I opened the door under the sink, and as silently as I could, I popped up the loose wooden board where my bag was held. Once I had it, I grabbed the cheap sneakers inside, threw on a long-sleeved shirt, and made sure the money and gun were still tucked away. And then I went over to the toilet and flushed it, then quickly went to the window to pry it open. I hoped the flushed toilet would mask the sound of me opening the glass.
Once it was pried open, I tossed my bag out, my apartment fortunately close enough to the ground that I wouldn't break a leg jumping out.
I was halfway out when one of the assholes pounded on the door and barked out, “Hurry it the fuck up.” And just as I swung my body out the window, I saw the bathroom door open and the prick barrel inside. His gaze latched on to me instantly, his eyes narrowing and a curse ringing out.
I landed on the ground and grabbed my bag, then ran like my life depended on it.
Because it did.
2
Arlo
Present day
My mother had been called a whore.
My father had been a boyevik—a soldier—for the Bratva.
I was an orphan at the age of eleven. A criminal at the age of twelve.
I was a murderer when I turned sixteen.
And here I was, fifteen years later, a coldhearted bastard.
You could have summed up my life in those details. The particulars didn’t matter. The people I’d come in contact with were inconsequential. It was easy to pretend to have interest. It was effortless to act like I had a heart.
I’d been told a lot of things during my life, lies to make me fall in line.
“Your mother was nothing but a cheap slut. Women like that don’t last long. They’re used up and thrown away. They serve their purpose that way.”
That had been one of the longest, most “heartfelt”—in my father’s eyes—conversations he’d ever had with me. The truth, I’d later learn, had been far from what he told me.
I’d been taken from my mother’s arms shortly after she’d been forced to give birth to me, thrown into the home of strangers associated with the Bratva—the Russian mafia. From the moment I drew my first breath, I’d been indoctrinated to the life of a criminal. Of death and hatred and loyalty to only one entity.
My mother had been a young Russian girl who had hopes and dreams. That was the fantasy I made up. That was the fantasy she was no doubt told to stay pliant and submissive. Hope could make anyone do whatever you wanted.
I didn’t know her, didn’t know anything about her from personal experience. She’d been taken from her bed in the middle of the night, trafficked to America, and sold off like a piece of meat to those who had power and money.
Those I worked for. And sometimes those I killed.
Those who liked breaking things. Ruining them.
Those men who destroyed a person until there was nothing left but the darkness, that once hope now nothing but hopeless resignation.
The familiar anger I felt at thinking of the fate of my mother was like acid in my veins. I didn’t let emotions play a factor in my life. They never had except for the thought of a mother I’d never known, a girl far too young, who’d been raped and beaten countless times, forced to push out a baby she probably didn’t want, then used all over again.
She’d been the only thing I’d ever let my apathy go for. And a part of me hated that, hated her for making me feel anything other than the nothingness I was so very familiar with. The bleak darkness I embraced.
I didn’t have to know her love to know she’d been innocent—like so many other young girls thrown into this life.
For a second I stared at my hands, ones that had been covered in blood many times over my thirty-one years. Hands that would soon be drenched in the life force of another.
They were fingers and palms that had killed mercilessly. Ones that had taken my father’s life once I found out he’d been the one who raped my mother, fathered me, and ultimately killed her.
I didn’t have to know the woman who birthed me to exact vengeance in her honor. It would never right the wrongs committed against her—or against any of the other helpless victims—but it sure as fuck made me feel better.
Patricide. Who knew it was what I’d been born to do? Who knew it was my own personal therapy?
And it was the act of killing my father that elevated me to the position I was in now with the Ruin and the Bratva. Apparently the Bratva thought I’d done them a favor by taking out my father—a traitor who’d been giving information to the Cosa Nostra.