Chapter 1

'8 years later.'

♠︎Vasili♠︎︎

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The man before me choked on his own blood. The thick red colour matted the hairs on his temples and slowly dripped down his mouth to the torn, tattered remains of his suit, dampening it into a darker shade. One of my enforcers lurked behind him with a bloodied knife.

The sight would have been distressing for some.

But not for me.

The metallic smell coating the cell room slaked the bloodlust of the beast within me. The sight of Mercutio Ivanov bound in my cell room, choking on his own blood, was almost too good to be real. The sound of his suffering, music to my ears.

My voice began slowly, calmly. "Did your bratva aid Riccardo Moralez in the bombing?"

Mercutio's eyes, which were lifeless pools on a mere human shell, narrowed on me murderously.

And despite myself, my lips slowly curved up at their sides; we were just getting started.

Blood mixed with saliva pooled at his lips and dribbled down his jaw from either side of his thin, pale lips, sloshing down to the dragon tattoo on his wiry neck that indicated his bratva.

A brief gurgling sound came from the back of his throat before a spurt of blood-tinged spittle flew out of his mouth, landing near my boots.

My fingers momentarily tightened around the hand of the glock I held at my side.

"I can't," he grounded out weakly, glaring at me, "I can't tell you that."

I raised a brow. "Can not, or will not?" I tilted my head, taking in his miserable state. "Have it at the back of your mind, Mercutio, that I know of your dealings with a certain Mr Tsaryov. And I do not doubt for a moment the FBS would love to be privy to that knowledge as well."

"F*ck you, Vasili Romanov," Mercutio grated, "you're not getting anything out of me."

My jaw tightened. He was going to be difficult, was he?

I didn't tolerate uncooperativeness.

Raising my glock, I shot at his thigh and arms; the bullets tore holes into his mangled clothing, searing his body. A bland expression took up my face as I watched him suffer.

My voice began again, amidst his mindless screams: controlled, giving no hint of the rage starting to seeth within me, "Speak, Mercutio. Or it will be your throat next."

He continued to howl, the veins on his neck straining forcibly as he shook violently. "Please," he gasped.

Muscles on my body tensed.

Please.

My brother had screamed the same word trapped inside the elevator. The elevator he'd been bombed in.

Lifeless green eyes and charred blue lips popped into my mind's eye, glaring at me accusingly.

"Boss," one of my enforcers called from behind me. I caught a hint of nervousness in his tone.

It was due to the fact I now had the mouth of my pistol pressed firmly to Mercutio's forehead. The clicking sound of the hammer cocking into place reverberated throughout the room, and through the dim lighting in the confined room; I saw blood rush out of Mercutio's already pale face.

"Talk," I said quietly.

"Y-yes," he gasped, his eyes widened. Nodding weakly, he continued, "The Sormien Bratva had a hand in the bombing. We helped Riccardo go through with it."

Rage seeped into me. Of all the crime syndicates in the world, Riccardo just had to join forces with the Sormien Bratvas. The sneakiest, deadliest assassins in the business.

I could get why Riccardo had partnered with them. Among many things, the Sormien Bratva had a tough bone to pick with my family. And revenge, ensured they'd carried out their task efficiently; generously.

Their quest for revenge had stemmed from the fact my dedushka had killed their leader, Sergei Ivanov. Who'd, prior to my ded's retaliation, killed, Qasim; his most trusted enforcer.

That was the world I lived in. An eye for an eye, or as it was; a life for a life.

"Why?" I asked, my voice cold, and a touch surprised, "why partner with him to get your revenge? Why partner with someone who's strength does not rival or amount to yours?"

Mercutio's chest rose and fell laboriously as he struggled to breathe. "Hate, connections," he forced out weakly, "he might not have a large force behind him, but he has lots of connections with the government." He breathed. "And he hated your family as much as we did. Do." At that moment he raised his eyes to mine, his flashed venomously, hatred infiltrating them. "You're a monster," he gritted out bravely.

He was wrong.

We were monsters.

The whole lot of us in the mafia.

The viciousness of our world had tarnished any trace of innocence we had in us, and the little that might've remained was completely wiped out by us being forced to carry out the very evil that defined our world.

My finger wavered before the trigger of the glock I held to Mercutio's head, my jaw clenched tightly in anger. 'Gnev ubivaet vsyo luchshee v tebe,' my late mam's voice flitted through my mind. 'Anger doesn't burn the least in you. It burns the best.' I removed the pistol from Mercutio's forehead and tucked it into its holster. His frightened eyes watched my every movement raptly, skittering when I started to slowly circle him.

I wasn't a victim of circumstances. I was a monster without circumstances; a villain in the making. I welcomed our world, because, among other things, it came without a hint of self-pretentiousness. It didn't make us strive to be something better--something we weren't.

Stopping in front of Mercutio, I stared at him. I could kill him now. If the authorities find his body here they'd do nothing about it.

The legal wine companies and clubs I owned, and the few, but influential, members of the government I had in my pockets, kept me fairly under the radar.

Sadly, beneath that radar, too, was Riccardo.

I wanted him dead. Wiped out from the face of earth. Annihilated.

I regarded Mercutio's writhing form. I should kill him. The loosely confined rage in me demanded I did so.

But I wouldn't, couldn't. Because It'd put a large dent in my plans.

You didn't survive the world I lived in if you weren't cynical, calculative; if you didn't plot every aspect of your life and the ones around you. If you didn't have a game.

And, ironically, you wouldn't survive if you had a pulse; if you acknowledged its vincibility.

Having that made you human, doing that made you vulnerable. Made you weak.

And I couldn't afford to be weak.

Surprise briefly stole through me when I noted the bound man before me reflected the look I'd had in my eyes one too many times. The look of a man who had nothing to loose.

And I knew, the moment I and my men left here, he'd suffocate himself to death. I also couldn't afford for that to happen.

He was bait.

I raised my glock, and with a swift blow, knocked him out cold.

Mercutio was the cousin to the current leader of the Sormien bratva, their bond was strong enough to ensure he'd search extensively for his cousin once he found he was missing, do anything for his cousin once he found he was missing.

Then, when they found out I had him--which wouldn't take long due to some set rules governing the Italian syndicate, they'd seek the favour Riccardo owed them, rekindling their alliance from eight years ago.

History was about to repeat itself, but the one thing different this time was that; they were all going down in it. I wasn't. By the ending of next week I'd have an additional prisoner. Riccardo's daughter. She'll set my plan rolling. Her abduction was on my terms, and I had quite a few ideas.

My cousin, Benedikt, came to stand beside me. The enforcers and head guards in the cell had started to flow out, leaving us alone. When the cell was empty, I stuck my hands into my pockets and allowed my shoulders to slump a fraction.

We stared at the unmoving form of Mercutio, knowing, without having to say it, that war was already brewing.

Looking at Mercutio's unconscious form, I allowed the familiar comforting coldness of indifference infiltrate my eyes, freezing any trace of emotion.

The faint throb of the rage pumping steadily through my veins was all I felt; all I allowed myself to feel.

I would have to contact the Ivanovichs soon, one out of six of the families that made up the ruling Moscow mafia. They were worthy allies. The syndicate was divided up into equal halves. The upper tripartite and the second tripartite; I belonged to the upper triad.

Belonged to the deadliest.

Emily...

The name passed through the confines of my mind as an aching whisper. With it came a warmth I immediately stiffened to.

I was going to get my revenge, and it wouldn't matter who I took down in order get it.