Chapter 4 Yulian
YULIAN
Well, this is inconvenient.
Fuck me sideways.
This entire stupid camp is a waste of time and space and effort, but I have a feeling that if I’d voiced those genius thoughts, I would’ve walked out from under Dad’s shoe with a broken rib.
Not the first time that would’ve happened, but the memory of the pain makes me rein in that very logical thought of just fucking shit up.
“Got a smoke?” I lie on the floor and prop my feet on the side of the bed, where Cy’s lying with a thick book in hand and stares down at me like I’m a freak.
Okay, I am, but he doesn’t have to make it so obvious.
“Your dad said if anyone is caught supplying you with cigarettes, he’ll use the butts to burn their faces.”
“Oh no, the formidable Cy is scared of dear old Dad?”
“Shut your trap. Cigarettes aren’t good for you.”
“Yes, Mom!” I do a mock salute. “You got them or nah?”
He watches me for a few more minutes, tilting his book to the side, which is…well, let’s say shit has hit the fan if Cy finds anything more interesting than his boring books.
His gray eyes scan my face as if he’s trying to find the little freak he knows so well behind the bruises my dad left as a parting gift. Thank God Cy wasn’t in the room when that happened, but as soon as he walked in a while ago, he noticed exactly what was up.
Sometimes, like today, I hate that he sees me at my worst. It makes me feel worthless.
Like a weakling, as Dad says all the time.
Finally, Cy reaches under his pillow and produces a Zippo and a pack of cigarettes, then throws them on my stomach. “You look like you need them.”
“No shit.” I slide a cigarette between my lips and light it as I fall back on the wooden floor while taking a long drag.
The nicotine hit doesn’t quiet the chaos, but it dulls my senses to a melody of nothingness or some shit.
Anyhow, I’d love a drink as well. I’m about to bring it up to Cy so he’ll make it happen—after some nagging, because he’s an old man trapped in a teenager’s body.
Not that I can’t play my useless Yaroslav’s son card to make the guards do my bidding, but they report back to Dad in a flash, and he loves to make me see his fist and the sole of his shoe any chance he gets.
Cy can get any shit he wants just by sweet-talking his way through it or manipulating people into thinking it’s for some made-up reason.
I stare at him, and he’s still not focused on his book. Fuck me, that’s an anomaly.
Cyrus has the face of someone trustworthy. Ethereally handsome with platinum-blond hair, gorgeous East Asian-shaped light-gray eyes, sharp features that bewitch girls, and a silver tongue that makes everyone fall for him instantly.
Truth is, he wasn’t always so captivating with his speech. When I first met him a couple of years ago, when he first moved in with us, he didn’t speak. At all.
We were already wary about the guy whom Dad dropped in our midst, telling us he was part of the family now. I thought he was his son—wouldn’t have been the first time he’d spawned kids outside of marriage, since I already had two older half-brothers, but no, Cyrus clearly didn’t belong to Dad.
Because Yaroslav abuses his sons, and he’s always been more protective of Cyrus.
However, Cy didn’t speak to us and refused to utter a word for weeks.
He looked like he came out of a nightmare—or maybe was still living in one.
The only evidence that remained of whatever had happened to him was the scar that slashes along the corner of his mouth, breaking up his fae-like looks a bit.
Mom and Alina tried their best to make him feel welcome, but he just refused to speak. During that time, he’d stand in front of the gate for hours as if he were waiting for someone to come pick him up. He still does that sometimes—just stands outside for a long time, staring at the horizon.
Dad made me take him to school and I wasn’t thrilled, mainly because Cy was an antisocial freak who was hated by everyone. I was the opposite, quite popular—naturally—and was warned by my friends to stay away from him.
No one talked to him, and in the beginning, I couldn’t care less, but as the days went by, I felt bad for him, so I sat with him at lunch and yapped endlessly about the most random shit. At first, he ignored me, but I grew on him.
The first thing Cy said, months after he was fostered by my parents, was, “You talk too much, Yulian.”
After that, I adopted him.
No, really. I’m his only real friend. Kind of improved his image, too, which he’s been changing over the past couple of years to serve his agenda better. Whatever that agenda is.
“What?” I ask when he continues watching me silently.
“What did your dad say?”
“Before or after he kicked me to near death?”
“Be serious.”
I blow out a long cloud of smoke. “Same old bullshit about not humiliating him.”
“Told you not to test your luck too much.”
I shrug. “I was just acting normal.”
“You were acting beyond normal, knowing full well he’d get reports of your behavior. Would it kill you to stay in line for just a few weeks?”
“Nah, not for me.” I grin, then wince when the cut in my mouth throbs and I taste blood.
It’s like a neuron snaps in my head, a current, a bout of electricity.
A goddamn spark.
I’ve always had this sense of restlessness. Ever since I can remember, I just can’t stop.
Can’t stay still.
It’s just impossible.
Hitting, punching, talking, being hit, being punched, being cussed out nonstop.
Well, fuck me.
Keeping the cigarette in my mouth, I flip over and do some push-ups, clapping my palms in between. This rhythm dulls the electricity to a spasm.
A throb.
A flare, maybe.
Cy releases a long breath. “At this rate, you’ll go home in a body cast.”
“Not happening,” I speak around the cigarette, “you know how Mom worries and Alina cries whenever I get hurt.”
“Then put more of an effort into this camp.”
“I’m putting in effort.”
“Fighting Niko and taunting Vaughn every chance you get is not effort.”
I pause and tilt my head to the side. “No?”
“You’re only hurting your case by going against a perfectly groomed mafia heir. He’s already proved to be superior to you in every aspect.”
I jump up, drag the cigarette from my lips, and put up a hand. “Not every aspect. I’m a better shooter, and he can’t win against me in a fistfight.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, and he got punished for the first time with me.” I waggle my brows. “I’ll punch the shit out of him when we’re in the forest… Speaking of which, I should work out and hit the showers before we take off. Wanna join?”
“No, thanks. Just…” He runs a hand over his face, looking older than the old man Danil. I mean, Danil isn’t that old, but he acts as if he’s ancient. Same with Cy. Got some telepathy thing going on between them.
Danil should’ve been influenced by me, just saying.
“Vaughn goes by the book,” Cy says.
“And?”
“And he’s predictable. He won’t cause a ruckus, wouldn’t break rules he doesn’t have to.
He walks around like someone who already has the weight of becoming Pakhan on his shoulders.
He’s so mellowed out and levelheaded because he has to be.
He’s the Kirill Morozov’s son, after all, and someone like Vaughn will do everything in his power to live up to his father’s legacy. ”
“I still don’t see why you’re bleeding my ears with nonsense. He’s such a golden boy and barely Russian, what does that have to do with me…except that I want to humiliate him? Will totally fight him and win—”
“Yuliy,” Cy cuts me off. “Focus. He can be an asset, not an enemy. The New York Bratva are different from back home. You have a rare chance to forge a bond with him and use it in the future when you need it the most. Namely, when you’ll no longer be satisfied with being number two.”
“Me? A bond with Vaughn? I’d rather punch him.”
“Would punching him help you someday?”
“No, but it’ll feel good.”
He shakes his head. “Just think about it.”
“I don’t do that. You do it for me.”
“We’re all alone. You don’t have to pretend to be clueless.”
I lift a shoulder and leave the room so he’ll stop bitching.
I swear to fuck, Cy has personally chosen to become the nagger-in-chief of my life, talking and whining and warning.
If they could all shut up, I’d be having the best time ever.
Minus the hitting.
And the facade.
And my entire existence, really.
But hey, Cy, Mom, and Alina are the exceptions. Mom and Alina are the reasons I’ve survived thus far, and Cy is my bro.
Doesn’t matter that we’re not actually brothers.
Cy’s dad had some sort of an empire, similar to the empire my dad married my mother for—to get a piece of the business and inherit my dedushka’s power.
Snuffed my mother’s light in the process.
But anyway, Cy being orphaned and fostered by Dad wasn’t a coincidence and definitely wasn’t done out of the goodness of my father’s heart, if you can’t tell.
Yaroslav only cares about someone when they have a purpose.
Mom, Alina, and Cy.
Me? Let’s say he’d exchange me with one of my older brothers the first chance he gets.
If only they weren’t illegitimate children.
And if only he weren’t so set in old rules and traditional to the point of extremism.
So he’s ended up with me—his only legitimate male heir.
The wrong one.
My brothers would make better heirs than I, but they’ll never be allowed to, and I can’t give them the chance, because they’re like those tyrant kings from ancient empires.
The moment they take over, they’ll murder all eligible heirs to snub resistance at the source.
Well, good luck wiping me out. I’m a roach no one can get rid of.
But I have this grand plan only Cy is aware of, which includes me building some connections. Now, I’m not one for plans. You ask me about strategies, and I’ll pretend to be an airhead with frat-boy tendencies.
You know, a hopeless idiot, as my dad loves to call me.
But this one plan? I’ll carry it out as if my life depends on it.
Actually, my life does depend on it, and so does Alya’s and my mom’s, so it kind of needs to succeed.