He did our father’s bidding, was a tool to exact violence so Marco’s hands didn’t get dirty.
And although I loved my brother, was proud of him for standing up to my father, I also wasn’t a fool in thinking he might not be exactly the same man sitting before us if he had that kind of power.
Because people changed when they had authority.
“I have some news for you, Claudia.”
Instantly my body reacted. My spine straightened and my head snapped up as I stared at my father. He wasn’t looking at me, instead gazing into his wineglass as he rolled the liquid around.
Finally, as if he could now grace me with his focus, my father stared into my eyes.
“I have a potential suitor coming by next week. Piero of the Rossi family.”
The name didn’t ring a bell, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if it did. My opinion on any of this was inconsequential.
“The match will be good and will create an alliance between our two families.” He was silent for a moment, his head cocked to the side as if he were waiting for me to say something. “If your suitor is pleased with you, the wedding will be set three years from now, on your eighteenth birthday.”
Happy fucking birthday to me.
I was sure he was expecting an outburst from me. I was good at them.
But I kept my teeth clenched together, refusing to give him the satisfaction. That’s what he wanted, anyway. He wanted to see the hurt, the display of shock on my face.
He wanted me to fight back so he could punish me, like it was some sadistic ritual for him.
Father lifted a dark eyebrow, clearly surprised I said nothing. When the corner of his mouth kicked up, I clenched the linen napkin in my lap so tightly the fibers seemed to embed themselves in my flesh.
It was then I felt a heavy weight land on top of my two curled ones. I looked down, seeing Gio’s tattooed hand covering mine. When I looked at him, he had his focus on our father.
His expression showed nothing. He had such a good poker face, but the minor act of solidarity and support meant a lot in easing some of the volatile stress building in me.
My father snapped his fingers, and the servant came in. Marco waited until his place setting was cleared before rising and picking up his now refilled glass of wine. Without saying a word to his family, he turned and left, the sound of his heavy footfalls growing more distant the farther away he walked.
I exhaled and slumped in my seat, refusing to cry. I had to be strong. I had to think of a way to get out of this.
Because I would not end up like Amara, forced to be with a man who would beat and rape me with zero repercussions because I was his wife.
His property.
No. I wouldn’t ever allow a man to treat me like I was an inanimate object solely for his pleasure.
Fuck. That.
Chapter 4
Dmitry
“I’ll toughen you up yet, boy.”
It wasn’t my father’s words that had icy fear skating down my spine. It was the way he looked at me, the sadistic glint in his eyes.
A part of me hated Leonid Petrov.
A piece of me wanted to love him because he was my father.
But the strongest part of all appeared like a tidal wave. It crashed inside of me and filled me with unadulterated terror whenever he walked into a room.
At fifteen years old I should have still been treated as the child I was. I should have been innocent, cherished, and shown so much love I suffocated in it.
But that would have been a wish for a child who’d had any sort of normal childhood.
Because when you were the son of the Pakhan of the Desolation Bratva, you’re specifically bred for one reason.
To be molded and trained to follow in my father’s footsteps. To be the heir he needed.
As the eldest son, it rested on my shoulders, and I gladly took that responsibility if it meant protecting my younger siblings, Nikolai and Tatiana.
Tatiana would be spared, seeing as she was a female. But she’d still be used like a pawn, sold off to a man of my father’s choosing simply to gain power and make political moves.
Nikolai… He would be the weapon my father needed to deal with the ugly side. Nikolai would be the emotionless brute who’d use his sociopathic tendencies to do what no one else could.
“By the wall, boy. You know what to do.”
My father didn’t wait for me to respond or act. He turned away from me and walked over to where he kept his tools.
I instantly felt the fire racing along my skin as I moved to the wall, pressing my back to it. I rolled up my shirtsleeves, placed my arms on either side of me, and breathed in and out slowly. He hated when I showed pain and fear.
Sometimes it was unavoidable. But I had trained myself all these years to bury those emotions deep down.
My father came back around, the bamboo cane in his hand rusty. My blood. Nikolai’s blood. And God knew who else he’d used it on.
He stopped a foot from me and looked down at me, the severe expression on his face enough to make a weaker man cower.
But I was used to it. I was immune. Numb.
Without preamble or another word spoken, he brought that cane down across my exposed forearms repeatedly, beating me until they ran red with blood and the viscous fluid slid down to my fingertips before dripping onto the floor.
And still I stood exactly as I had from the beginning—stoic. I stared him in the eye, biting my tongue so hard I tasted a metallic tang fill my mouth.
One day things would change.
One day I’d be stronger.
And Leonid would be the one who had to bite his tongue so he didn’t scream.
I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart thundering so hard I could hear it in my ears. I ran a hand over my damp face, wiping away the beads of perspiration covering me from head to toe.
“You fucking bastard,” I murmured and closed my eyes before pushing myself up with a grunt.
Even from the grave, my fucking father haunted me, reminders of my horrendous childhood and the abuse at his hands.
I got up and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, and then leaning on the vanity and just trying to calm myself. I stared into the mirror, looking at the man I’d become.
On the outside I was strong, big, someone you didn’t fuck with or I’d take your life without a second thought.
Women from the Old World crossed themselves when they saw me.
Children cried to their mothers when I walked by.
Men glanced down so they didn’t make eye contact.
I didn’t get sadistic pleasure out of these reactions. I wasn't my brother, after all. But it was a necessary evil when you were the leader of the Russian mafia in Desolation, New York.
I looked down at my arms. The ink trailed from my wrists, marking the backs of my hands and snaking all the way up my shoulders and neck, covering my back. It wasn’t just art.
It was a shield, camouflage. Especially on my forearms, where the scars from the cane took piece after piece of me.
The marks my father had given me to “toughen me up” were forever part of me now.
You couldn’t see them anymore, not unless the light hit them just right. Not unless you ran your fingers over my skin and felt the raised marks.
There was no shame in what I carried. They weren't something I ever wanted to forget, even if I covered them up.
The memories of my childhood abuse brought me back to when I’d met with Marco Bianchi, how I’d stopped him from hitting his fifteen-year-old daughter.