Chapter 2
CYNRIC
I’ve been running on the treadmill for over an hour and my thoughts won’t shift from the little pixie sleeping two rooms away. The sun still hasn’t drifted up over the horizon. My penthouse view is one of the first to catch the morning light. I slow down the machine, stepping off and grabbing a towel. Mrs. Belova will bring my breakfast to me in an hour. When will Isabella get up for school?
I stroke my cock in the shower, thinking about surprising her in her room. I’d wrap that long soft hair around my fist and thrust my cock into her mouth, over and over until I come. She’d swallow every drop. The image of her luscious mouth wrapped around my length, swallowing all I have to give, is just the mental porn I need to finish. I complete my shower and step out, drying myself with too many thoughts racing through my brain. I should listen to my father and get my face fixed so I can join the living again. My mind takes me back to the day my entire life changed.
LABOR DAY WEEKEND
FOUR YEARS BEFORE
The number seven car slams into the wall at the fourth turn of the Virginia Motorsports Park. Cars brake and swerve as pieces of metal and rubber fly around hitting cars and the track. I dodge to miss the cars in front of me, dropping to the lower track. “Whew! I missed that collision. Time to pit.”
My crew chief yells in my earpiece. “Pit now.”
I pull into my pit, and my crew chief hands me water. “You’re killin’ it.”
It feels good that Jack’s happy with my performance. He’s a former racer and the best mechanic. I wouldn’t be here without him. Men hustle around my car like a choreographed ballet of men in fire suits.
I’ve been driving competitively in the Semi-pro Stock Car Racing Series for seven years, finishing in the top five for four out of the last six years. We drive the same brand cars and race the tracks you see on TV with the pros. Our bratva and a group of investors own my team. I’m seventeen points behind the leader for the season, and I’m primed to win tonight’s race.
“Everything feel good?”
I nod. “Yeah. All good.”
Jack lets me know it’s time to go, and I hit the accelerator with full force, ready to hit the track before the pace car laps me. I swing my stock car in front of the pace car and focus on getting back up the pack.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve got forty-seven laps to go, and I’ve moved up the field into the number two spot. The leader is a competitive asshole and a friend. We’ve worked up the circuits together since we were teenagers. I do everything my father wants and live for the strength of the bratva, but this is for me.
A little while later, we’ve got just five laps to go, and Trent, one of the young upstart racers, moves up behind me, looking to pass me on the left. “Punk. Don’t you know who I am?” I move my car into his path, and he pulls back, shifts to the right, and I move over again. I can see him yelling in the cockpit of his car.
My crew chief barks into the comms. “Stop playing with the child. Cyn.”
I move up on the lead car, hoping he’ll get my drift to school the new boy. We block the road, leaving the less experienced driver scrambling behind us. I chuckle as Trent tries a bump and run, hitting the back of my car and bolting to race around me. “Where you think you’re going?” I don’t take the bait. The lead car has no intention of giving him room. I’ll make a run for the win. The lead car increases speed, and I match him, leaving the young driver behind me. He’s not in tune enough with his car to keep up.
Jack yells from the pit into my headset. “Now’s the time.”
I take a breath and dive my car down to go below the lead car to pass, knowing he’ll adjust and block. It’s time. I’m actually aiming to pass him on the high side on the second to last turn of the road course. Just like I expected, he meets my car at the bottom of the track as I fly my car to go up and around. A thunk shakes my entire vehicle, and my engine dies. I pull out of the turn and straighten my car, coming to a slowed stop as the punk, Travis, and the rest of the pack fly by. “What the fuck just happened?”
Jack’s yelling in my ear. “Cyn? What happened?”
“A clunk sound like the whole bottom fell out of the car and now the engine’s dead.” The car comes to a stop, and I climb out, tossing my helmet and fire gear into the front seat. “Fuck, fuck. I wanted to win. I needed the win to get enough points to win the championship.” Groaning, I lean against the car for the wrecker to come get me and my piece of shit car, knowing my crew chief will figure out what the hell happened.
I walk into the paddock where the team has congregated. Everyone is speculating about the car as I approach. My crew chief meets me on my way to the group. “You okay?”
“Just pissed. What the fuck happened?”
“First glance tells me something unusual happened. I’ve got the guys ripping the car apart now. Prepare yourself, I suspect it was sabotaged.”
My eyes bug out of my head, and I grit my jaw so tight, I think I’m going to snap off my teeth. Years of being told to control my emotions are coming in handy. I lean down into his ear. “I want to be the first to know everything.”
He nods, because he knows the investors will be chomping at the bit to blame someone. “You will be.” He pats my arm. “Go to the after party. Hold your head up. You would have won, and you will win the next race.”
I flick my head and move out the door, ignoring the press questions and the intriguing ingenues hanging at the gate.
Two hours later, I’m sitting in a booth at a swanky club in Virginia. I’ve declined all the drinks sent my way and continue to just sip on my water as I watch the people, waiting for someone to spark my need to be mean. As my father’s second in command, he’s trained me well. From the moment I could talk, he’s taught me to read people. I scan the club, and my eyes keep coming back to the punk from the race. Trent keeps staring at me, then dodges my look. He’s feeling guilty. My brain scrolls through the past few days. Did he or someone from his team damage my car? I motion for the server. She approaches. “Do you have Milt and Dornhan Champagne?”
She scrunches her nose. “We do. It’s the second most popular, for the people who can’t afford the best brands.”
I clap my hands together with a smirk. “Excellent. Send a bottle to him.” I point to the second-place driver, and the server nods. “Second best for second best.” I laugh to myself at my joke. Time to get back to New York. I fucking hate people. Trent catches my eye again. “Punk.” I nod at the server so she can close me out while I stand up and move to leave, running into Trent as he meets me at the entrance to the VIP section.
Trent’s serial killer grin piques my curiosity. “A shame about your car.”
Don’t take the bait. I increase my stride, ignoring his remarks, allowing the irritation to float away. This isn’t bratva business. I’m my own man, and I can walk away. My teeth grind against each other as the itch to kill irritates my soul.
“Anytime you want a rematch, just get behind the wheel. I’ll let you have a head start.” Trent chuckles.
The fire flares inside me. I can’t ignore a challenge or an insult. I blow out a breath as I turn around with a Chesire grin. “How about now? Got a car to race?”
Trent’s eyes widen, and he’s taken aback by my question. “We can’t get on the course.”
I shake my head. “Shame you’re a chicken. Good to know.” I turn back around, heading for the exit as Trent calls me back.
“I’ve got a Lambo Huracan. Will that do?”
Got him. My fake smile could convince a priest of my sincerity. “Sure. I’m driving a C8 Corvette.”
Trent smirks. “My car has more horsepower. It’s not really fair to you.”
“I’m good. Let’s race.” I’m a much better driver, and we’ll never get to the higher speeds in a drag race on that course.
Trent hustles out of the club to get to the valet first. He takes his keys from the college kid, parking the cars, and chuckles as he hurries for his car. I nod to the kid, who pulls my keys from the box. He runs to claim my ride and drives my car to the entrance. Trent is gunning his Lambo, impatience swallowing him whole, and I can’t help but laugh. He’s young and out of control, an easy combination to beat. I slide into my rented Vette and put it into drive, meeting Trent at the bottom of the drive. “The road course is still set up from today’s race. Let’s do it again.”
Trent’s eyes light up as he moves his car in front of mine onto the road.
Watch your speed, punk. We don’t need the heat of the cops. We pull into the area near the road course and line up side by side.
Trent yells through his open window, enthusiasm dripping off him like icing on a too hot cake. “What do I win when I beat you?”
“You get the satisfaction of knowing you won. Men don’t need a prize for motivation. We look for opportunities to succeed and be the best. We’ll know it and that’s enough.”
He shakes his head. “Whatever. I thought we’d be racing for pink slips.”
“What is this the 1950s? And these are rentals, dumbass.”
The kid chuckles. “Set your phone alarm for 11:50. That will be the green flag.”
“Sure.” I set my phone and make sure the volume is all the way up. My head counts down, with my feet ready to go. The alarm goes off, and I hit the accelerator, punching it off the line. The tires scream, and I move. Trent seems to be sitting after I move. Not as quick off the draw. Ha.
The course is dark, with breaks of light between the trees, completely different from driving in the daytime. I glance in my rearview to see Trent coming up from behind. His car has more horsepower, and a more experienced driver would be catching up faster, but he’s green. His daddy’s money got him his opportunity, not his skill. We make the second turn, and I swerve around the shifted barricade. That little movement is enough to give Trent room to get closer. I can hear the whine of the engine, and I’m sure this little baby has never been run like I’m doing tonight. The third turn is the one before the straightaway. That will be where the kid can catch me if he dares. We hit the straightest part of the race, and he gets to the corner of my rear bumper before he has to downshift to make the next turn. He’s sloppy and loses control, shoving his nose into the side of my bumper. My car gets squirrely at the next turn, and my brain works out that I’m going to hit the barricade. Trent over-corrects his car, and his nose hits mine again. It happens in slow motion that the nose of my car lifts just enough that dread slams into my soul. Shit. I’m losing control.
Trent has lost command of his vehicle and skids, slamming into the barricade at what would be an intersection. The nose of my car has raised, and I’ve caught air. “Fuck.” There’s nothing I can do but pull my arms into my chest. The final image in my brain, before I hit, is my father’s disappointed face.
“Oh God, I’m on fire.” My eyes open as the flames whip up my neck and face. Voices scream out and sirens wail as something cold hits my face and body. My brain is trying to comprehend what’s happening, but darkness wins, and I drift off.
Beep, beep, beep. “God, I hurt and that fucking noise.”
“Cynric?”
I hear my name and something touches my hand. I try to open my eyes, and they’re gritty and something is holding them closed. I raise my hand, expecting my arm to pull up. It’s being held down. “What the fuck?”
My father’s stern voice silences my thoughts. “Cynric stop!”
A female voice speaks. “Turn down the fluorescent lights. They’re too bright. His eyes have been covered, and he’s not accustomed to the light.”
Something touches the right side of my face, and tape peels from my temple. I wait on bated breath to see as the material holding my eyes closed is removed. “Fuck.”
“I said, be still.” My father starts swearing in Russian about my stupidity, and I can’t disagree, but I’m alive.
I move my arms, pulling on the restraints. “Let me go.”
“You have to wait. The doctor is on his way.” The woman has a soft raspy voice like she screamed all night at a concert.
I groan. “How bad is it?”
My father scoffs. “You were never the pretty one, but you’ll make a full recovery.”
“I want to see how bad it is. And it hurts like a bitch.”
The doctor enters the room, and my eyes struggle to focus on the movement. “Good morning. How’s the patient?”
My father growls. “Impatient. He wants the restraints removed.”
My vision is blurry, but I see an older man in the long white coat as he shakes his head. “I don’t think so. We can’t have him mess with the bandages.”
“I won’t.”
My father nods. “I’m going to take them off.”
The doctor cringes. “If he rubs his wound, he’ll cause more damage.”
“I won’t. I understand.” Life is all about discipline.
My father unhooks the metal clasp, and I take a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to scrape at my face and neck. The doctor moves forward and tugs at the bandage. The movement reminds me of when I had stitches removed, feeling like my skin was going to rip. I take a deep breath and watch the facial expressions cross the doctor’s face. Satisfaction. He nods, pivoting to see from all angles. “This looks great. It’s going to get better, but right now the skin looks red and inflamed. You’ll have to be patient and keep it covered. You’ll need to sunscreen it to protect the new skin.”
“New skin?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
“We used a skin graft to repair the damage, and it doesn’t quite match your facial skin. It will take time for it to better match the surrounding skin.”
Thoughts swirl in my brain. I imagine I look like the burn victims you see in horror movies. Can skin from somewhere else look like the flesh on my face?
My father speaks. “How long does he need to stay?”
The doctor peruses his handiwork. “Assuming all goes well, a few more days. You’ll need to have a doctor in New York take over his care.”
“That won’t be a problem. But I’m taking him back tomorrow.”
The doctor’s face pinches into a deep frown. “I can’t guarantee the outcome if you take him from medical supervision.”
My father grimaces. “I’ll hire a doctor to travel with us.”
The doctor nods as a younger man in a short white coat walks in. “Dr. Kline. Good morning. I’d like you to see how the graft looks on day seven.”
I turn to my father. Gasping “I’ve been here for seven days?”
He shrugs. “Nine. You burned your face, neck, and upper back. You were difficult to control, so we decided to keep you unconscious and give your body a chance to heal.”
I guess my beastly ways have finally caught up with me. My face now matches my soul. I wait for the self-pity to surface, but it remains absent, and I focus on my father and the doctor, discussing my injuries. “I’m ready to go.”
My statement halts the surrounding conversations.
The young doctor cocks his head with the hint of a smirk. “You’re going to be in a lot of pain. Staying here for a while longer is in your best interest.”
I wave him off and direct my attention to the specialist. “I want to go back to New York.”
My father speaks to me in Russian, telling me to be patient, and he’ll hire some doctor to accompany us back to New York.
I itch to get out of the bed. Nothing worse than keeping an animal confined. I crack my knuckles, startling the specialist. He glances up at the IV stand and frowns. He turns his focus to me. “What number would you give your pain level, on a scale from one to ten?”
I shrug. “A three, maybe.”
He purses his lips and takes the tablet from the other doctor’s hand. “You haven’t been given more pain meds.”
I stare at the man willing him to make a point. I’m tired of being in this bed, and I just woke up. God help me, I’ve been in here for a while. “What’s your point?”
“I would have expected you would have asked for more pain relief. The morphine drip is nearly full, and the button is next to where your hands were tied. You’ve been in and out of consciousness. You could have pushed the button.”
I sigh. “The pain is more annoying than anything. I’d like to scratch it, but it’s not allowed.”
The specialist shares a look with the other doctor and turns his attention to my father. “I think he could go home tomorrow if you have a doctor or nurse to travel with him.”
The following morning, Dr. Kline acknowledges my father as they help me out of the SUV, next to the private jet. Why my father chose this young prick of a doctor, I’ll never understand, but it means I get to go home and sleep in my own bed. I own a penthouse on Broadway in Manhattan. I wince as I walk up the plane stairs with Dr. Kline preceding us, and one of my father’s soldiers supporting me from behind.
My father growls into his cell phone. His ten days away from New York have led to issues, and he’s currently swearing in Russian at my younger brother. I watch Dr. Kline to see if he has any interest in what my father is saying, and he appears oblivious. I guess he doesn’t speak Russian. My four brothers and I were all given Old English names in honor of our English mother. When we were young, we always hated it because it gave the other Russian kids another reason to pick fights with us. The Russian kids all had Russian first names, so we stood out. My father compared his naming choice to the Johnny Cash song and reminded us it would make us stronger. I hate to admit it, but he was right. By the time I was thirteen, I was lethal in a fight.
He ends the call with my brother and sighs. “Someone messed with your car before your race.”
“I figured as much. Do we know who did it?”
“Jack will meet us at the estate. He’s got video.”
“What happened to the kid I was racing?”
My father shrugs. “He’s dead.” His hard expression says it all.
Ah. You had him killed.
“He talked about tampering with your car. People talk, and he risked your life when he couldn’t control his car when you were racing.”
That says it all.