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Chapter 1
Alina Lipin wanted all of them to die. She huddled into herself, her head buried beneath her arms as she tried to breathe through the pain in her chest. Her ribs ached from where he had kicked them. Served her right for trying to attack instead of endure.
She was much better at enduring.
She’d endured the expectations for her to be a pure daughter of the Bratva.
The fear when everything she’d accepted had been taken away.
The dread that her isolated sanctuary could vanish at any time.
A part of her had thought that finally facing the inevitable would be easier than the constant stress of worrying. As the daughter of the fallen pakhan, her time had been limited.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the filthy mattress, the only item in the room.
Life would always be hard. Her captor had given her a choice, and she should have taken the simpler path. Instead, she had done everything he’d demanded of her to live a few more moments.
Her father had been pakhan, but even he had gone out in a pile of his own waste. Alina wanted to avoid that moment for as long as possible.
The air conditioner turned on again. It didn’t matter. She’d already been shivering. Cold air passing over her naked and bruised body made no difference.
It was no longer just bruises that covered her. Her fingers were slick with blood. He’d used a knife on her when he last came—whenever that was. She no longer had any idea how long she’d been in the room with no windows, just a mattress and a locked door.
The trick was not to think. Not to remember. It was so much easier with paint in her hands, but all she had was red, slick blood.
Her ribs protested as she squeezed her body tighter. She was an idiot. He’d be angry when he came back and saw, but for a brief time, she’d no longer been afraid. The drying blood on her fingers itched.
Until it didn’t. A coldness spread over her limbs. Her breathing became choppy.
The sudden screams of grown men reached her in her prison. The sound pierced her lightheadedness. Bratva soldiers didn’t scream like young girls. No, their cries were deep and angry. The broken sounds changed as they drew closer. They became higher; more terrified.
Something was scaring the Bratva. Alina couldn’t imagine what that could be, but she smiled through her shivering. Let them scream.
Marksmanship had always come naturally to Luka, but he preferred a knife in his hand. Ivankov had said to make an example of the boyeviki in the house. He hadn’t said how. Luka only did as he was told.
He didn’t wear a mask over his face. All of the Bratva knew what he was, a pet of the pakhan that wasn’t quite human in their eyes. No one could be human and move as he did. He’d been told so often enough. Luka had been made to kill.
He’d even killed his own mother. The thought allowed the next bullet to pass surprisingly close to his body, and he twisted, breaking the handle on the nearest door and disappearing into the room within.
He waited for the boyevik to follow him inside. The upward angle of his knife was just right when it entered the body. That was what all the people on the estate would become—bodies.
The gurgle that slipped from the man’s throat was familiar as Luka took his gun and watched the life fade from his eyes. A few motions to pull the gun apart, and Luka dropped the useless metal, deciding to leave it behind. He was in the mood for blood on his hands.
On his gloves, rather. He always wore gloves. The pain of accidentally brushing against something skin to skin was too distracting.
A slight tremble out of the corner of his eye caused him to freeze. He’d noticed the woman’s body when he’d entered, but he’d thought she was dead. Now her slight motions were more obvious.
His gaze slid away again, as it did whenever a woman was present. He’d already memorized every detail in that first glance anyway, and hated the way they all remained in his mind—mottled, pale skin; haphazardly chopped blonde hair; spindly arms. She might still be alive, but she appeared too weak to live much longer. Perhaps death would be kindest to her, as it had been to his sister.
She wouldn’t find that freedom from him. Luka didn’t kill women. Not since his mother.
His eyes shifted around the room, trying to escape the memory, and they caught something he’d never seen before. The dark smears of blood should have been easy to dismiss, but their placement was abnormal. It was as if delicate brushstrokes had created what appeared to be a face, one so delicate and sad that he felt a tightness in his chest.
His sister had once painted faces like that, but she hadn’t been nearly as good.
His gaze moved back to the woman. She still hadn’t raised her head. Only her trembling marked her as alive. It had been a long time since he’d stared at a woman as long as he did now. It was as if he was willing her to look back, but she never did.
Which was a relief, he reminded himself. He felt antsy for the first time in a long while.
