they were sending Peter, and I was upset.”
“You knew that guy was coming?”
“I thought he was still in Russia.” His face clouded over. “There’s a lot I don’t know these days, apparently.”
Peter, his dead friend Peter.
Suddenly, earlier made a lot more sense.
I could see the struggle in his eyes. Going against his family, going against his friend—all to keep me alive.
“I’m so sorry.” I pulled him close, hugging him tight. I held him and expected some sign of emotion—
But there was nothing.
His lips pulled back, brushed along my cheek. Lingered inches from my mouth. I stared into his eyes.
This man, this killer. He’d do anything for me. The thought sent a spike of horror down my spine, but excitement pooled between my legs in a confusing contrast. I was a wave of emotions I couldn’t really explain or understand, and as much as I wanted Mack, I was terrified of him.
I watched him kill his own friend.
I helped him do it.
He pressed his lips softly against mine.
I groaned and pulled him tighter.
I tasted blood on his tongue. I didn’t care. His arms pulled me tighter, then he stood, pulling me up onto my feet, up into his arms. We stumbled back down the hall, kissing faster, and he pushed me down onto the couch.
I stared up at him, eyes wide and buzzing with want and fear. Not twenty feet away, a corpse pooled.
“You shouldn’t want this,” he whispered and slowly, excruciatingly pinned me down against the couch. He was heavy, so massive, and I couldn’t imagine trying to fight something like him.
But I felt the old panic again. For a moment, I got away—I managed to outrun the closet, outrun the self-hate and loathing.
As soon as he held me down, it all came tumbling back, and I was trapped.
“No,” I gasped, scrambling away. I pushed him back, putting distance between us, but he grabbed my ankle and pulled me back. “Mack.”
He held me there, grip like iron, and pinned my right wrist up above my head. His lips brushed against my throat. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. But before you open your pretty lips, think about the last time you let me touch you.”
“Stop,” I whispered.
He leaned down, lips to my ear. “Just this once, princess. I’ll listen just this once. But the next time you look at me with your mouth hanging open and those eyes begging me to slide my cock between your legs and ruin you, I’m going to taste your dripping wet arousal. Do you understand me, Fiona? Just this once.”
Then he pulled back and released me.
I sat there breathing hard, body ringing for him. Just this once. He stood panting above me for several long seconds before disappearing into my bathroom. I leaned my head back and groaned, my skin tingling with need for him, and hating myself for it, hating myself for wanting that monster, hating myself for letting more people die for me—hating myself for thinking only about how good it would feel to let him slide between my legs.
I heard the water run, and when he came back out, the bleeding had stopped.
“We should go,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. “Poor Peter. He won Moscow’s Strongest Man competition twice in a row. He was so proud that second time.”
I climbed to my feet. “I’m sorry. About your friend.”
He shook his head. “I told Pakhan not to send him. I begged him.” His hands clenched into fists as he turned his back to me. “You can’t come back here again. You know that, right?”
“I know.” All I could think to do was to keep apologizing, but that wouldn’t fix what just happened.
“Then come on. Let’s go back to my place.”
“Aren’t they going to come looking for him? Aren’t they going to know you killed him?”
He didn’t answer. Only stalked back out into the hallway and looked over his shoulder, his light eyes beckoning.
I drifted after him like I was hung to the back of his ship and dragged through black, choppy seas.
