Page 16 of The Russian's Forced Bride
I was fourteen when it all started. It wasn’t that I was unaware of the Bratva or that I had a family rooted in bloodshed and violence. I knew. But part of me then believed I could live outside of the Bratva. Become something different. I hoped to be a doctor—anything that didn’t involve taking a life.
That was until that stormy night when Father forced me into the basement, claiming it was time I was properly initiated into the Bratva. Mom tried to plead with him, saying I wasn’t like the others. As a child, I hated seeing others in pain. I couldn’t even stand the sight of blood.
But Dad wouldn’t let me go. He couldn’t stand to see a son of his be weak, so he made me pull the trigger.
It was either that, or I would never see the light of day. And anytime I refused him, he would lock me in a room full of bodies of rotting men who had been killed underneath the marbled floors of our home.
The repulsive stench of dead bodies and the grotesque sight of corpses seemed to dehumanize me more each time I was locked up—until I broke and pulled the trigger that day when Father had forced me to, watching as I blew the Italian man’s head off, his blood sputtering onto the walls and all over me.
His blood on me had been warm and smelled metallic.
I threw up right then and there, holding back the tears I desperately needed to spill but couldn’t.
Father hated tears. And he hated that I was weak.
After that day, Father left all the killings of men he wasn’t interested in interrogating anymore to me. It was hard at first. I even got sick many times. But as the years passed, I got used to it.
Craved it, even.
It then became a maddening obsession for me—a way to unleash my anger—until my feelings started to change into something else. Until I couldn’t understand what it truly felt liketo be emotional anymore. And I would’ve kept going down that path if not for Uncle Oskar.
He had observed me over the years and somehow noticed that I could see things and cracks others couldn’t. He attempted to convince Father that I could be more than just a killing machine. At first, Father disagreed—until Uncle Oskar insisted.
I was then assigned a mission to track down a member of theVolchya Stayawho had killed one of our own. All I had was a picture. That was when I learned how to move silently. I spent months hunting my target, but I finally found him—a man who had become a ghost and couldn’t be located for months.
That was when Father realized I had more potential beyond bloodshed. Just as I was forced into violence, I was pulled out and made to work on the sidelines until I eventually became the head of the Bratva’s cashflow empire.
I suppose Oskar must’ve felt I wasn’t suited for killing, or maybe he saw what it was doing to me. It was turning me into a bloodthirsty, obsessed man—one who laughed when they saw the crimson red dripping off their victim’s vital spots.
Maybe Oskar thought he was helping me in some way.
But that did nothing for me. It only intensified the anger and hatred that had been simmering inside me for years. It took me years to learn how to hide what I truly felt. It took me a while to carefully craft my mask.
And now it was crashing down hard—all because of one woman.
I kept drinking the vodka in my hands, savoring its bitterness and heat. It was only a matter of time before my mask finally slipped, and a stupid part of me didn’t want that woman to see who I truly was. I didn’t want her to see all the emotions I had carefully kept locked up over the years.
***
The days after my meeting with Arlette blurred by until it was finally time to check out one of the many estates Matvey had suggested, claiming Arlette would be safe there without worrying about Joaquin or his men finding her.
The sky was a perfect oceanic blue—the ideal weather for a peaceful walk and the perfect setting for a couple madly in love to house hunt—but this was anything but that. Since our encounter at the lounge, I noticed a clear change in Arlette’s behavior toward me.
An air of fear surrounded her—along with a resigned sense of fate—but beneath that, I could still see that the fire in her eyes hadn’t been completely extinguished, which I figured wasn’t too bad as long as she didn’t cross the line.
She walked silently beside me, her ginger hair gathered into a messy bun, with tendrils of hair brushing against her slightly freckled face as the wind whipped around us. She was dressed quite elegantly in a brown leather trench coat, matching the one I wore in jet black.
She didn’t speak as we walked across the blades of grass surrounding the estate in Lake Forest. The mansion situated at the center had a modern feel to it, with its transparent glass walls and outdoor pool. It also had a wrought-iron gate, resembling the home I had grown up in. It reminded me of a cage, and I hated it. And my dislike for the house didn’t just come from its exterior outlook; there was also a familiar sound that echoed in the distance, sharp and haunting: the mournful wailing of a foghorn.
I had always hated that sound as a child. It reminded me of death itself—a foreboding feeling that didn’t sit well with me.
“As you can see, this mansion has been designed for both luxury and effortless entertainment,” the agent, a man in his mid-twenties, stated, leading us toward the building with pride on his face. He then continued to talk about how this housewas the best in the area and on the market, explaining that its backdoor view didn’t just overlook a lake but also the nature surrounding the estate.
I took a quick look at Arlette. She was focused on the agent and, surprisingly, she seemed impressed.
Upon detecting our presence at the front door—which was made of tampered glass—the door automatically slid open.
“You don’t have to push buttons. Your fingerprint is all it needs,” the agent chimed with a goofy smile, raising his thumbs to us.
