1

Kyle

The truth isn’t what you see. It’s what you make of it.

There’s no such thing as a wholesome truth or a perfect reality. There are people and agendas.

There is peace and war.

There is losing and winning.

I have come a long way in my search for the actual truth—my own truth, the one they stripped me of thirty years ago.

When they made a machine out of me, they never thought it would come back and destroy them from the inside out.

They underestimated me.

I love it when they do that. It means I will have the best time ripping them apart, crunching their bones, and watching blood ooze from all of their holes.

That’s my system, my reality. And no one will be able to stop me.

Not even death.

It can try, but I’ve come too far to be intimidated by something as insignificant as death.

When I go down, I’m taking every last one of them with me, their names and titles included.

If I will be erased from this world, so will they. If I’ve become a shadow, so will they.

This is my resurrection.

I stand in front of the huge mansion in a secluded area in Brooklyn. The walls are high enough that no one can peer over. There are no tall buildings nearby, which is a tactical move to eliminate the threat of snipers. Wires surround the walls’ edges like in a military camp, and several cameras placed at regular intervals along the walls blink red.

If I take a step forward, I’ll be swarmed by guards who won’t hesitate to shoot me a hundred times just to make sure I am indeed finished.

They’re so serious I can’t even play dead with their kind.

When they committed their crimes, they knew they had to hide in palaces like these, palaces where they’re completely safe from the world.

But not from me.

Never from me.

I step forward so I’m directly in front of the gate. It doesn’t open, but as expected, booming, unsubtle footsteps come from behind me. They never learned to cover their tracks as I taught them.

Oh well. I guess you can’t make any soldier into an assassin.

“Put your hands up in the air,” one of the guards booms in a thick Russian accent.

I do as I’m told because, while death doesn’t scare me, it would be a fucking waste if my cause of death were holes in the back. Not only that, the one who would get the credit for killing the legend that is me would be this Russian tool. Fucking shameful, I tell you. I wouldn’t be able to look my godfather in the face anymore.

Not that I have in the past couple of years. But that’s another tragic story not fit for the present.

The sound of a clicking gun comes from behind me before he speaks again. “Hands behind your head and turn around slowly. One wrong move and I will spill your brains on the ground.”

I spin around and, sure enough, there are three of them. Two are holding guns to their sides while their leader, a senior guard with grim features and an asymmetrical mustache that’s more comical than intimidating, is pointing an AK4 in my direction.

His weapon of choice is sure as fuck not comical.

Upon seeing my face, his eyes widen in clear surprise, and he falters for a fraction of a second.

That’s the only opening I need.

I charge forward and elbow him in the throat. The moment his hold loosens on the AK4, I snatch it then pull my gun from my waistband.

The two other soldiers spend a long time pausing in shock. By the time they point their guns at me, I’m already aiming the AK4 and my weapon in their faces.

“Didn’t I tell you a moment of hesitation is all it takes for you to get killed?” I stare at their senior guard, because I recognize him—and his hideous mustache—from before. These are new recruits, looking barely out of their pubescent years.

He curses in Russian then goes back to English. “What are you doing here, Kyle? You couldn’t stay the fuck away?”

“Pay respect to a Vor, peasant.” I smirk as he curses again.

They all hate that a British person—and therefore non-Russian—was given that title by their previous Pakhan. The fact that no one can take it away makes them hate me even more.

Hatred doesn’t matter. My goal does.

Becoming a member of the elite group in an organization I don’t give a fuck about is all part of a plan that’s finally coming to fruition now.

I motion at him with the tip of the AK4. “Now, take me to your boss.”

He puffs his chest out, and his mustache twitches as if participating in the action. “Why should I?”

“Igor and I have a war to start.”

2

Rai

If power eludes you, then you have nothing.

It’s not only about being at the top. If you’re high enough, no one touches you or those close to you. No one dares to look at you, and when they do, they are blinded by the non-negotiability you project back at them.

That’s why I don’t and will never stop.

The higher I go in the ranks, the more they respect me, and one day, they will all bow down to Grandpa’s family name.

“We’re Sokolovs, Rai,” he told me once. “We don’t bend the knee. Everyone else does.”

With his words engraved deep in my heart, I take the stairs down.

The house is huge, as expected of the Bratva’s compound in New York. The sweeping marble stairs lead to a grand hallway that has light marble flooring. Gold rims the chesterfield sofa in the middle, the pillars, and even the carpet. The ceilings are vaulted, and there’s a painting of angels fighting demons in the middle. That usually gets visitors to stop and stare at the intricate detail put into the image.

On the other hand, that’s also usually the last thing they see before they’re ‘taken care of’. While we invite our associates here, we also invite our enemies.

Heaven and hell. Angels and demons.

Dedushka—Grandpa—was poetic that way, which shouldn’t have been a surprise considering his origins. He was not only the leader of one of the most successful Bratva branches in the States and Russia; his roots go back to the beginning, dating to the end of World War II.

I am part of that bloodline.

In fact, I’m the only one who can protect it anymore.

Today, I opted for black suit pants that give me a sharp edge. My beige coat hangs on my shoulders without me having to wear it. It’s a quirk I learned from Dedushka. My blonde hair is twisted in an elegant bun. My makeup isn’t loud, but it’s a few layers thick, making me look like I’m in my thirties instead of twenty-eight.

Being young is a weakness in the Vory world, and there’s no way I will let them exploit any of my shortcomings.

I’m stopped by a radiant face at the bottom of the stairs. Anastasia, my great-cousin, smiles upon seeing me, revealing perfectly straight—and petite—teeth. In fact, everything about her is, from her nose to her lips and her frame. The only thing that’s big are her huge green eyes. It’s like staring straight into the calm of the tropical ocean.

She’s wearing a modest long-sleeved dress that stops below her knees. Her blonde hair, a few shades lighter than mine, is gathered in a low, neat ponytail by a long ribbon. As usual, no ounce of makeup covers her face. Her smile falters for a second, and my red alert goes up all at once. The bloodthirsty mama bear in me comes out to play.