Merciless Queen (The Bratva’s Elite #1)

Chapter 1

Whoever claims there are five stages of grief is severely mistaken.

There’s only one.

Anger.

Vicious, scorching ire that threatens to bring war along with it. And I’ll be the one leading the battle, brimming with a vengeance to redirect my grief in a more productive manner, which is exactly as I’ve always been taught to do. Why allow emotions to cloud one’s judgement when they instead can be the driving force behind personal progress?

A lesson drilled into me but never given the space to flourish.

At first, there was shock. When Erico Rossi of the New York Famiglia shot his gun from ten feet away, Papa instantly dropped dead. I hadn’t even realized what happened until the blood slowly seeped from Papa’s head and onto the airfield’s smooth cement. Erico then took out my father’s two soldiers, leaving me alone and without protection, so I didn’t stick around to be his fourth kill. From the parked car I was harbouring behind, I bolted across the airfield toward the Bratva’s private plane, which was originally meant to steal Rossi’s wife away. I ran past my father’s lifeless body, the instinct of escaping overcoming any desire to stop and process his death. Grief was shoved aside by shock; my brain rushing to catch up to what it witnessed.

The next thing I knew, Erico was ordering me out of New York, which was a command I happily obeyed. I wouldn’t be sticking around to die because of my father’s stupid plans. A few months ago, he got it in his head that the Bratva should be united with the Famiglia and required me to make it happen. Despite my distaste for both Erico and the notion of marriage, Papa and Erico’s father had been planning our engagement, regardless of my endless attempts to refuse the plan.

They were pointless endeavours since I had zero choice in my own life under my father’s command. Never have, and had he lived longer, never would. But I still had to try to make him see that Erico wasn’t the future I desired—though, as usual, I ultimately lost.

So for the past few weeks, I’d done what Papa expected me to and played a role. One directed and pre-approved by him, with the intention of luring Erico in. At the time of the plan’s conception, no one foresaw the challenge his bitch of a mute wife would pose. Unsurprising, though, that Papa underestimated a woman. Seems to be a common theme with him.

Now safe in Moscow after the thirteen-hour direct flight home, I pace in my bedroom, passing the massive windows showcasing the forest of yellow, red, and green all around the mansion’s property. What I last yelled at Erico, after I rushed past my father’s body and into the safety of the Bratva’s plane, echoes with every heavy step I take.

“The Bratva will retaliate, Rossi. You’ve just begun a war you won’t win.”

Once I tell all the heads of the organization—the Elite soldiers—what happened in New York, it’s exactly what the Famiglia will get. It’s that very anger speeding up my pacing, all while the memory of Papa’s lifeless form haunts me, hinting at impending heartbreak.

Only hinting. It’s a troubled concept not to be completely shattered by a parental death, I realize.

The problem is me. My unsettling guilt, my chaotic emotions, my perturbed thoughts. My father wasn’t exactly a loving man. He is— was —a user. Having me, a daughter, as his sole heir, he believed he failed the Bratva by not producing a son to take his role as Pakhan—Boss. Hence his determination to wed me off to someone he felt suitable enough to control the organization as my husband. There was never an option for me to claim leadership alone. The organization is as traditional as they come, and a woman directing men, criminal activities, and war, is unheard of.

Being a pawn is all I know in life. It’s exactly what I was bred to endure, right from childhood. My fifteenth birthday really hammered home the realization that Papa, no matter the love my silly heart felt for him, was not a good man. There’d always be something more important than me, whether it’s money, power, or connections.

But for all the bullshit, he was still my father. Somewhere in his cold, dead heart—now a literal description—there must have been a shred of love for me. Maybe. I hope, anyway. He certainly never revealed it to me or anyone else, but I assume at some point in my twenty-four years of life, he did. After all, it was his sort of love for me that had him picking the most ideal man to control the Bratva, rather than shoving me into a marriage with the first convenient one. This is what I reassure myself with, even if I doubt the truth behind that sentiment. It’s what I use to trigger sadness and push aside the hints of relief weaving in with my grief.

Relief. Because if anything, Erico freed me.

Temporarily, of course. With Papa dead, my uncle, his brother and Spy—the person who monitors the Brigadiers—will insist that he takes over, given that he’s the next male family member. Then I’ll be back to square one as a pawn. A chess piece meant to be played until I end up on another man’s board.

That kind of future can burn for all I care. Regardless of being Papa’s brother and most trusted advisor, I should be next in line since I’m Ursin Volkov’s child.

When our pilot landed in Moscow, I demanded the driver go faster than the speed limit. Though the pilot witnessed what happened, my driver obviously did not, and asked where my father was. I told him Papa’s still in the United States, which is not a lie. Technically, his body is there.

Once home, I rushed straight to my bedroom to hide, but avoiding can only last so long. Once my cousin and uncle arrive home and learn I and the Bratva plane have landed, my uncle will demand to know where my father is.

Then I’ll have to admit the shitshow that went down.

And that the Bratva is without its leader.

It’s my anger making me pause, glance at the door, and mentally play out the inevitable conversation I’ll soon be having. Regardless, the Rossis have to pay. Not for taking my father from me, but for robbing the Bratva of its leader and putting me in this precarious situation. I want to be the one to bring them to their knees, Erico especially. And then his bitch of a mute wife. My cheek still ghost stings from her slap the other week.

Bang, bang!

“Vanessa, open the fucking door!”

My uncle’s booming voice comes through the wood, followed by the jiggling doorknob. I breathe in deeply before heading toward the door. The second I flick the lock, the door flies open, narrowly missing whacking into me, if it wasn’t for my quick reflexes that allowed me to duck away in time.

A large figure bursts through the doorway, his balding head reminding me of a flashlight where the sun bounces off it before, in a quick flash, his hand clasps my neck and slams me against the nearest wall. While I immediately grip his wrist to push him away, his bodybuilder size means my feeble, and if I’m honest, pathetic, attempts do nothing.

I hate being weak. To him, to Papa, to this entire organization.

With Papa, it was easier to go along with his cruelty than fight a losing battle, but without our leader?—

I shove into him again, gritting my teeth as I glare at my eldest remaining family member. “Let me go, Ivan.” Without the uncle moniker, there is no recognition of the relation between us, setting us apart.

His eyes narrow right before he’s yanked off me, his handprint still a ghostly pressure against my throat, as a figure pushes between us. The only man in this family who actually gives two fucks about me.

My cousin shoves his father back another step, becoming a rigid wall between me and him. “Back the fuck off her, Otets .” The Russian term for Father .

My uncle sneers at his son, jerking his chin and straightening his unbuttoned suit jacket. “Dimitri, move out of the way. She has shit to account for. Such as, where my brother is and why he isn’t answering his phone . ”

Dimitri goes to raise his hand, but the pointless showdown is annoying. This has to be said anyway, so I nudge around my cousin, positioning myself between them. After a long look to Dimitri and a shake of my head, instructing him to back down and that I’m fine, I face Ivan to admit the words that’ll change my life. Change all our lives.

“Papa’s dead. Erico Rossi shot him.”

Ivan’s responding curses are enough to shake the mansion. A mixture of Russian and English slurs fill my bedroom, but I tune them out as he stalks to my window and back, his heavy steps thundering over the thick carpeting.

Dimitri grasps my upper arms to force me around and face him. His worried expression searches mine, presumably for the grief I’m too numb to truly feel. “Vanessa, I’m sorry.” He glances at his father who’s now rapidly typing on his cell phone, mumbling threats before murmuring, “Are you okay? Considering what he did, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t feel…” He trails off, which I know is partly due to the company we’re around, but I can fill in the blank. Sad.

The question isn’t surprising because Dimitri knows all about me. Knows all, seen much of it, and even understands the confusion I could be feeling right now, and as usual, he’s correct. For Dimitri, the question’s sweet, and one few others would get from him. Most of our lives, it was only him and me. Since his father moved into our mansion shortly after Dimitri’s mother ran off, deciding it was simpler for my father’s only Spy, rather than the two there would normally be, to be near his Pakhan. As such, Dimitri and I spent a lot of time together, except for when I was off attending a private secondary school for a few years, or later, the frequent instances he was dragged away for training. While I, a woman , was being coached for a different role. Dimitri would be a soldier and eventual leader and I was slated to be someone’s wife.

That didn’t distance us though. If anything, it brought us together. Whatever Dimitri’s training consisted of, I’ve gathered it’s not good. He and his father have had a rough relationship for as long as I can remember, and a distaste is always heavily present when he’s faced with his father, like now. My cousin and I have shared every gritty, horrible detail of the verbal and emotional abuse we both survive—except one.

One that I’ve long guessed is linked to his father and what constantly has him travelling to Canada, but no matter how many times I’ve asked, Dimitri will not reveal the precise reason behind his hatred.

My hatred for my own father was a combination of everything Papa’s forced me to be, everything he’s disallowed me from being, and everything he’s chosen for me, right down to my friendships. Dimitri has witnessed the small moments of physical abuse Papa sent my way: the shoves and rough nudges, and the emotional abuse when he’s controlling my clothing choices and teaching me the concepts of utilizing my body as a weapon since a gun was out of the question.

That might have been my father’s plan, mind you, but I had my own. Whenever Dimitri is in Russia and isn’t travelling, he’s been helping me. Training me to fight in both hand-to-hand combat and weapons, though we’ve barely scratched the surface of those. Neither of our fathers are aware because either, or possibly both, would lose their ever-living minds if they knew a woman was claiming a bit of control over herself and her body. Heaven forbid.

“Da,” I finally answer Dimitri’s inquisition about my wellbeing in a low whisper, gaze darting toward his father to ensure Ivan isn’t listening. “Better than I should be, all things considered.”

Dimitri reaches for my chin, angling my face up to better inspect my claim. “Any injuries?”

I shake my head.

Ivan stalks toward our side, his hands a bustle of motion and emotion as he shoves his son toward the doorway. “The organization must be informed. Someone must claim control of the Bratva before anyone outside leadership learns of this tremendous loss. We must act now, syn , let us go.”

While he tries to shoulder his son away, Dimitri stands firm, practically shoving his father through my door alone but not following. “ Net. I’ll be there soon. I’m staying with Vanessa for now.”

Without sparing a glance toward me, my uncle sneers, his wrinkled skin rippling along the edges of his face. “A man is dead, Dimitri. The Bratva will be moving into new leadership. Come.”

Which means himself.

Papa might have been a zasranets —an asshole—but he’s been running the Bratva since he was twenty-one and his own father met an early death. Papa made the current Bratva what it is. The weapons we control. The drugs we create, even those new and experimental and not yet popular on the markets. The clubs, bars, restaurants, and girls—it’s all him.

It should be mine. No one else’s.

Papa and I always had similar planned outcomes for my future and the Bratva, but the way in which the goals were achieved varied. For him, marriage to a suitable man would get the Bratva handed to my husband. But without a man’s ring on my left hand, I’d never claim that control alone. Too bad for both my future husband and father, I’m determined to have a partnership with him rather than a dictatorship over me.

This is my family. My bloodline.

All mine.

And Ivan, no doubt, is about to steal it for himself. It’s right there. In the gleam of impatience in his eyes as he waves Dimitri to follow, his eagerness to claim power. To announce to the entire organization that while my father may be dead, the Bratva lives on.

It does. Through the Volkov name— me , and not my uncle.

“I’ll be five minutes.” Dimitri decides with finality. He stares at his father until the older man backs down, whatever age-old dislike between these two physically festering in the single glare. His father concedes with another scowl and he walks out, slamming my bedroom door shut.

The moment it’s closed, I fall into my cousin’s arms. He’s one of two people to ever witness me reveal true emotions. Tears tread from my eyes, but they’re from shock more than grief. I wipe my face against Dimitri’s shirt and breathe in his familiar scent, using it to calm me.

Dimitri’s large hand palms the back of my head, petting my hair as he makes murmured noises. “I’m so sorry, Vanessa.”

I shake my head into his chest. “Thing is, I’m not sad about Papa’s death. In some ways, I’m free from his demands, and you know that’s all I wanted. To not be under his control. But now, I’m worried. When Ivan is Pakhan, what happens?” I pull back to look him in his face. “Papa was cruel, but he still wanted a suitable husband for me; someone he felt worthy to rule the Bratva after him. Your father won’t be concerned about that since leadership will fall to him, and eventually you as his heir, which means I’ll be wedded off to the highest bidder like some common whore to whoever fills his pockets. You know that.”

Again. That’s the silent word I don’t tack on but we’re both aware of existing. Being auctioned off isn’t exactly a new event for me.

His lips press together and dark eyes flick to the door and back, silently agreeing with me. His hair, black like mine, is ruffled, unbrushed as it often is. My cousin’s worn a shadow of darkness as a cape since he was eighteen. I remember it well because I was sixteen at the time, and whatever happened—presumably relating to his father—it changed him. Altered him. Made him deadly. Like a switch was flicked and he went from being a morally corrupt angel to a viciously evil devil.

It’s one of many reasons why I love having him on my side. I’ve heard of him gutting traitors, slicing limbs, and draining blood all in the name of the organization. He’s gained a lot of respect from the soldiers, but beneath the killer, he’s family.

“No,” he finally replies. “It’s not my father’s right to be Pakhan.”

“He’s his brother. The next highest rank in the Bratva. Papa’s ultimate confidant.” The facts come from my listless tone, my argument buried in my voice. That there’s no reason—other than me being Ursin Volkov’s daughter—that Ivan shouldn’t be Pakhan.

Dimitri shakes his head again. “Vanessa, it’s your legacy, and even your father wanted you to have it. His methods were fucked, sure, but when he could have very easily named me his successor, he didn’t. Instead, he searched for a husband for you .”

Scoffing, I tell him, “Doubt it had anything to do with me and more to keep it in the Volkov name. Which, in case you forget how family works, is also your last name. As is your father’s. So he wins either way.”

My cousin bends down, hands landing heavy on my shoulders and looks me right in the eyes. “Answer me one thing: do you want to be Pakhan?”

“I want revenge on the Rossis for what they did to Papa,” I answer immediately, choosing the easy response for wanting it, and not the complete truth. “Da,” I admit after another beat, knowing out of everyone, Dimitri won’t judge me. “Yes, I want to be Pakhan for every plausible reason. But it’s only a dream. I can’t get wed in the next hour all to convince the leadership that my husband can run instead.”

“You won’t need to.” His lips curl in the corner and he drops his hands from my shoulders until reaching my right wrist. Then he drags me to the door. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“You’ll be Pakhan of the Bratva, Vanessa, if you’re willing to fight for it.”

Fight for my legacy? It’s one of Papa’s most important lessons. Fight for what you want.

“I am.”