Chapter 4 – Roman
In my line of work, loyalty was non-negotiable, and betrayal was unforgivable.
I sat in my dimly lit office, cradling a glass of vodka. My mind was reeling with the different ways I’d make my uncle’s killer suffer for their actions.
For years, we’d been searching for the man behind Uncle Akim’s murder. At first, we all thought it was an attack from a rival gang. And although that wasn’t completely false, it wasn’t entirely true either.
A powerful man had ordered the hit that took my uncle’s life. He didn’t survive long after—no questions asked. As soon as we learned he was behind the act, we responded immediately. The bastard met his end in a gruesome way, in a fatal accident that caused his car to explode.
He died screaming in agony as his body burned beyond recognition. We made sure he had a taste of hell on earth before rotting in the grave forever. As satisfying as that was, it still wasn’t enough. We only killed the man who pointed the gun, while the one who pulled the trigger still walked free.
Whoever he was, he’d eluded us for years.
The son of a bitch was good at covering his tracks and making us run around like dogs chasing our tails. Other than the fact that he was paid to do a job, we had no idea who he was or how to catch him.
A few of my comrades within the Bratva ranks thought it would be better to just let it go because we already killed the brain behind the attack. But I wasn’t satisfied yet. I wanted to catch the man who had done it.
And now, after all these years, we’d finally found him: my Uncle Akim’s killer. But there was one big problem. Learning this man’s identity almost broke me because he was the last person I ever thought would do this.
No one ever imagined that our worst enemy was the one closest to us. His name was Mercer, and his betrayal hit me hardest because he was one of the few people who had earned my trust, as well as that of my late uncle.
From the moment I found this out, I’d yet to get a grip on myself. Shock and anger coursed through my veins as I wondered why I let myself be so attached to that son of a bitch. I still found it hard to believe he was capable of being so cold.
I should’ve known better; I should’ve suspected him, given how quickly he left the Bratva around the time of the murder. Why did no one ever consider him a potential suspect?
Mercer’s betrayal cut deeper than I cared to admit, and I wasn’t sure what pissed me off the most. Was it that he turned his back on us, or that I was foolish enough not to see through his acts?
This man outsmarted me because I let my guard down around him—because I took him as a brother. Big mistake.
I messed up before, but I wasn’t going to let that happen again. The Bratva had demanded vengeance upon hearing this. But for me, this wasn’t about duty anymore. It was personal, and that’s why I told them to let me handle it.
Mercer had messed with the wrong people, and now, he was about to understand that his actions had consequences. Grave consequences. Pun intended.
The hiccup with this situation, however, was the fact that the bastard was no longer the ghost he used to be. According to our sources, he was a ruined man, sick and bedridden—clinging to what’s left of his miserable life in a shabby apartment. Forgotten by his allies, discarded by the world.
Some might argue that there was no honor in killing a sick man, but I couldn’t care less. What honor was there in killing an old, defenseless man? He started this fight, and even though it had taken me years to finish it, I was determined to do so.
Bedridden or not, Mercer would pay for his crimes—not just because the Bratva demanded revenge. But because I wanted to look him in the eyes when I took his miserable life.
Blood for blood. That was the code that I was ready to uphold.
Nothing on this earth could save him from my wrath—not illness, not weakness. Nothing at all. Betrayal was punishable by death, and there was no escaping it.
My grip tightened around the glass as I lifted it to my lips and took a sip. My eyes darted across the room to the oil painting hanging on the wall.
“Actually, it’s Renoir. Not Monet,” the gorgeous waitress’s voice echoed in the back of my mind.
Before I could take control of my thoughts, images of her polite smile and the quiet crinkling of her hazel eyes invaded my head. The little incident at the restaurant came rushing back in, distracting me from the mission at hand.
I tried to channel my thoughts toward Mercer and the satisfaction of ending his life. But the more I did that, the more my mind kept shifting back to the petite blonde.
The sound of her voice—soft, sweet, and tender—was music to my ears. I recalled how she moved through the space, poised and elegant, and how she made me feel whenever we locked eyes, an emotion I had yet to name.
I set my glass down on the table and reclined in my chair, rubbing my eyes with my fingers. “Fuck.”
This was a serious moment, one where I was supposed to be planning my revenge. I didn’t need this unwelcome distraction. Not at all. The petite blonde was just a random waitress at a random restaurant. She was of no significance to me and shouldn’t occupy so much space in my head.
I clenched my jaw, my brows furrowing to form deep creases between them. My blood boiled with rage at the fact that this complete stranger had refused to let me think straight.
How difficult was it to dispel an insignificant thought?
I combed my fingers through my hair, the scowl on my face deepening by the second. She had no right living rent-free in my head, and it was time to force her out.
My revenge was close—that’s all that mattered!