Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Leonid
I grip the bastard by the hair and yank his head back hard enough to make his neck strain.
He jerks, weak and clumsy, trying to fight me off, but there’s no strength left in him. Not after what he’s already endured in this basement. His body trembles, breath coming out in broken, panicked gasps, the kind of sound a man makes when he already knows the end is near.
I could have done worse to him. Part of me wanted to. But I’d been careful with my hands. My knuckles can’t be bruised, because I’ll be seeing Laurel later tonight. Showing up with busted hands would raise questions she should never have to ask.
She has no idea about this side of me. And she never will. The irony almost makes me laugh. I’m standing here, about to end another man’s life, and somehow she still manages to slip into my thoughts.
I tighten my grip, grounding myself back in the moment. The man in my hold is a mess. He reeks of fear and his own body wastes. I’ve been hunting him for three months after he made an attempt on my life.
He thought he could take my place as the Pakhan of the New York Bratva. Thought he could remove me by planting a bomb under my car. What he didn’t know was that I already had eyes on his movements. I wasn’t anywhere near the car when it went up.
When his plan failed, he disappeared. Everyone else who conspired with him is already gone. He’s the last one.
I bring the blade up to his face, letting him see it, letting reality settle into his eyes. “Any last words?”
His lips move. At first, I don’t catch it, so I lean in closer.
“Go to hell,” he manages to rasp.
A low chuckle leaves my chest. “You first.”
I slash the blade across his throat. His body collapses away from me, lifeless, hitting the concrete with a dull thud, blood spurting out of his slit throat.
I straighten and glance toward Igor. “Make sure a picture gets sent around. Let them remember what happens when they come for me.”
Igor doesn’t even respond. He’s too busy staring down at his shoe with a scowl. “Couldn’t you be less messy?” he mutters. “Now my shoe is ruined.”
I shake my head slowly. Always vain. I turn and head up the stairs, walking out of the basement. Igor follows close on my heels.
My mind drifts back to Laurel again. I check my watch as we step out into the cool night air. It’s past eleven. What is she doing right now? Is she already in bed? Or is she still awake waiting for me?
Since I took her to that sex club, everything between us has shifted. Deeper, darker, hotter. In the best fucking way.
Yeah, she was right about me holding back in the bedroom. And that was because I didn’t want to scare her away. Turns out, I underestimated her. Badly. Laurel is just as unhinged as I am in the bedroom.
Every time I introduce something new, I brace myself, thinking this will be the moment she pulls back. Instead, she meets me there, and then begs for more.
I thought I was corrupting her. Turns out she’s been waiting for someone to finally let her be as unhinged as she is inside.
As we reach the line of parked cars, Igor clears his throat beside me. “So,” he says casually, “a little birdie told me you attended the new club opening with a plus one. That’s new. Would that plus one happen to be Alexei’s teacher, the one you went to Paris with?”
My hand pauses on the car door handle. “Are you keeping tabs on me now?” I grunt.
Igor lifts his hands in surrender. “Relax. It’s my club, remember? I went through the guest list after the party. Besides, we’ve always kept tabs on each other. That’s how we’ve survived. Don’t pretend you don’t keep tabs on me too.”
He’s not wrong. Since our parents died, watching each other’s dealings has been second nature. I know his daily dealings, every woman he’s ever touched, even the ones that lasted a single night. I know their backgrounds, in case they pose any risks.
“So, things serious with her?” he asks, still keeping his distance like he isn’t sure if I might take a swing at his jaw.
“Yeah,” I grunt.
He hums. “Never seen you do serious before. Does she know what we do?”
“No,” I say flatly. “And it’s going to stay that way.”
That shuts him up.
He studies me for a long moment, clearly weighing whether to push further. Whatever he sees on my face makes him think better of it. Igor lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “If you say so.”
I turn back to my car, unlocking it. The door swings open, and I get in. Laurel doesn’t belong in my world, not the violence that follows me everywhere I go.
She’s light. Untouched by the things that stain men like me.
But I can’t bring myself to tell her. I know I can’t hide it forever, and I don’t know how much longer this can go on. So for now, I’ll steal every day she gives me and hope it lasts.
I wasn’t born into this life. It found me.
Twenty-Five Years Ago
It was slowly drizzling. The streetlights blurred into hazy halos on the wet pavement as evening settled in, the air cold enough to sting my lungs every time I breathed.
I pressed myself into the shadowed corner of the restaurant wall, keeping still, watching.
The man in the fancy suit stepped out of the restaurant, coat perfectly tailored, shoes polished so clean they reflected the lights. This type always carried a fat wallet. This type never noticed boys like me until it was too late.
I already told Igor to hide behind the bins at the back. Once I got the wallet, maybe the watch too, if luck was on my side. I’d meet him there, and we’d run—fast—before the man realized what was missing.
Igor had been crying all day because he was hungry. The five dollars I managed to scrape together last night barely lasted till this morning. There was only so much you could stretch that kind of money. I could handle going days without food. Igor couldn’t.
Ever since our parents died three years before, he’d been my responsibility. My little brother. My whole world. I hate the sound of his crying more than the cold, more than the hunger, more than the fear.
The man in the coat lifts his phone to his ear, pacing slightly as he talks. That’s when I notice the two huge men as they step into view behind him.
My stomach drops. I didn’t see them earlier. They’re built like walls, faces hard, eyes scanning the street like predators. Bodyguards. Definitely a problem.
I should back out, but I can’t. Igor needs food.
I moved fast, bumping into the man hard enough to make him stagger half a step. “Sorry,” I blurted, lowering my head like a clumsy kid who wasn’t watching where he was going.
Strong hands grab me instantly. The bodyguards haul me back, their grips like iron clamps around my tiny arms. But my fingers had already done their job—the wallet was in my pocket.
“I’m sorry,” I say again quickly, putting on my most innocent voice. “I wasn’t looking where I was heading.”
The man stops his call and turns slowly. He looks like he’s in his forties, sharp jaw, calm eyes, the kind of face that doesn’t need to raise its voice to command a room. He studies me for a long second, then lifts a hand slightly.
The guards release me instantly. I stagger back half a step, forcing myself not to run; they’d catch me anyway.
Now that I’m really looking at him, the air around him feels… heavy. Powerful. The way his gaze pins me in place makes fear crawl up my spine, and I don’t scare easily.
His eyes swept over me, slow and assessing, as if he could see straight through the thin jacket, the hunger in my bones. For a terrifying second, I wonder if he knows I already stole his wallet.
He snaps his fingers at me. The sharp sound cuts through the drizzle and the low hum of traffic, leaving me blinking in confusion. For a second, I almost think he’s signaling his men.
When I don’t move, he speaks. His voice is rough, and there’s an accent in it, one I recognize instantly. Russian.
“Hand over my wallet, little thief.”
I shake my head quickly. “I—I didn’t take anything.”
His eyes narrow. He snaps again, sharper this time. “Do not test my patience, little boy. I can ask my men to search you. If they do, the consequences will be worse.”
My mouth goes dry. Igor flashes through my mind, the promise I made about dinner tonight. My fingers curl inside my damp sleeves. The way this man is staring at me… I’ll be lucky if I walk away alive.
Still, I force my shoulders back, swallowing down the fear clawing up my throat. Slowly, I reach into my dirty, damp coat, the fabric stiff with grime and rain, riddled with more holes than I can count. My fingers close around the wallet.
I pull it out. My hand trembles as I place it into his open palm. He takes it, weighing it once, flipping it open, checking the contents.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks calmly.
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
“Obviously,” he says dryly. “That is why you had the audacity to steal from me.”
He lifts his gaze back to me. “Do you know what happens to people who steal from me, boy?”
I swallow. “No.”
“They die.”
The blood drains from my face so fast I feel dizzy. My hands go cold, my knees threatening to buckle. I don’t want to die. Not yet. Igor can’t survive without me. And I still need to prove those idiots from our last foster home wrong, that I’m not trash, that I’ll become something.
He tilts his head slightly, studying my face. “What is your name?” he asks.
“Leonid,” I answer quietly.
A flicker of surprise crosses his features. “Where are you from?”
“Brooklyn,” I say automatically.
He shakes his head once. “Your roots.”
“Moscow.”
A faint, almost amused smile tugs at the corner of his rugged mouth.
“And your parents?”
“Dead.”
He nods, absorbing that. Then his gaze shifts past me, toward the alley. “The boy I saw you hovering around earlier. That is your brother?”
I hesitate.
His eyes sharpen. “It will be better for you if you do not lie to me.”
“Yes,” I admit. “He’s my brother.”
He gave a slow once-over to my soaked shoes, my thin jacket clinging to my frame, the hollow lines in my face. “Judging by the way you look, you are homeless.”
I nod, staring at the wet pavement. Rain drips from my hair onto my nose. I’m completely soaked now, shivering without realizing it.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I lift my eyes.
“I will have mercy on you,” he says evenly. “I will not kill you for stealing from me. But you will work your debt off.”
When I finally learned who I’d stolen from—the Pakhan of the New York Bratva—I realized the fact that I was still alive was fate giving me a second chance.
That night, his men took Igor and me to a house in Brooklyn. It was crowded with boys our age, some older. We became foot runners. Selling drugs, delivering packages, learning how to move fast and stay invisible while at it.