Artem
I stare at the man I used to think of as a second father.
Budimir’s face is familiar, and yet completely unrecognizable to me. Is it possible I used to think of him as kindly? Is it possible I used to think of him as loyal?
Everything I thought I knew about him confronts me as he stares me down, his beady eyes gleeful and triumphant.
“I must admit,” Budimir remarks, “this is the last place I expected to find you.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I retort.
I look around at the men that surround me. I recognize only two of them. What happened to the other men of the Bratva, the men I served and bled with, the men who were once loyal to me?
Did they turn their backs on the true don?
Or did Budimir have them killed?
“I can see the wheels in your head spinning, nephew,” Budimir says, taking a step forward. “Do you have nothing you want to say to me?”
“I have many fucking things I would like to say to you,” I snarl.
Budimir chuckles as he looks around at his men. “What did I tell you, boys?” he asks. “My nephew is nothing more than a wild animal without discipline or intelligence.”
“Is that what you think of me?” I ask evenly.
“Come now, Artem,” he says. “It’s not an insult if it’s true.”
I take a step forward, but at the slightest motion, half a dozen guns cock in my direction.
Gritting my teeth, I freeze. Attacking now would not only be stupid and short sighted—it would also be proving the bastard right.
“Really, Artem,” Budimir sighs, “I had hoped to have a long-awaited chat with you. I can’t do that if you look so damn aggressive.”
“The time for conversation is done,” I snap.
Budimir glances at the man to his right and nods once. Five soldiers begin to creep toward me from different angles.
I don’t bother with my gun. The moment I open fire, they would cut me down in a hail of bullets.
But they’ve all holstered their weapons, too. They’re closing down the distance to where I stand in the middle of the clearing one slow step at a time. Hands empty.
Let us fucking brawl, then.
The moment the first man comes within punching distance of me, I clench my fist and send my knuckles straight to his face.
He tries to block at the last minute, but he’s too late and he ends up with a mouthful of blood and dirt.
I turn fast, ready with my second punch. But then I feel something snake around my legs.
Is that a fucking lasso?
Before I can do anything else, my ankles are yanked from under me. I hit the ground hard, facedown in the muck. The wind whooshes painfully out of my lungs.
The rest of them are on me instantly. A flurry of kicks and nightsticks to the ribs, the back, the legs.
It’s over as soon as it starts. I’m tugged upright onto my knees and someone secures my hands behind my back and lashes my ankles together.
I spit blood onto the earth in front of me. I can’t move unless I want to topple over. Trussed up like a fucking pig.