7. Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
V iktor, Age 12
Six months ago, I watched Alexie take his mother’s life without hesitation. It was the first ceremony I’d been allowed to attend. Usually it was just the older members in the Bratva who watched and celebrated a boy entering manhood. But my father had wanted me to see, because when my birthday came, it would be my turn.
I was horrified.
The time I spent in the basement with my mother showed me there was more to this world than violence and death. After Leo had raped me, and my father had brutally whipped me for the violation, I had been banished to the basement. In the depths of darkness, my mother tended to me as best she could, a beacon of love and compassion in our cruel world. Hidden away in that subterranean sanctuary, we forged an unbreakable bond. She read to me from the forbidden books, her soothing voice a balm to my soul. Her gentle hands bathed me, and her melodic songs filled the air, as we carved out moments of tenderness amidst the chaos. We sketched our dreams, and dealt cards in the shadows, creating our own world.
After two bittersweet weeks, my father recognized that his punishment had backfired, and he compelled me to return to the heart of our twisted existence, once again forbidding me from seeing her. But I couldn’t heed his command. Every opportunity I had, I slipped back down to that secret haven.
My mother’s sweetness was a stark contrast to my father’s cruelty, a mystery I couldn’t unravel. When I dared to question her about her confinement, she remained silent, her haunted gaze speaking volumes.
“Viktor,” Alexie’s voice pierced through my memories as he entered my room, shattering the fragile sanctuary I had found in my mother’s embrace. “It’s time.”
Alexie, adorned in a sleek, tailored suit, made his entrance at the ceremony, the PYa he’d wielded to silence his own mother snugly holstered beneath his arm. It was a chilling testament to his newfound prominence within our twisted family, marking him as the undeniable heir. He had not only fulfilled his mandated kill, but had added another dark trophy to his sinister collection. My father’s pride in him knew no bounds.
Like Alexie before me, I donned the ominous purple robe, and adjusted the mask concealing my identity. “What if I can’t go through with it?” I murmured, my voice trembling with uncertainty.
Alexie’s response was a derisive snort. “You don’t get a choice in this matter. If you have to close your eyes to carry it out, then do just that. Once it’s done, you can cast off the mask and claim your mantle as a man.”
“I don’t want to become a man,” I confessed, my words barely audible.
“You must learn to control your emotions,” Alexie growled with steely determination. “Believe me when I tell you, this act will be a mercy for your mother. A swift death is a far better fate than whatever torment Father inflicts upon her in that wretched basement.”
Deep down, I knew he spoke the truth. My mother was wasting away down there, her vitality dwindling with each passing day, even if not physically. It was as if she was slowly fading in every other sense.
No child had ever faltered in this gruesome test, but then again, none of them had the connection I shared with my mother. The other women in the family were cold and aloof, as if they had never cared for their offspring. Child-rearing was an obligation left to the nannies, while these women enjoyed all the luxuries that the Bratva’s wealth could offer. They lived each day as if it were their last, oblivious to the darkness that clung to their opulent lives.
In a twisted sense, it was a form of premeditated death they embraced, knowing that their demise wouldn’t come by natural means, and could strike at any moment; a macabre trade-off, sacrificing life itself for a decade or two of opulent luxury.
But my mother was an exception. All I knew was that she had somehow provoked my father’s anger, and was enduring a relentless imprisonment in the basement for as long as my memory reached.
“Just stay calm,” Alexie urged, leading me into the dimly lit hallway. “They have meticulously prepared you for this very moment. Do you grasp why we must follow this path?”
I shook my head in dissent. “Couldn’t we all just be a happy family instead?”
Alexie’s response was measured and devoid of emotion. “Not after Anya.”
“Who’s Anya?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“She was one of our ancestors’ wives who betrayed the family, sparking an all-out war,” Alexie explained with an almost robotic tone, as if reciting a well-practiced mantra. “Women are a distraction, the potential enemy within our ranks. In the world of the Bratva, the family is all that truly matters.”
Was this the dark legacy of being the heir? Inducted into a chilling world of indoctrination? I wanted no part of this.
Descending into the parking garage, we emerged into the cold, unforgiving night, ignoring the surrounding vehicles. “Pull your hood up,” Alexie instructed, his voice cutting through the darkness.
The flickering torches illuminated the path ahead, casting eerie shadows. Alexie accompanied me, even though during his own ceremony, he had arrived unaccompanied.
I suspected my father had sent Alexie to fetch me, fearing I wouldn’t accept my part. Ever since the events of last year, our treatment within the family had shifted, and the dynamics had grown colder and more treacherous.
The ceremony unfolded within a massive, inconspicuous building concealed behind the family’s mansion. Until Alexie’s own initiation, I had believed it to be a nondescript concrete warehouse, housing my father’s extravagant collection of cars and boats. How mistaken I had been.
Our family crest gleamed proudly above the entrance, the same symbol that adorned my father’s flesh, etched as a tattoo. Every Pakhan bore such a mark somewhere on their body, whether by choice or under duress.
With the imposing doors now ajar, we stepped inside, venturing further into the depths of darkness.
I set foot upon the unforgiving concrete, a surface forever tainted by the bloodshed that had soaked into it over the years. No amount of soap or water could ever cleanse the stains left by the relentless carnage this building had borne witness to. In the dim, wavering light of lanterns, the tools of death lurked in the shadows, some relics as ancient and brutal as the inquisition’s instruments of torment.
Instead of the confident stride of an executioner, my legs quivered as if I were being led to my execution. I clenched my fists, attempting to still the trembling. In the recesses of my mind, I conjured my mother’s smile and the soothing cadence of her voice, which had once sung me to sleep.
And then, without warning, I ran out of time. There was no turning back now. I stood before my father, his ostentatious attire setting him apart from the others in the room.
My brother donned the ritualistic garb to match the attire of the assembled attendees.
Cloaked in their black robes, the Bratva’s made men encircled us, their faces hidden from view. They were the sole invitees to this macabre ceremony. Although I couldn’t see their expressions, I sensed their collective gaze, filled with expectation and perhaps even derision, anticipating my failure.
“Viktor Petrov, are you prepared to ascend to adulthood?” My father’s commanding voice echoed through the chamber, and his soldiers stood with rigid precision, akin to obedient automatons, all awaiting my response.
I fought to steady my rapid breath, attempting to quell the turmoil in my stomach. With a tentative nod, I acknowledged the looming ritual.
“Speak, child!” My father’s voice snapped, demanding my respect.
“Yes, sir,” I muttered.
“Is that how you dare to address me?” He growled, a surge of authority in his tone.
“Yes, Pakhan ,” I corrected, clearing my throat. “Yes, Pakhan ,” I repeated, louder this time.
“Take this goblet and partake in the essence of the brothers who came before you.”
The golden chalice held vodka, infused with a drop of blood from all the made men, a testament to their contribution to the family’s ascent in power. Father had explained that, following my ceremony, my blood would be added to future rituals.
I raised the glass to my lips as my father addressed the assembled men.
“As he emerges into manhood, we shall bear witness to his extraordinary potential. He won’t reign, but he will serve as his brother’s most formidable right-hand man, a force we have never witnessed before.”
A chorus of cheers erupted as I forced down the repugnant metallic concoction, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I fought to maintain a composed fa?ade, concealing my revulsion.
My father leaned in, whispering to my godfather, “bring the woman.”
My godfather, Roger, departed to fetch my mother, and it seemed she couldn’t have been far, for he returned with her swiftly, dragging her in by her hair, her silence an eerie contrast to the brutal circumstances.
Even with her before me, I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze.
“Face your destiny, boy,” my father commanded, extending a pistol for me to take.
My eyes shifted to the men, standing like resigned sentinels, their figures shrouded in shadow. When I hesitated to accept the weapon, father placed it firmly into my trembling hand.
Years of training kicked in, as I raised the gun to my mother’s temple. She understood that her fate was sealed, and she offered no resistance. Yet, I couldn’t muster the courage to meet her eyes. Instead, I focused on the cold steel pressing against her forehead.
In that agonizing moment, memories of our time together flooded my mind; the kindness she had shown me, the stark contrast between her worldview and my father’s.
“Do it, child,” my father whispered, his voice eerily calm.
My finger remained poised, unwilling to squeeze the trigger.
“Do it,” he urged, the pressure building with each passing second.
When I still made no move to take her life, my father lost his composure.
“Kill her now!” He shouted, his echo reverberating off the walls.
I felt something warm slide down my legs. I’d pissed myself in front of all our men. Some quietly chuckled.
“Viktor,” my mom whispered.
I finally met her gaze.
Tears shining in her eyes, my mom mouthed she loved me, and that it was okay. She closed her eyes.
Still, I couldn’t do it.
My mother’s lids flew open, sheer panic shining in their depths. She grabbed the barrel and steadied it on her forehead, taking a deep breath before saying, “it’s okay, son. You can do it.”
I was crying silently. I could feel the air move behind me and knew my father was about to harm me, to kill me for humiliating him like this.
I didn’t care.
Suddenly, Alexie pushed me out of the way.
The gunshot made me flinch.
Her body crumpled.
*thump*
I watched the smoke drift to the ceiling. My heart fractured. I couldn’t even look at her body. I was so ashamed.
“What a fucking disgrace,” my father spat at me.
Murmuring took over, and the men shuffled uncomfortably on their feet.
“Alexie is the heir. He doesn’t hesitate,” Father announced jovially, patting Alexie on his shoulder. “Dependable.”
Anger burst in my chest. I ripped off my mask and glared at the two of them.
“Fix your face, boy,” my father growled. “If you want to be with the cunt so badly, then with her you will stay.”
I didn’t say ‘fuck you’, but Father must have read it in my eyes, because he clocked me.
I fell on top of my mother, nearly unconscious.
“Take them both to the freezer.”
I felt one man grab me under my arms and drag me off. Darkness filled my vision. I closed my eyes and fell into oblivion.
???
I groaned in agony as my body hit the frigid floor, pain radiating through every fiber of my being. My mind spun, disoriented and overwhelmed.
When I pried my eyes open, I caught the cruel glint in my father’s gaze as he issued his heartless command. “Lower the temperature.”
He turned away from me, striding out of the freezer, and the heavy door slammed shut behind him, plunging me into an inky abyss.
Yet, amidst the darkness, her eyes remained illuminated, fixed on me with what I believed was an enduring love. For hours, I shivered uncontrollably, my body battling the bitter cold.
Curled up on the frigid floor, I prepared to succumb to the icy embrace of death.
“I’m here with you, my son,” she crooned, her eyes piercing through me. “ Wake up.”
Her voice grew louder, demanding my attention.
“WAKE UP!”
I jolted upright, drenched in sweat, frantically scanning the inky void around me, trying to dispel the numbing chill seeping into my bones. My hand sought my mother’s lifeless form, a chilling reminder of her death, even as her whispered words echoed in my ears.
“Avenge me,” I heard her ghostly whisper swirl around me. “Live to avenge me, by taking your brother’s place as the head of this family.”
It became my mantra, my source of strength.
“Avenge us,” her quiet encouragement urged me. “Live to make them pay for their sins. Usurp this wretched dynasty.”
With each whispered command, I grew stronger, my resolve solidifying.
“Grow strong, so they never underestimate you again.”
Even in death, my mother guided me.
“Destroy all who stand in your way, my son. Rise and overthrow your father, claim your rightful throne.”
Her words seared into my soul, and when the freezer doors finally swung open, and my father released me, I knew my time for revenge would come. I would bide my time, lurking like a venomous snake within the Bratva’s garden, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. They had no inkling of the ruthless adversary they had cultivated within their midst.