Chapter 23In Her Name I Bleed #2
The guard presses the needle to my skin, and a jolt of pain shoots through my chest. It’s not like the cold, numb ache of hunger or the burning agony of old wounds. No, this is different. This is sharp. A thousand tiny needles, digging into the flesh, pulling and tearing at the ink that defines me.
The machine buzzes, its needle dragging across my skin, carving into the cross that’s marked me as the heir of the Bratva. Each movement of the needle sends another wave of pain through me, deeper, more intense.
But I don’t flinch. I don’t make a sound.
The guard works with methodical cruelty, carving something new into my skin, something ugly, something meaningless.
I can feel the machine moving in sharp lines, a jagged pattern surrounding the cross. It’s dark, thick lines that loop and twist around the edges of the mark. A tribal design, sharp and heavy-handed. It doesn’t flow or follow any rhythm, it’s forced, violent, a brutal attempt to erase my identity.
The needle drags again, this time cutting through the old design entirely. They’re covering the cross now, blotting it out with a mass of thick, black ink. The lines are messy, chaotic, as if they want to obliterate everything that ever mattered.
But there’s no elegance in this. It’s not a masterpiece. It’s the mark of a man broken, stripped of his place. They don’t even care enough to make it neat. The tattoo they’re giving me is nothing but an ugly, violent smear. It’s a rough, fragmented mess.
I can hear the guard’s steady breath beside me, feel the way his fingers tighten on the machine as he moves it across my chest. He’s enjoying this. They all are. They think that this will bring me to my knees.
But I won’t give them that satisfaction. I stay still, gritting my teeth, even as the sharp sting of the needle digs deeper. The ink swirls together in jagged loops, covering the cross, swallowing it whole. They don’t just want to erase my mark; they want to erase me .
I force my mind away from the pain. Focus on anything else. It’s just ink, just blood. The kind of thing that can be washed away, or healed. The body can only take so much before it breaks, but even when it breaks, it rebuilds.
I feel the pressure on my chest, a final twist of the needle as the last part of the cross is swallowed by the darkness of the ink. It’s done.
The guard steps back, admiring his work. I don’t look down at it to see its final fucking mess, not yet. I’m not giving them that satisfaction, not until I’m ready.
‘‘Now you’re just like the rest of us,’’ the first guard sneers. ‘‘No more pretty little heir. No more the Pakhan of a lost organization. Just another broken man.’’
The words hang in the air, sharp and pointed. Lost organization. The way he says it. The way it sounds so detached, almost like an afterthought, not the pride of a man in power, but the bitterness of someone who’s already let go of something important.
I keep my expression blank, even as my mind races. Lost organization . It’s not our organization, is it? Not the Bratva, not the Brotherhood, not the family I was born into. The way he said it, it wasn’t possessive. It was almost dismissive.
A subtle shift, but it’s enough. Enough to make me pause, enough to make me take in the rest of the moment with more clarity. These men, these guards, they aren’t who they seem.
There’s a weight to their words, something unsettling. The kind of thing you don’t say unless you’re an outsider, unless you’re someone who doesn’t belong anymore.
But my mind is slipping.
Maybe they’re old members who crossed the line. Maybe enemies of the family who got too close and never left. Maybe even something worse; people who learned too much about us and decided to take us down from the inside.
The fact that they know about the tattoo, about the cross, means they’re not just dirty feds or basic street criminals.
They know the kind of power the mark holds.
They know what it means. They’ve studied the Bratva from a place closer than the average outsider would.
But again, anyone could have given them this information.
Nothing is sure in here, and I’m slowly slipping.
The guard’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “Well, I hope you enjoyed the services,” he sneers, clearly proud of the destruction he’s caused. “Maybe you’d like another design while we’re at it?”
He doesn’t expect what comes next. My words, low and thick with defiance, slip from my mouth without hesitation.
“Why not?” The words land heavy in the room, colder than I feel, and I feel a shift in the air. The guards falter, the confidence in their stance cracking, just for a second. It’s a moment of doubt they can’t hide. And I revel in it.
I see their confusion, their surprise, as I keep my gaze locked on the first guard, the one who’s so proud of his work.
His eyes widen behind his mask ever so slightly, the arrogance in them slipping for just a moment.
He stumbles over his words as he tries to regain control, trying to understand what just happened.
What was supposed to be his victory, his triumph over me, has suddenly been turned back on him.
“What?” His voice cracks, and I know he’s lost his edge. I can feel it.
I lean back in the chair, the straps cutting into my limbs, but it doesn’t matter. The pain isn’t real anymore—not like this. My chest tightens, and I take in the room with a slow, deliberate breath. The only thing that matters now is taking back control.
“Write on my chest,” I say, the words like a challenge, like a test. My voice is hoarse, but steady. “I.M.B.”
I don’t explain. I don’t need to. I don’t have to spell it out. This isn’t about explaining. It’s about making them realize just how far I’ll go. How far I’ve already gone.
“I.M.B.” I repeat again, my voice cold and final, like a command.
I see the shift in his posture, the hesitation creeping in. I’ve thrown him off balance. And for the first time since they dragged me here, I can feel it. I can feel my power, my presence, slipping back into my bones like it’s always been there, waiting. It’s small, temporary, but it’s here.
The guard looks between me and the others, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his dark eyes.
He simply steps forward, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he picks up the needle once more. The machine hums back to life.
And as the needle presses against my chest, I finally allow myself to smirk.