Page 122 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

My father’s last stroke forced a vote to give me his powers. With the vote passed, I made Drago my enforcer to oversee the squads of blood-thirsty men who keep the brotherhood powerful. But Chernov is a dangerous man in his own right, with influence that bleeds throughout my brotherhood. And darker unaffiliated shadows of this city.

“Vor Chernov,” I call out to him with the title he’s earned as an elder statesman of the Volkov Bratva. “Good of you to join us. You missed my ceremony. My instructions.”

“I heard you.” He strides forward.

But when he gets close, his dead eyes don’t hide how furious he is that I’ll be making him work. His days of sleeping late, lunches at his club, and nights fucking whores will have to be interrupted.

I pull him in, and he immediately reaches for a blade. “Right now, you’re guessing if you’ll make it out of here alive if you cut my throat. You might, but your daughter won’t. She’s downstairs. One of my men has eyes on her.”

He grumbles and releases the blade in his pocket, his brutal features a wash of unhappiness.

“On your knees, Chernov.” My command is met with a confused flicker crossing his face. But he kneels. “Kiss the ring.” I present my father’s insignia.

Chernov gives me the most satisfying look of relief. Like this is his punishment. Humiliation.

“You’re a Vor for a reason,” I say to shame him. “You earned the title from your years of loyalty to my father. Now you will give me, his rightful heir, the same respect.”

Clearing his throat, Chernov grips my hand and kisses the ring roughly.

When he goes to stand, I push him down. “Not so fast. Remove your shirt.”

The men watching us grow quiet as Chernov pulls his jacket off, then his shirt.

I reach into my pocket and withdraw a leather whip. Meeting Chernov’s eyes, I smile. The smell of old leather with a faint trace of dried blood lingers in the woven cords.

“Do you remember this?” I hold the whip beneath his nose. “Yes, it’s the same whip used on me that night.”

His jaw tightens. Of course he remembers. He held me down when it was used on me. He laughed at my pain. My blood.

I stride slowly behind him. There are old scars across his back. They catch the light, and it gives me pause. How he bled for my father. For my legacy

But he only bled for the Volkov name so he could see his daughter on the throne with me as my wife. With that name. That was all he wanted.

For a second I think about Sandrine and what she went through. About Tamara, what she thinks she was owed. About the dangerous games Chernov has been playing while faking his loyalty.

Then I stop thinking.

The first crack of the whip splits the room. The second lands on flesh harder, louder. The third leaves fresh blood crossing the old scars.

I don’t lose control. I don’t scream at him. And I don’t enjoy it.

I simply collect a debt.

When it’s over, sweat and blood drips from his body onto the rooftop floor. His breathing is heavier, but not broken.

Tough bastard.

I drop the whip, my knuckles aching from how tight I was holding it.

“Now get dressed,” I say through clenched teeth.

He rises, his powerful legs bringing him to his full height without stumbling. I keep my eyes on him. So he doesn’t ever forget. I’m watching. I’ll always be watching.

Chernov stares at me, assembling himself. There’s no flinch from the pain he must feel dragging that raw silk across chewed-up flesh.

And there’s no fear. Just those dead eyes. The same eyes that watched me bleed years ago.

I study him for a long moment, and wonder if I should just kill him. I go to turn, not wanting to give this man one more second of my attention. One more breath of my oxygen.