Chapter 1 Miko #2
With a snarl, I whirl, drawing one of my knives from inside my suit jacket as I find the culprit who tried to set me on fire.
With the flick of my wrist, I embed the blade in the throat of a Russian on the bottom steps of the patio.
He topples backward, choking on his own blood as he grabs for the handle.
In a matter of minutes, the courtyard has devolved into utter chaos. Our men are dropping like flies, too outnumbered and caught off guard to stand against a force this size.
White-hot rage rips through me as the enemy reaches the shattered windows of our family home, clambering inside at a rate I couldn’t stop if I wanted. But that won’t stop me from trying.
Roaring, I draw the pistols holstered beneath my jacket, cocking and aiming them at anyone who dares come too close.
I fire over thirty rounds in a matter of seconds, taking almost that many men down before my guns give the hollow click of an empty chamber.
“Merda!” I growl, shoving the guns back into their holsters and reaching for my knives as I whirl to face the door once more.
The fire has spread, turning into a blaze as it eats up the wooden doorframe, but beyond the flames and heat that ripples the air above them, my gaze lands on a sight that stops my heart in my chest.
Don Augusta is on his knees in the foyer, his chin raised defiantly even as he keeps his empty hands resting on his thighs, palm up in a show of submission.
And looming over him is none other than Pyotr Novikov.
I’ve never liked the Bratva boss.
He’s crass, distasteful, and—though he’s well-liked in the higher echelons of Chicago’s elite society—I’ve always thought something about him seemed… off.
Maybe it’s the glint in his eye, or his charm that he’s capable of switching off and on like a light.
But he’s always seemed vindictive to me—or worse, psychotic.
And right now, he has my adoptive father kneeling before him, entirely at his mercy.
Time slows as my brain works to process the scene that unfolds before me.
My feet feel glued to the concrete porch, the heat of the flames a solid wall between me and the man I vowed to protect.
I might be Leo’s bodyguard, but Don Augusta is the man who took me in when no one else would.
He raised me up and made me into the man I am today.
And yet, here I stand, utterly helpless as Pyotr raises his gun, resting the nose of his Makarov against my father’s forehead.
My fingers close around the hilt of my knife still nestled inside my suit jacket.
I move on instinct, stepping into the flames without a second thought.
At the same time, I slide my blade from its sheath.
My eyes laser in on my target.
My wrist whips.
But it’s too late.
The explosive report of a gun firing makes my ears ring.
The kick moves Pyotr’s hand just enough that my blade barely brushes the edge of his palm, skimming past him to embed itself in the wall beyond.
And as Don Augusta slumps, lifeless, to the floor, Pyotr turns to look at me, a wicked grin parting his lips.
“Better luck next time, Mudak,” he sneers.
Then he bolts, sprinting down the hall toward the wing of the house where Sandro and Raf live.
My vision turns red as intense, consuming rage overwhelms me, and I’m chasing Pyotr down before I think through the logic of my decision.
The Don is dead.
My first priority should be protecting Leo.
Keeping him alive.
But all I can think about is crushing the villain that murdered the man who raised me.
He has enough of a head start that I barely catch sight of him disappearing around the far corner as I reach the hall.
Then gunshots and explosions impede my path more, bursting around me without rhyme or reason, some coming too close for comfort.
But nothing is going to stop me from avenging Don Augusta’s death.
I should have saved his life—it was my responsibility to protect him.
But since I failed at that, the least I can do is kill the man who slayed him.
Then an agonized wail turns my blood to ice.
Raf.
My twin brothers might be identical, but I know them well enough to tell them apart by sound, and that was most definitely Raf’s cry.
It’s a sound of loss so deep and heartrending that only one of two things could draw it from him, and my chest tightens as reality comes crashing back to me with shattering force.
“Sandro,” I breathe, stopping dead in my tracks.
I will get revenge for my adoptive father.
Pyotr is going to die a slow and agonizing death.
But if the twins need me now, then I refuse to let anyone else die today.
Gripping the doorway beside me, I use it to slingshot myself back in the opposite direction, then turn down a hall to my right.
I throw open the door that’s already been kicked in and now hangs partially off its hinges. My stomach turns when I find my youngest brothers, Sandro and Raf, huddled together on the floor.
It takes a moment for me to process what’s happening as Sandro crouches protectively over his twin, his arms wrapped around Raf’s shoulders as if to hold him upright.
Then I see Raf’s wife slumped limply in Raf’s arms. Blood coats her throat and chest so thickly, I know without asking that she’s already beyond helping.
Raf releases another agonized howl, and Sandro grips his shoulders tighter, his gaze wheeling wildly around the room, desperately searching for some way to ease his twin’s inconsolable grief. Our eyes meet, and my heart wrenches as I see the panic in my most stoic brother’s face.
Before I can ask what happened, someone slams into me from behind, the force knocking me forward half a step before I whirl, drawing my knife in the same motion.
Gio, our middle brother, freezes as his throat finds the tip of my blade. His eyes widen, his hands coming up in surrender, and I immediately lower my knife.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“I came as soon as I heard that cry,” he says, leaning around me to find the source of Raf’s agony, then his face visibly pales. “Oh, Raf,” he breathes, stepping into the room as remorse clouds his eyes.
I glance out into the hall, scanning for any potential threats coming our way.
For the most part, this side of the house still seems decently intact and fairly empty compared to the main hall.
But from the sounds of the screams rapidly dying down, I know that our battle is lost.
We didn’t stand a chance against the force that came for us.
If we want to live, it’s time to retreat.
But we’re still missing Leo.
“We need to go,” I state gruffly, turning back to my brothers.
Gio looks at me skeptically, his eyes shifting back to Raf, who sobs brokenly over the body of his young new bride. Then he meets my gaze and gives a grim nod.
“Have you seen Leo?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
Sighing, I run my fingers through my hair as I weigh the odds that he’s still alive.
Even if they’re slim, I can’t leave him behind. “Wait here. I’ll go find him. If I’m not back in half an hour, leave without me.”
Gio swallows hard. “And Father?”
My mouth tastes like bitter poison as I shake my head. “Pyotr Novikov put a bullet in his head,” I state flatly.
Then I turn and leave the room, our cold new reality stirring around me like a winter storm.
The life I know is gone, the man I served without question murdered in cold blood.
Our home has been ripped apart, our family cast into anarchy.
In one fell swoop, my world has been blown apart.
And all I can think of is killing the man responsible… oh so slow and torturously.