Page 1 of The Brat: Prequel

ONE

BE MY SAFETY

“Ma’am?”

My eyes focus on the bruise on the older woman’s cheek, then trickle over the cut at her lip and the marks circling her throat. Svetlana, the wife of my Pakhan, is only alive because her new stepson-in-law dislocated her husband’s shoulder yesterday. In the church.

Even the Butcher of Brooklyn Beach can’t strangle someone one-handed.

There is a God.

She arches a brow as if daring me to comment on her injury. “What? Or are you here to stare? That face might be pretty, but you’re a little too far down the payroll for me to take notice of you, Max.”

Vasov, as a boss, is a grade-A fucker. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be married to the bastard, or to be his kid so I always treat the women in his life with kindness. But the last time I tried that with his wife, she told Vasov I flirted with her.

I think the only reason he didn’t fire me/have me killed is because since I came along, his youngest daughter, Victoria, stopped having “meltdowns.”

I’m only her guard, but showing the kid a bit of kindness for two hours a day on the ride to/from school’s been enough to settle her down.

It’s almost like children need to be more than just their father’s punching bags… or something. What the fuck do I know?

“Not here to stare, ma’am.” I place emphasis on the title and purposely focus on the window behind her left ear. “Do you want Victoria out of your hair for a couple days?”

She sneers. “Of course. Take her off our hands.”

“Her friend offered to⁠—”

“You think I give a damn where she goes? Take the korovka with my blessing.”

Disapproval makes it hard to care that she’s nursing wounds of her own. Especially after seeing the state of Inessa Vasov yesterday as she walked down the aisle to her new husband, Eoghan O’Donnelly.

I ended up sitting in on the ride to the church with the bride and her father. The level of bruising… I don’t think I’ve ever been beaten so badly in my goddamn life.

And I’ve lived on the streets!

“Are you okay?” I ask cautiously, noticing a slit in her ear where he must have yanked out her earring.

I don’t like Svetlana. Never have. Partially because I happened to meet Victoria’s mom in Moscow before that whole fucking mess with the Italians where she was butchered to death—a raid that stank like an inside job to me.

By comparison to Mariska, this woman’s a hard-nosed bitch. The kind of kid who worked her way up the same as I did, but she’ll kick anyone who reminds her of her roots. Still, Vasov went fucking wild on her last night and nobody deserves that.

Upper lip curling, she flicks a hand at me. “Of course I’m okay.”

Relieved at the dismissal, I bow my head and make a retreat.

I leave her sitting room, veer toward the fancy staircase, and lope up the steps.

A soft knock later and Victoria pulls open her bedroom door a scant inch.

Her eye peeps through the crack, then when she sees it’s me, she flings it wide and throws her arms around my waist.

That I’m safety to this little girl is a terrifying concept. The only reason I can cope with the responsibility is because I’ve learned from the best—Nikolai Veles. Current Pakhan of the Miami branch of the Bratva.

Niko is the reason I’m no longer on the streets and why I don’t fuck around about being this kid’s protector.

I press my hand between Victoria’s shoulder blades and let her sob against my chest. “It’s okay, katyonok,” I attempt to soothe, but my voice cracks when I see the marks on her arm where he gripped her and hauled her around.

I can’t kill him.