Embracing the Dark Side (Morozov Mafia #2)

28. Rage

Chapter twenty-eight

Rage

Adrik stood in the warehouse, watching his men gather people he had considered friends. These were his kingpins, those who made him the most money. Three were his father’s cousins, and two were great-uncles, nearly eighty and the last two of his grandfather’s brothers that had made it to old age. They were also the ones who had fractured from his family while he had been incarcerated. These were the ones who would become examples.

There were a handful of others, one was the man that stopped Adrik from going for Alexei, others were guards from the jail. Killing them was for only one reason.

Because he could.

Their sobs echoed in this empty space. It was in the middle of a boatyard, far from anyone listening. Construction workers kept up their drills while dock workers secured the surrounding perimeter. There would be no evidence of what went on here today. In fact, after he left here, he’d forget it ever happened.

Adrik took the shot glass from Filip’s outstretched hand and downed the shot of vodka, letting it burn his throat and chest. The liquor was building over the last hour, and without anything in his stomach, it was hitting him hard. He steadied himself, latching onto Filip’s shoulder as the world spun around him. He was surrounded by soldiers, by men who needed to see him take a hit and keep going. There was no being weak here.

“Please, Mr. Morozov. We had no choice.”

Over and over again, the pleas came, like buzzing flies. They were nothing more to him than garbage that would be lost in the ocean after today. He would listen to none of their prayers, because God didn’t listen to any of his. He would hurt God the same way God had hurt him.

It was equal justice.

Such justice was typically taken out by his soldiers to keep the vile killing off his hands. He knew at a young age that death didn’t affect him as it affected others. He could kill and not be bothered by it. But it was a slippery slope, one he was warned about by his mother. Yakov, however, felt differently about it. ‘Death by your hands is an honor. Don’t give such a gift lightly.’

Adrik pulled a knife from one of his men’s sheaths and approached the first person. “You’re making a mistake, boy.” Adrik waited for the man to continue, wanting to hear the reasoning. “My son will come after you.”

Was that the best he could come up with? What the fuck did Adrik care if anyone’s son came for him? Let them. He’d welcome it. The world Yakov created was now his. Adrik would develop new alliances and new friends to last him through the years, ones he could actually trust. Yakov’s way of life was no longer acceptable. Adrik was going to mold the mafia around him like a glove.

Adrik shoved the blade into his chest, gritting his teeth. The shockwave soaked into his skin, and for a moment, the grief wasn’t as terrible. He yanked it out, but before the man could fall over, Adrik gripped his hair, pulling his head back to expose his neck, and ran the blade slowly across the man’s jugular. He gurgled, and blood squirted like a water gun. The body fell, like Alexei’s body had fallen, face down.

Adrik took a step back. He clenched his eyes tight, trying to force it out of his memory. Over and over again, he saw his brother’s body fall. Adrik turned to the next one, and even as they screamed “Please!” he didn’t hear it. This one had been the guard in the jail, Jose. The one that put a noose around his neck. “I had no choice! They were going to come for my family.” Adrik stabbed the man in the face. When he went to pull it out, it got stuck in a bone, and Adrik put his foot against the man’s chest and yanked hard. There were no screams. The man was already dead, but the blood painted the ground, and the air smelled like copper.

“Sir,” Filip called from behind as Adrik stepped to the next person. She was shivering, her head down, her hair covering her face. He wanted it to be Katia. This was where he wanted her to be, on her knees, knowing she was about to die. Instead, Katia was hiding with his daughter, like a coward.

Filip touched Adrik’s shoulder, and whispered, “Let us do this for you.”

Adrik dropped to his knee before the woman, leaning down to catch her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks. He resented her tears and her pleas. Had she been crying when she handed Vincent her gang, sacrificing three of the men who spoke against her? He shoved the knife up through the bottom of her jaw, and he could see the blade through her open mouth. The look of pain and shock was a Band-Aid to his grief. The blood was a blanket to his rage .

“Sir,” Filip interrupted again, but this time more forcefully. “He’s ready.”

Adrik shifted his head, only a fraction, awareness creeping in. He nodded once and pulled the knife out, watching the body crumble. He stood and dropped the knife, his hand only slightly shaking, but quickly, Filip slipped a cigarette between his fingers, and Adrik instinctively brought it to his lips. The taste was poison, and he hated it, but it awoke his senses enough to move. As he passed a table, he picked up the bottle of vodka and took a deep swig. His bloody handprint was left on the glass. The soldiers watched him. No one dared move lest they gain his unwanted attention. Adrik took one last drag of the sickening cigarette before he flicked it away.

Waiting for him in front of a closed door was the family mortician. The man worked for the Morozovs for fifty years, hired by Yakov’s father. He was nearly eighty and suffered from scoliosis, bent nearly in half after so many years of dissecting bodies. Adrik stood in front of him, but before the old man could speak, he ordered the room empty. His soldiers slipped out, dragging bodies and leaving behind red trails. They would kill whoever was left over and throw them into the waiting boat to take them out to sea.

When the doors closed, the warehouse vibrated. The emptiness echoed, and the mortician’s voice carried, making it impossible to have misheard.

“It’s him.” In the man’s small, wrinkled hand lay Alexei’s ring.

Adrik pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a move he’d never done, because he’d never felt such despair. He couldn’t lose it, so he stood for several minutes until the worst of the pain passed. Adrik moved to go inside but was stopped.

“I advise against it, Mr. Morozov.” The mortician put a gentle hand on his arm. “Your brother was burned badly. There isn’t much of him left. They had to dig him out of a pyre of twenty soldiers. He’s missing a few limbs.”

Adrik didn’t want to see the remains of his brother. But he had to, didn’t he? Because it still didn’t seem real, and the only way to fully believe that Alexei was gone was to see his burnt, mutilated corpse. It would be closure.

And so what if it triggered an atom bomb? War was already imminent. But this would decide the number of casualties.

If Adrik’s world was about to be destroyed, so was everyone else’s.

Adrik took his brother’s family ring in his bloody palm and stepped forward.