Chapter 33
Mikhail
Sixteen years ago
It was the winter of his fourteenth year, and Mikhail had learned to be self-sufficient.
He could handle weapons now, run for miles without getting tired, and even take part in some jobs the Pakhan gave out. Today, he and Wolf were landing in Siberia, a training ground their father sent them to every year to get stronger.
They were not alone. Other boys their age were brought by their fathers, all loyal to the Rykov Bratva, which sponsored the dreadful place.
No one liked each other, no one ever had anything kind to say.
The trainers celebrated rivalry, ensuring no kid had any sort of comfort to look forward to. That was the goal.
As the driver stopped the truck on top of a hill, where the military camp was, Mikhail took in the decaying walls of his new confinement. They were the same as last year, and the year before—cold, gray, and promising a slow, agonizing death of the soul.
They were molding him into a trained psychopath, someone who could kill on command and then go to sleep peacefully right after. The stale food he’d be fed, the sleepless, frigid nights, the beatings he’d soon endure and inflict, were all supposed to rip away his heart.
Mikhail snorted under his breath. He already felt empty inside.
A dozen boys got out of the truck at a guard’s signal, the wind merciless against Mikhail’s face and hands. He knew once they were inside, the cold wouldn’t stop until the day they flew back to America. Wolf threw him a knowing glance, sharing the sentiment.
But Mikhail avoided his stare entirely. In fact, he needed to be as far away as possible from his brother, so when the guard ordered them to advance, he fell into step with two guys he’d met last year in camp—Niko and Rodion.
No one said a word, but they all recognized each other. A gag order was always enforced for the first forty-eight hours of the training. The first one to crack—to ask for an extra blanket or a second bowl of soup—would be sent to solitary confinement.
Mikhail knew it wasn’t going to be him. He had nothing to say, no particular need to use his voice when his fists spoke a language of their own.
A week into their time there, they were sparring in minus thirteen degrees, snow crackling under their boots and mixing with the sounds of their exhaustion.
Mikhail lounged at the thirteen-year-old in front of him, gripping his head and pushing it into his raised knee.
A pop ringed out, and when the boy straightened, his nose was bleeding, probably broken.
Instinctively, Mikhail looked to his right, where Wolf fought a few feet away, taking down every boy the guards threw at him. He hated seeing him here, hated that his brother was a constant, pesky reminder of their shared past he couldn’t get rid of.
Why did he have to be here? Why couldn’t he give him some fucking peace of mind?
Fuck this, he thought, leaving his opponent and the formation they were forced to stay in.
“Ty kuda poshyol? Nazad v stroy, zhivo!” a guard barked, the warning obvious in his tone.
Where the fuck was he going? he’d asked.
But Mikhail couldn’t care less about authority. He rushed toward Wolf, cracking his neck and ignoring the pain of his previous fight. He needed more, and he knew damn well no other kid could offer him the kind of resolve he was looking for.
“What the fuck?” Wolf growled, stumbling forward with Mikhail on his back. He didn’t have to guess who it was. He somehow knew already, and after pushing Mikhail off to the icy ground, he looked down at him, conflicted.
“Missed me much?” Mikhail smirked, getting back to his feet, wiping blood off his mouth.
Wolf’s opponent began to retreat. The guards circled them, but when they saw the first punch connecting to Wolf’s jaw, they didn’t intervene. If anything, this was a good thing—turning brother against brother was a unique kind of win for the training camp.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Wolf spat out. “I try to help you. To give you what you need—”
Mikhail laughed, the sound tasting bittersweet. “Why don’t you talk to me? Why don’t you want me?” he mocked, throwing another punch. This time, Wolf caught his arm just in time, twisting it behind Mikhail’s back.
Pain erupted through his body, but it wasn’t the kind that hurt. It was the kind he needed, the kind he deserved for all those years in which he’d done terrible, terrible things to him. Whatever had once existed between the two of them had rotted away, leaving only guilt and trauma behind.
The more Wolf tried to win back his affection, the more that guilt grew for Mikhail, like a monster with endless heads he could never conquer. Love wasn’t what he needed, what he deserved. Hatred was cleaner.
Hatred could be earned.
Mikhail lunged for his brother again, landing a deep punch in Wolf’s gut.
“You think you’re so much better than the rest of us,” Mikhail spat, ignoring the voice in his head that revolted at his actions. “Everyone here knows the Pakhan favors you. Without him to support you, what the fuck have you even done to prove your worth?”
Wolf’s upper lip curled upward. Finally, he was growing angry.
Good. Let him hate him.
Let him remember what he’d done.
The bitter victory pushed Mikhail to lounge with another punch. He didn’t stop when the guards eventually whistled, or when Wolf threw him to the ground and kicked his chest. He needed to see that look on his brother’s face—the look of someone who finally understood what Mikhail had become.