Page 2 of Brutal Reign
“Privet.”
“Where the fuck are you, Fedorov? You know Kuznetsov doesn’t like being kept waiting.”
“I know, I know.” I take a deep breath and lean against the tattered wallpaper of the kitchen, before addressing Yegor, another low-level soldier whom I usually work the door with. “But the fight doesn’t start for another hour. I’ll be there in time.”
I hope I’ll be there in time.
“You’re cutting it close, man. The rest of the crew is here.”
I dig a finger into my temple to stop the growing headache. “Would you cover for me? I won’t be long, promise. But I can’t leave Kamilla alone until she’s sleeping.”
Yegor makes a low noise in his throat. “Last time, man. Last fucking time.” He hangs up.
I feel shitty for asking him to cover for me again, and hell, we both know it won’t be the last time, but what am I supposed to do? There’s no one in this building, in our world, I’d trust to watch her. Our neighbors are all junkies and degenerates, and more involved in the criminal underworld than me. Leaving her alone with the door locked is the safest option.
“This show is funny,” Kamilla says as I set the soup and charred toast on the milk crate in front of her. “The bear can’t figure out how to catch fish.”
“Yeah? What’s he doing wrong?”
“He’s being too loud. Fish don’t like noise.” She’s six years old and already smarter than half the guys I work with.
I settle beside her on the couch, and she immediately leans against my side. Even at fifteen, I’m already six-three and built like a fucking tank—our Swedish grandfather’s genetics, apparently—but next to Kamilla, I feel gentle. Protective.
My phone buzzes again with a final warning from Yegor that Kuznetsov is on the warpath tonight. He doesn’t like his men to be late, and missing work means no money. No money means no food, no rent, and eventually, it means child services finds us.
When our parents died eight months ago, I grabbed Kamilla and disappeared before the state could split us up. Officially, we don’t exist anymore. Unofficially, I do whatever it takes to keep us together, like work for the Kuznetsov Gang that controls these parts.
When I look up from my phone, Kamilla is staring at me. She knows.
“Do I have to go to bed soon?”
“Soon,” I say, though it causes me physical pain to leave her because I know how much she hates being alone. I hate leaving her too; that’s why I only work late-night shifts so she’s sleeping the whole time I’m gone. “But first eat, and then we’ll get you into your pajamas.”
Twenty minutes later, I help her into the thin cotton set—too small, but it’s what we have. Her stuffed rabbit, a gray thing she’s had since she was two, waits on her pillow. One ear is hanging by threads, but she refuses to let me try to fix it.
“The bad dreams came back last night when you were gone,” she whispers as I tuck the blanket around her.
My chest tightens. “They’re only dreams, Kamilla. They can’t hurt you.”
“But what if they come again tonight?”
My phone buzzes with another text.
“Can you read me a story and stay until I fall asleep?” she asks, those blue eyes wide and hopeful. “Just for tonight?”
I want to say yes. Want to sit here and chase away every nightmare, every fear, and every bad thing that might touch her. But the phone in my pocket feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
“I have to work tonight, little star.”
Her face crumbles, but she tries to hide it. Always so fucking brave. “Okay.”
“Tomorrow, I promise we’ll do something special. Whatever you want.”
“Can we go feed the ducks?”
“Absolutely. We’ll get a whole loaf of bread only for them.”
I kiss her forehead and head for the door.
