Ravage

  Because it would come.

  Mistress began to moan, moan louder and louder until her cunt gripped my cock like a vise and she screamed a command. “194, come now!”

  My head whipped back with the pain of my release—like razor blades were being ripped from my flesh.

  Mistress loved this. She loved to torture me, to mess with my head. I roared with each new spurt of release. Roared until Mistress turned, ripping herself from my length, her back pressing against the wall.

  My hands balled into fists, eager to wrap my fingers around her neck. But Mistress smirked that rage-inducing smirk and pushed her black skirt down to her knees. She fixed her hair with her hands, then, moving closer, aggressively slapped her hand across my face, before softly holding my cheeks in her hands.

  “Next time, you give it to me harder. I made you into a savage.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “So damn well act like one.”

  My lip curled with the warning growl leaving my throat. She walked round me without fear, my eyes tracking her every move, until she reached into her jacket and pulled out the rectangular device she always brought to me.

  My heartbeat raced with a mixture of relief and dread, as the screen came to life. Sitting on a small bed was 152. She was asleep, curled up on the floor of her cage, her thin body draped in the white see-through gown they always made her wear.

  I controlled my breathing as I watched her deep in slumber, her curly dark hair falling down her back. Then Mistress closed in the screen on 152’s bare legs and every part of me froze. Bruises. Handprint bruises all up her legs. Scratches and more black bruises on her hips.

  “Can you see them, 194? Can you see what the latest male did to her?”

  Who? I snapped inside my head, my eyes unmoving from the screen. But Mistress pulled the screen from my eyes and placed it back inside her jacket.

  Several seconds went by in silence, until Mistress stood before me. “Your hit is a man that lives here in New York. The stupid prick messed with a very important associate of ours.” Mistress ran her fingers over my collar as she said those words. “He killed and murdered a man that was extremely important to us, to me. And I made him a promise. I made him a promise that if this man killed the one who was so important to me he would die, too. He would die slowly, painfully, and under the hands of my most prized, sadistic, and lethal Ubiytsa.” She smirked and her fingertips ran over my lips. “That, 194, is you. You will be the one to deliver his death.”

  Mistress sighed and backed away. “It seems my brother has seen your 152. And I’m afraid to say, 194, that he is very much interested in calling her to him to have as his own. And we know that anything he demands he gets. He is the Master of our people after all.”

  My eyes flared at the thought of 152 being ordered to the Master, being taken away from me, and I wanted to hit something, kill something quick. Mistress knew how I would feel, and crossing her arms, she said, “If you can kill the hit effectively, and … creatively, I will make sure your precious 152 will stay close by. I will make sure she is not sent away.”

  I tracked Mistress, feeling my chest lighten with her promise. A promise she made with every hit. There was always a next time before 152 would be returned to me, but I couldn’t give up because next time could be the time—then I would strike.

  Mistress moved to the cage door and reached out for something on the floor. She walked back toward me holding clothes in her hands, along with a notebook and a key. Placing them on the floor at my feet, she said, “You have ten minutes before a van will take you to the drop-off point. The address of the chamber you will use is in the notebook. As is the address for your hit.” Mistress moved until she was flush against my chest and lifted to her tiptoes. Her lips brushed against mine. “Kill him slowly, 194. You have weeks to make him pay, precious time, and you will need it. He is very well protected, protected by a powerful family that can never know of our existence. So use anything and anyone in his circle against him. Use and interrogate anyone you need to to get closer to him. Do you understand? You use any means possible.” She paused and smiled against my mouth. “Then kill them all. Make these assholes pay in blood.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I replied automatically. Mistress pressed her lips against mine, but I did not move mine back. With all the fucked-up things Mistress made me do to her, the feeling of her thin lips on mine was the worst. I never knew why. I just knew she, this close, was repulsive to me.

  Mistress moved back with a laugh and sounded a buzzer to call a guard forward. When the guard reached the cage, she turned to him and said, “Fill his collar with new serum pellets I specially ordered, enough to last, and program it to dispense a dose twice a day. We need him to be at his most impressive.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” the guard said obediently.

  Mistress loitered by the cage door, then said, “I will miss our time together while you are gone, 194. Maybe I shall pay 152 a visit in your absence, see if she can be as effective in my pleasure as you. You share the same blood, after all.”

  As I lost grip of my control, my head snapped in her direction, body braced to strike. Mistress frowned, and I forced myself to pretend that the serum still had me in its clutches. In truth it only ever lasted a little while on these pellets. I could eventually fight the fog they brought.

  My eyes dropped to focus on the floor, and I heard Mistress finally walk off.

  The guard held his picana—a form of cattle prod—in his hand and ordered, “Dress; we have to leave!”

  Still picturing 152 on the bed, the bruises on her thighs, the broken position she was in, I dressed quickly, vowing to do my worst to this hit.

  As I followed the guard down the hallway of my new prison, I opened the notebook and read out the name of the man who would soon be screaming in pain.

  Zaal Kostava.

  Brooklyn.

  New York.

  I’d never been to this place before. New York. Brooklyn. Brighton Beach. My days had been spent around the world, where the Master had his businesses and enemies. That was where I came in. Master always wanted his best man for the job—I was always it. But this was different. This was Mistress’s hit. A personal hit. Now personal to me, too, since it secured 152’s safety.

  Master wanted her. I couldn’t let that happen.

  152 was beautiful. It was the reason Mistress had taken us all those years ago. Even when 152 was a child Mistress could see the potential 152 had as a mona. And Mistress had used her for years. Abused her and made her life hell.

  A hell I intended to stop.

  Slinking into the shadows, I made my way toward one of the addresses I’d been given for the hit. When I approached the street, I noted that every fifteen minutes a car went by. It was slow in speed and had blacked-out windows. This hit was clearly important in this community. His house was well protected.

  It would be a waiting game. A waiting game until one of his people made a mistake and I could take him, or someone close to him.

  Leverage.

  Standing in an alleyway opposite a brownstone house, I watched in silence as a car pulled up and a large male with fair hair got out of the backseat, holding his hand out to someone inside. I squinted my eyes to better focus on his features, but this male was too light in coloring to be my target. A female slipped out of the car next; she had long brown hair and blue eyes.

  I committed these people to memory and waited. Fifteen minutes later another car pulled up. And exiting from the backseat was a tall dark male with black hair down to his mid-back. My nostrils flared when he turned and his stern face came into view, green eyes looking down at someone else leaving the car.

  Him.

  The hit.

  Zaal Kostava.

  Careful not to move, relying on all the years of training, I was as still as the night. But I watched. I saw there were three guards surrounding the car. Then a female was by his side. Blond. Brown eyes. A ring on her left hand.

  His wife? His fiancée?


  My eyes tracked them walking up stairs and entering the house. The windows were large, and I concentrated on the shadows, tilting my head as I studied the movements.

  The guards in the cars continued for the next two hours, men casually dressed in everyday clothes walking in circles around the block, their hands in their pockets—holding on to guns, no doubt.

  In two hours I never moved an inch. This was why I was the head assassin, the bringer of death. I never failed. And I never failed in making my victims scream out in pain. Only after they’d screamed at the sight of my disfigured face. I was their every nightmare come to life.

  Movement from my left suddenly caught my eye. A figure dressed in all black was approaching the side of the street where I was hidden. I watched with focused eyes, seeing that it was a female.

  Her arms were wrapped around her waist, a large hood covering her face. Her steps were quiet as she rushed down the street. I never took my eyes from her as she slipped into the darkness. She wanted to keep concealed from view.

  She kept approaching until she stopped, mere feet from me. She didn’t sense me lurking at her back. They never did.

  I watched. I watched her breathing increase and heard the heavy exhale leave her mouth. Flakes of snow landed on her black coat, but the female kept completely still.

  Her attention was on the house I was stalking. But she made no effort to move. I watched as her hand reached into her pocket. But what I noticed more was that it was shaking.

  A photograph was pulled out of her pocket. Just as she lifted it to view, I caught sight of the image—my hit and his female.

  The side of my lip curled up in satisfaction. This female was someone to the hit. And she’d just made herself my prey.

  Suddenly the female’s breathing hitched, and when I glanced to the house I could see the people I’d watched entering the front door move in clear view of the windows. This female’s grip was iron tight on the photo, and I could see her holding her breath.

  She was waiting to see the dark male.

  A sudden tightness gripped around my neck, my body jerking in shock. My jaw tensed and I shut my eyes as my collar tightened, the functions inside the metal brace moving to inject into my neck. My teeth slammed together as needles slowly pushed into my skin. And then it came. The burning of the serum flooding into my veins.

  While I still had time before my triggered rage took hold, I pulled out my notebook and memorized the name of the chamber. Then I looked to the female in black and I knew what I was about to do.

  The needles pulled out of my skin, and then it came. A red mist curtained over my eyes. My muscles strained as the venom filled my every vein. Rage. Uncontrollable rage took its hold, bringing with it the need to deliver pain. To hear screams. To draw blood.

  To obey Mistress and all that she’d commanded.

  Just before I became lost to the darkness, the bringer of death role I knew I would embrace, my gaze darted to the female dressed in black once more. I crouched, bracing to strike.

  Just as the female took a deep breath and stepped out onto the road to cross the street, the venom finally peaked. My eyes widened as I felt my free will fade to nothing—my body was reacting worse than normal, submitting to the drug like Mistress had intended.

  The beast inside was freed.

  And I attacked.

  I attacked the female before me.

  Hooking my arm around her neck, I slammed my hand over her mouth. She fought to get free, her voice trying to break from my hand and scream. Dragging her back into the shadows, I tightened my arm around her neck. She fought me all the way, her legs kicking and her fingernails scratching at my hand over her mouth.

  My muscles burned at the fear taking hold of her body, my heart beating fast, enjoying the life leaving her body. When the female’s body began to lose fight, I slackened my arm. She flopped in my arms, unconscious. The picture fell from her hand onto the fground. I looked at the picture, my hit’s face staring up at me.

  And I smiled.

  I smiled, holding this female in my arms.

  Because she would pay.

  She would pay in pain and blood … then I’d be coming straight for him.

  3

  LUKA

  “Any thoughts to where you’ll marry, Tal?” Kisa asked my sister as we all sat in my parents’ house.

  Talia moved closer into Zaal’s side and laid her head on his huge bicep. “Maybe just here at the house. Something small.” Talia’s face fell and she shrugged. “I only have you guys and”—she cleared her throat when Zaal got tense, his face sharp and unmoving—“and, you know, Zaal is on his own.”

  Zaal’s posture was rigid, his long dark hair falling over his face. Talia pushed back his hair and put her palm on his face. Zaal turned into her hand and she kissed him. All the tension immediately left his body.

  He was struggling. Struggling as I had.

  My stomach tightened, because at least I’d had my family. He had no one outside of us. We weren’t his blood. It wasn’t the same.

  A hand ran across my chest, and when I glanced down Kisa was smiling up at me. Leaning forward, I kissed my wife on her head and moved my hand down to her stomach, which now held our baby. Kisa laid her head against my shoulder. I’d never felt so content in all my life.

  “Still not finding out if I’m having a niece or nephew?” I looked up to Talia, who was smiling at me.

  “No, we want it to be a surprise,” Kisa answered, just as my father and Kirill entered the room. Kirill was dressed in a three-piece black designer suit as always. His sharp eyes met mine, and he flicked his head in the direction of my father’s office.

  Kirill next turned to face Zaal. “Study.”

  Dropping one more kiss on Kisa’s head, I stood and followed my father and the Pakhan into the office with Zaal, my, the knyaz’s, number two, on my heels. As we entered the room, the Pakhan dropped behind the desk and we sat on the chairs opposite.

  Zaal sat to my right, my father to my left. Over the last few months Zaal had slowly adjusted to his new role as a sworn member of our Bratva. I took him with me everywhere, showing our people that a new king had joined the Volkovs. Zaal’s sheer size and strength ensured that everyone knew we were growing stronger by the day. And I felt stronger with him by my side.

  My father, though suspicious of Zaal for a while, had slowly come round to allowing a Kostava into the ranks. And I couldn’t be happier. The Volkov Bratva had always had three kings; with Zaal’s admission, the thought of assuming the Pakhan mantle no longer filled me with dread—I would have a trustworthy brother to help me lead when it was my time to take the Pakhan seat.

  Kirill pulled out a bottle of vodka from behind his desk and poured four glasses. We each drank the shot, and Krill refilled the glasses.

  Pushing the glasses back in our direction, he lay back in his chair and said, “There was an unregistered small private aircraft that arrived yesterday. Our man from the airfield put himself in the refueling center, when the aircraft arrived.”

  “And no one cleared it with you?” my father asked, eyebrows pulled down.

  Kirill flicked his hand and downed his shot before shaking his head. “No permission was sought, but then again, people have no respect anymore for the way things are done in my territory. No respect for the old ways.” He clasped his hands over his stomach and added, “But that does not mean they will not pay for their lack of respect and honor.”

  Frowning, I asked, “Who was it?”

  Kirill sat forward, meeting my eyes, and said, “Ah. But that is the mystery, Luka. It seems that no one knows or remembers.”

  “Then we make those that allowed the plane into our airspace remember. Whatever that takes.” My hands fisted on the arms of my chair. The thought of bringing violence to our enemies making my blood burn with excitement.

  Kirill smiled coldly at my reaction and refilled my glass. I knocked back the shot to keep calm and to keep from imagining spilling blood.


  “Thinking just like a pakhan, Luka. And as any good pakhan should, I already ordered my head Pytki—my torturer—to ‘speak’ to the men who allowed the landing.”

  “And?” my father pushed.

  Kirill sat back and replied, “No names were given, so those men were quickly disposed of for the traitorous rats they were, but we did get one piece of information I found particularly interesting.”

  My body was tense with the knowledge that a new threat could be in town. Kirill was calm. Always calm. But I’d learned that the calmer he seemed, the more rage he was feeling inside.

  Kirill’s eyes drifted toward Zaal, who had been silent and still beside me. Zaal was always silent. He absorbed everything that was said but rarely spoke.

  Zaal tensed as the Pakhan’s eyes landed on him. Kirill tilted his head to the side and stated, “The plane came direct from Georgia.”

  Zaal’s eyes flared. Kirill’s lip curled in amusement. “My question is, why would a Georgian dare undermine my authority? Why would a Georgian pay my men off, under my nose, to enter my city?” Kirill sat back in his chair, yet his eyes never left Zaal.

  The room filled with tension, until I said, “There’s no fucking way Zaal organized this, if that’s what you’re implying. He’s sworn into the Bratva. He’s pledged himself to you, life for life, blood for blood.”

  Kirill flicked a glance to my father, who was rigid in his seat. I knew that they both had to be doubting Zaal’s loyalty, but I was absolutely sure he would never cross us. Even if that loyalty was solely based on his love and devotion to my sister.

  Which it wasn’t.

  I had opened my mouth to say as much when Zaal said slowly and with force, “I would not betray this family. I am a warrior; if I were to cross your rule, I would face you head-on, not hide in the shadows.”

  I sat back in my chair and watched the Pakhan’s eyes narrow. Eventually he sat forward and pushed a glass of vodka at Zaal. “Now that is clear, I believe there could be another theory.”

  “What?” my father asked, but Kirill was still boring his gaze into Zaal, waiting for my brother to take the drink. Zaal sat straight in his seat, his huge size dwarfing the chair. His fingers were gripping the wooden arms and I could see the anger in his face. But he forced himself to push out his hand, and without dropping his gaze on Kirill he took the shot.