Defensive Rook (The Bratva’s Elite #3)

Chapter 1

LEV

“Lev! Up, eight o’clock!”

Who’s shouting those words matters less than the warning itself. It’s clearly something to react to, and a quick mental calculation determines the exact trajectory from us to the threat, so I shuffle to the left and tuck Serafina Mancini to my side, out of the way of the incoming bullet.

While the others fight for their lives, my duty is to get her to safety, so that’s what I’ll do, no matter the cost.

Ten more feet to the door.

Given how tight her hand is around mine, she’s keen enough to not let go.

Her panicked, shallow breaths sound louder than the shouts and fighting behind us, which pinpoints my focus.

Her body is stiff against mine, and even without actually knowing this woman—the eighteen-year-old half-sister to both my Pakhan and her boyfriend-slash-ex-enemy—I suspect she’s normally a lot warmer than this.

Which means I definitely need to get her out and to safety so she can return to normal.

Five more feet to the door.

Less than a second after Vanessa’s warning, my shoulder stings with a blinding pain recognizable as a bullet ripping through flesh.

The only noise I release is a grunt, the pain bitten in a grinding jaw, but Serafina yells—a sound I don’t like at all.

It’s screechy and as irritating as the buzzing that is my brain’s constant companion.

If not for the timing of Vanessa’s warning that got me to switch sides with her, the bullet would have gone through her head, killing her instantly. It’s an image that cools my blood more than the wound in my shoulder.

Serafina dying isn’t an option, especially since she was only dragged into this fight by her unfortunate relations.

When Vanessa claimed leadership of the Bratva after her father’s, Ursin Volkov, death, his brother—her uncle—Ivan did not approve and has opposed her for years.

In his idiotic drive to seize control, he used the strange relationship between her and Zeno Mancini, a Cosa Nostra Capo, and his sister, Serafina—who’s also Vanessa’s half-sister, by Ursin’s nefarious actions—to force her hand: them or the Bratva.

Serafina is completely innocent in this fight.

But it doesn’t stop her from cursing.

“Shit!” Hand tightening, she propels me towards the broken metal door and out of the warehouse where Ivan locked her and Zeno to lure Vanessa here.

Getting shot always stings, and while this isn’t anything new, it doesn’t stop the burning that begs me to rest—which can’t happen, not yet.

My steps are growing sluggish, but I attempt to drag her closer, keeping my body curled around hers in case anyone’s following us.

A bullet to the spine would be better than disobeying Vanessa’s orders.

My vision burring and flashing colours isn’t helping as I attempt to scan the land for anyone outside. Given the lack of shooting, I’d like to believe we’re free.

Twenty feet from the warehouse doors is the SUV Anastasia, my twin sister, and I drove. I nudge Serafina in that direction, mentally counting our steps to stay focused and keep my own heart rate down.

Numbers make everything better.

“Door.”

Thankfully, she understands the one-word instruction and opens the back door to let me climb in first. Injured or otherwise, her being out in the open isn’t an option.

We’ve come this far, and I’ll be damned if I see her killed now.

My waning energy is channelled towards pushing her into the backseat, my silent demand nothing but a puff of breath.

Uncertainty tightens her eyes—or is that concern?—but she accepts arguing won’t get either of us anywhere and climbs inside. I scan the area again while clutching the door to keep myself upright. Hopefully, the others ensured no one followed us, because fighting while injured is a bitch of a job.

And something tells me Serafina won’t be useful in a fight.

Serafina reaches to assist me inside. The door takes most of my weight before I practically fall onto the bench.

My head lands on her lap, weakness dragging me further and quicker from consciousness than preferable.

My head resting by a stranger’s intimate area feels less important than my distaste of being this near another person.

Count. Stay awake. Stay focused.

One…

Her fingers drive through my hair and—why does this feel so fucking good? Anyone who touches me deserves death—or at the very least, a stern reminder of why another person’s skin against mine causes my blood to race and my breaths to come out short.

Touch is—no. Just no. I hate it more than anything. It makes my skin crawl.

But Serafina’s touch is…different. Can’t say why. Maybe it’s the injury’s doing.

Two…

“Stay alive!”

Alive, I can do. Awake is a different story, especially if she keeps rubbing my scalp like this.

Three…

Blackness consumes me, and even the girl whose voice imbeds into the deepest parts of my mind, mending areas that have never been silent, can’t keep the memories away.

Ten Years Ago

“You know what you’ve done.” Papa sneers down at me before the cell door bangs shut. “Or, should I say, what you haven’t done.”

Conformed. That’s all I didn’t do. I’m not the kid he wants.

Instead of being at the gym, I stayed home and built the start of what’ll be an entire network infrastructure for no reason but my own enjoyment and interest. It’s been an ongoing project consuming most of my time.

In truth, I intended to head to the gym as I was supposed to, but my hobby became too alluring to walk away from.

Anastasia—or Ana, as she insists on me calling her, even though I despise nicknames—claims it’s an obsession.

Either way, hours passed before realizing I never got up from my desk.

Papa’s steps echo down the stone corridor into my small, six-by-six cell within one of the Russian prisons. His steps reach fifteen before being too distant to continue counting.

This isn’t my first stay here, nor will it probably be my last. While the cell is near-silent, the prisoners trained to not make noise, my head still fills with the familiar buzzing.

My finger taps my knee in a routine pattern to keep me present and stable. One, two, one.

Despite the silence, prison is too stimulating.

The stones are chilly and hard beneath me, the cold seeping into my skin with the sense I’ll never be warm again.

The stale air smells like mould and sweat, and in the distance, there’s an irritating humming from one of the guards.

There’s no whirling of my computers to relax me.

Hell, I’d even take my sister rambling about ballet shoes or whatever if it keeps my mind at bay.

Anything but being here.

My hands press into my temples, hoping the pressure does something—sometimes it does, sometimes not—while my fingers continue their pattern against my skull.

Control doesn’t come as easy to me as it does other soldiers, much to my father’s disappointment. I’ll never be who and what he wants me to be, and I wish he’d figure that out rather than constantly toss me in here. It never teaches me the lessons he hopes it will.

Even Ursin, our Pakhan, approves of my hobbies. He boasts about its potential usefulness, given the changing tides of the world. He first praised my knowledge of technology last year, on my sixteenth birthday, and it was the only compliment ever received that validated me.

When around Ursin, Papa pretends to be okay with it, but he wants a fighter, like who Dimitri, Ursin’s nephew, is becoming. Papa doesn’t understand how technology calms my mind.

Unlike people, technology is logical. Servers involve systems. Computers are built with both physical and software components. Every piece has a role, even if it’s sometimes complicated, but figuring out the solution is half the fun.

When unable to separate myself from computers, Papa invents any and all reasons to get angry and tosses me into prison in response. If I defend myself, he goes after Anastasia and forces her into worse. That was a lesson quickly learned.

This is my fifth time in prison—always this cell, soon to be etched with my name like some fucked-up plaque.

Indications of my past visits are evident.

On the adjacent wall, there are lines drawn into the stone, representing the passing days.

I know there are two hundred and twenty-two blocks that form the cell and fifteen metal poles fencing me in, seven of which make up the sliding door—having counted them on my very first stay and each one after it.

If anything, I should be grateful to be on this side of the prison rather than the other, where the Bratva locks up prisoners they mean to break.

Papa doesn’t need me broken, just fixed.

The solitary confinement, the smaller rooms and steel doors and various forms of torture, are meant to drive prisoners mad.

Sometimes, I’d prefer those rooms, though. The scar on my ribs and slightly crooked nose from when it was once broken and didn’t heal correctly are testament to that.

While the Bratva may not have complete control on this side of prison, we’re behind quite a few inmates’ captivity. Anyone discovered fucking over the Bratva who weren’t killed for whatever reason, Ursin tosses into here.

My presence is like wildfire in this place, a spark that’ll spread when word gets out. Papa’s aware that by forcing me in here, it’ll be a workout worse than the gym when I’m fighting for my life.

Whenever I return home with new scars, stories, and successes, Papa preens like he did them himself. Ursin, though approving of my computer knowledge, also never hides the pleasure of my skirmishes.

Right on time, Jakob, the only halfway decent guard, appears with a grimace. Handcuffs hang from his belt, which he retrieves before unlocking my door.

“You’re back.” It’s his way of saying welcome back.

Wordlessly, I stretch my arms towards him, familiar with this game. Seventeen-years-old, and I’m fucking familiar with handcuffs for doing non-existent crimes.

Unless having interests beyond weapons and fighting are a crime, then I’ve done plenty.

Jakob leads me fifty paces down the stone hallway, past twelve other prisoners, who leer in interest as we pass. One hand lightly rests on my shoulder, pointlessly directing me to the singular room where prisoners are ever removed to.

The dining hall, because on this side of the prison, they stick the convicts together for short socialization stretches. I’m convinced we’re entertainment for the guards. This is half the reason Papa locks me up. He knows what actually goes on.

As we approach, the shouting from inside makes my skull feel like it’ll vibrate from my neck.

If only. If it did, this would be over.

Jakob’s grim look is back when he uncuffs me and opens the door. The others would shove me into the room like I’m a fighter in a paid match, so Jakob’s unwillingness makes him my preferred guard.

“Sorry, kid,” he murmurs before shutting the door.

No one cares about a teenager being locked inside a room full of criminals who’re at least a decade older. No one cares if I even survive except Anastasia and Dimitri, maybe Vanessa.

In one way, I suppose my stays are doing exactly what Papa wants. They’re making me hardened, turning me into a fighter—a survivor.

It’s the reason for the sun tattoo on my ribs, meant to represent the numerous prison trips. After surviving this one, a fifth will be added to it.

There’s twelve men in the room, five of whom turn their attention towards me.

One step, two, then three, before men come up behind me. The snarl in my ear curls my stomach. It’s all about dominance; they won’t hesitate to beat someone down, which means standing up to them to survive.

“Your boss pissed off the wrong people,” a strange accent whispers in my ear. Italian. That’s interesting. Different for these parts.

A sharp pain stabs through my left shoulder, making me stagger to the side. I refuse to go down, needing to ignore the pain until returned to my cell, to appear unbothered even as my body cries to be checked out.

With a resigned sigh, I turn to the five of them with a fist, slamming it into my attacker’s face.