Page 169 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

Atta girl. You had me worried there for a second.

“Yeah,” I mumble, “I had myself worried there for a minute, too.”

So not giving up then?

“No,” I say fiercely. “Not a fucking chance.”

41

Phoenix

TWO DAYS LATER—A CELL BENEATH WILD NIGHT BLOSSOM

The ice-cold slap of water being thrown in my face jerks me awake. I struggle to suck in a breath as the freezing trickle snakes down my spine, drenching my clothes.

What’s left of my clothes, that is.

The last two days has been a fog of torture. Brutal beatings. Some recreational waterboarding. And the loudest, fucking godawful heavy metal music ever recorded blaring around the clock to make sure I don’t a wink of sleep.

A weaker man would be long dead. But the bastards that be are determined not to let me off that easy. A doctor comes in and checks on me every few hours. If one of my injuries looks particularly gruesome, he warns the guards to go easy on me. I’m a fucking patchwork ragdoll at this point. I can barely see through one eye and my entire body is wracked with mottled bruises and open wounds, half of which are still fresh and seeping blood.

“If you keep this up, he’ll die,” I heard the doctor tell Ozol about twelve hours ago.

“If he dies, then you do.”

“Then in my professional opinion, I suggest you let him sleep. You have to give his body a chance to recover. Otherwise, he won’t last the night.”

I wanted to scoff at that. Die? No fucking way. I may look like a dead man—but inside, I’m fighting fit. I’m ready to tear this place apart, brick by brick.

Just as soon as I get the chance.

I just wish my mind weren’t so fucking messed up. My soul, my willpower? Those things have never faded. They never will. But the damage to my body is starting to take a toll on my thoughts.

At some point, when I manage to doze off, I dream.

I dream about my past, my crash course in the underworld just before I moved out here to head my own faction of the Kovalyov Bratva. I realize belatedly that this one is less a dream, and more of a memory. I remember my father’s words to me just before I left home to apprentice under Uncle Kian, lifetimes ago.

“Being a Bratva Don means sacrifice,” he had told me. “It may not seem like it now, but soon, you’ll understand.”

Is this the moment I’m enlightened?I wonder idly in the present moment.The picture perfect movie montage where the old man’s wisdom saves the day?

Then my father turns into some bizarre flying beast and takes off into the wind.

Guess not.

* * *

Another splash of water to the face. I open my eyes and see Viktor Ozol standing in front of me.

He’s holding the hand of a small boy with dark eyes. They’re both staring at me. The boy is somber, far more weary than a boy of his age ought to be. Ozol is smiling evilly, as per usual. His eyes gleam as he takes me in, reveling in my sorry state.

I close my eyes again. Just another fucked-up dream. The torture has moved inside my own head, I guess.

The one thing keeping me going is the knowledge that Elyssa is out of this place. She’s safe.

I’d heard the uproar just before the beatings started. Ozol never planned on releasing her, it seemed. He was just playing his games. But Matvei, that beautiful motherfucker, had used his wits to get in here and steal her away right after Ozol’s power play.

The satisfaction of hearing the monster rage at his men was incomparable. Euphoria on earth.

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