The Bratva Sinner (The Sokolov Empire #2)

1. Lila

Lila

Something is wrong.

The black SUV parked outside our trailer is way too new and shiny to belong to anyone we know. I slow the truck. I don’t have a license. No one will say anything to me out here, but that SUV makes me think Mom has done something.

She probably got busted stealing from the market—again.

She’s not a thief. But sometimes, we’re a little short on cash, and she can’t buy food. It’s not the first time, but they don’t normally send the fancy police to the house.

She must have done something really bad. We joke about her robbing a bank, but I don’t think she’d actually do it. Would she?

I cut the engine of the old truck and climb out. Something is terribly wrong; I feel it in my soul.

I make my way toward the trailer with the sagging roof and stained metal siding.

I look around. Nothing but flat, dusty earth stretching in every direction.

I tell myself someone got turned around, and Mom’s probably offering them a cold drink.

Maybe a salesman. Someone desperate enough to show up out here and knock on our door.

But my gut has made up its mind.

My boots are quiet on the porch steps, careful to avoid the rotted spots on the old wood. I push open the door.

“Mama?”

The smell hits me first. Metallic. Copper. I know that smell. Blood. My stomach rolls as my eyes dart around the dark room. The blankets we use as curtains are closed over the window. Mama likes it dark during the day. It keeps the trailer cooler.

It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.

Then, I see her.

My mother is zip-tied to one of our two mismatched kitchen chairs.

Both wrists, both ankles. There's a rag stuffed in her mouth and a rope tied around her head to hold the gag in place. Her left eye is nearly swollen shut. Her lip is split. Blood drips from her chin, down her pink shirt, and onto the cracked linoleum beneath her bare feet. She’s still in her pajamas.

"Mama!”

I rush toward her, and that's when they step out. One from the hallway. One from Mama’s bedroom. The one from the hallway is tall, broad-shouldered and dark. Dark skin. Dark hair. Dark dead eyes. He's got a phone in his hand. He raises it and takes my picture before I understand what's happening.

"Get her," he says to the other one. "We'll wait for confirmation."

"Don't you touch me!”

I raise my elbow in time to catch the second man in the chin when he reaches for me.

He's bigger than I am, but I've been thrown, kicked, and stepped on by horses.

I learned a long time ago that the thing that matters in a fight is not size, it's whether you're willing to hurt someone. I am absolutely willing.

I catch him in the shin with the heel of my boot. He swears. Mama is bouncing in the chair and shouting behind her gag. For about fifteen seconds, I think I might have a chance.

Then, the second one gets me from behind with an arm around my throat. Not choking, just controlling, locking my arms at my sides, and no matter how I throw my weight, he doesn't go down.

I keep fighting.

"She's got some fire in her," the tall one says, like he finds it amusing.

“Who are you?” I choke on the words as the man’s arm comes dangerously close to cutting off my oxygen. “What do you want? Look around, assholes! We don’t have shit!”

A phone beeps. The man looks at the screen and smiles. “It’s her, no doubt.”

Mama is screaming and trying hard to break free, but it’s pointless.

The man with the phone walks toward her, bends down, and gets in her face. “Did you think you could hide forever?”

I see the fear in her good eye. She looks at me. She’s trying to say something. I see the anguish. All those years of we can't use our real names, Lila. We don't talk about your father, Lila. Don't put yourself online, Lila. My name wasn’t always Lila, but I was never supposed to use my old name.

I'm sorry, her eyes say. I'm so sorry.

"You brought this on yourself." The tall man addresses her directly now. "You knew what you took when you left. You knew what it would cost."

My mother closes her eye.

"Let her go." My voice is unnaturally calm. "Whatever this is, whatever deal or debt that needs paid, let her go, and I won't fight you. I'll come with you. Just let her go first."

The tall man looks at me for a moment. Then, he raises the gun.

I know guns. It’s a Glock and he’s aiming the barrel at my mother.

Everything stops as realization dawns. Time doesn’t move like it should.

There are frames. I hear a horrific scream that hurts my ears, and then the sound of the gun being fired.

That damn screaming continues. I swear I can see the bullet leave the chamber and slam into my mother’s head.

The man holding me needs both arms and his full body weight to keep me from getting loose.

I’m fighting harder than I have ever fought anything in my life.

My mother's eye is still open.

I'm sorry, it still says.

But she’s not in that one good eye. She’s gone. The blood and brain matter covering the fridge and counter tells me she’s gone.

They killed my mama.

The screaming continues. Mine. I’m screaming so loud that it feels like glass scraping in my throat. I thrash, kick, and buck my body, but I can’t break free.

I don't know how long they let me fight before the one holding me shifts his grip and something hits the back of my head. Pain explodes, and I think he shot me. Just before my legs give out, I realize I hadn’t heard a shot.

The last thing I see before blackness fills my vision is her face. That one eye still looking at me.

Awareness comes back first. Not memory. Not pain. Just the terrible sense that I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be.

Sound next. I’m in a vehicle. There’s music playing, nothing I recognize. Then smell. Leather. Cologne so thick it turns my stomach. And underneath it, sulfur. I know that smell. It’s what clings to you after a gun goes off.

Then the pain hits, and I can’t stop the vomit.

A man curses. He's speaking in a language I don't know, or maybe I do. There's something familiar in the sounds that I can't place.

I open my eyes, but I see nothing but blackness. That’s when I feel the cloth touching my face. I’m blindfolded, and my mind scrambles to catch up.

What the hell?

“Mama!”

My mom. She’s dead. Oh, God. I’ve been kidnapped.

Pain registers all at once. My head feels as if it’s been split in two. Nausea threatens again. I squeeze my eyes closed and count to three, forcing myself to relax and take inventory, starting at my toes. I’m lying down on soft leather in the backseat of the SUV that started this whole nightmare.

I only have one boot on. I rub my legs together and am relieved to discover that I’m still wearing my jeans. My hands are tied, and I’m blindfolded but not gagged. My head hurts. My throat’s sore. But I’m in one piece.

God help me, I’m relieved.

And then, I reach and shove the blindfold off my eyes. If they didn’t want me to see, they shouldn’t have put my hands in front of me.

Assholes.

I look at the two men who are having a casual conversation like this is all so normal. I understand bits and pieces. They’re talking about what they want for dinner.

They murdered my mother after beating the shit out of her, and they’re talking about tacos.

What the fuck is happening?

Mama.

A sob bubbles up as I replay those last moments.

I shut that down. A place in me knows I can’t grieve right now. There will be time later. Or maybe there won’t be. Maybe they’ll kill me before I have to feel that pain. Would that be so bad?

No.

I’m not giving them that.

I want revenge, and Mama would want me to fight. She taught me how to fight and shoot because she wanted me to protect myself. It’s like she was preparing me for this moment my whole life.

A little voice whispers through my mind.

She was.

She knew this day was coming.

A sharp turn sends me sliding across the seat, and before I can fight it down, I’m puking again. The man in the passenger seat turns and slaps me.

“Stop that! You’re stinking up the fucking car!”

I want to tell him to fuck off, but the blackness is pulling me under again. I have a concussion. I’ve had one before. I’m not supposed to sleep, but I can’t fight it. The blackness offers peace. No pain. No grief.

“Grab her.”

I startle awake, and my heart rate spikes.

I’m being grabbed by my ankles and pulled across the seat.

The blindfold slides off. They don’t care.

I blink several times to adjust to the bright sunlight.

The last time I was awake, it was dark. One of them took me to the bathroom at a gas station.

The humiliation of having to pee in front of him makes my cheeks burn all over again.

I take in the swaying palm trees and the thick humidity that wraps around me. They’re pushing me toward the front door of a house with black shutters.

We’re in a neighborhood of older, rundown homes, all with flat roofs. I don’t get the chance to look for an escape before I’m shoved through the door. They drag me down a hall and into a room. The tall man pulls out a knife.

I step back, but he reaches out, grabs my hand and slices through the zip ties.

And then, he’s gone.

The door is locked from the outside. I try the handle, and it doesn’t budge, which isn’t a surprise.

I turn around to survey my new prison.

There's a bed, a window with bars on it, and a bathroom with a cracked mirror.

The ceiling fan clicks with every turn. I sit on the edge of the bed and look at my hands.

The zip ties have left marks on my wrists.

How long were we driving? A day? Two days?

I think I slept most of the time. My brain is foggy.

Definitely a concussion, but I think they drugged me.

I remember drinking some water and then feeling tired.

I get to my feet, feeling as weak as one of the newborn foals I helped bring into the world.

The bathroom offers very little. I look at myself in the shitty mirror.

Heavy, dark circles under my eyes. A bruise on the side of my face.

My blonde hair, streaked with blood. I reach up and feel the bump, wincing when my fingers find the cut.

I’m a mess.

I turn on the faucet and wash my hands and face. I’d kill for a toothbrush. I’m not sure how many times I vomited. Too many. They definitely drugged me.

I extend my arms and look for needle marks. Thank God there are none.

I hear a key in the door. My eyes dart around the room looking for a weapon, but there’s nothing.

A woman in her mid-forties steps inside. Her dark hair is going grey at the temples. She's carrying a dress and heels.

"Shower," she says. "Change."

"Where am I?"

"Shower. Change. He'll want to see you clean."

“Who?”

She sneers.

"I'm not showering, and I’m not putting that on.”

"It's easier when you don't fight."

She says it and shrugs.

"Easier for whom?"

She looks at me, and I think I see sadness. “He likes when they fight.” She moves toward the door. "The bathroom has hot water. You should use it while you can."

She leaves, and the lock clicks behind her.

“Who?” I whisper to the room.

I don’t understand what’s happening, but I will not make this easy for anyone.

I’d rather die than go down without a fight.