Gio leaned back and picked up his glass of wine that had just been filled by one of the staff. His expression wreaked dominance and challenge directed right at my father.
“What about you, Mother?” Gio asked. “Have you talked to your eldest daughter?”
My father slammed his fist down on the table, the dishware bouncing a second before some glasses tipped over from the force.
I jumped involuntarily and my mother shrank farther into herself.
Gio looked completely unaffected as he downed the rest of his wine and reached for the bottle, pouring a fresh glass.
I stared at the bruises that covered his knuckles and pictured how he must have gotten those. What did the other person look like? Probably dead.
He did our father’s bidding, was a tool to exact violence so Marco’s hands didn’t get dirty.
And although I loved my brother, was proud of him for standing up to my father, I also wasn’t a fool in thinking he might not be exactly the same man sitting before us if he had that kind of power.
Because people changed when they had authority.
“I have some news for you, Claudia.”
Instantly my body reacted. My spine straightened and my head snapped up as I stared at my father. He wasn’t looking at me, instead gazing into his wineglass as he rolled the liquid around.
Finally, as if he could now grace me with his focus, my father stared into my eyes.
“I have a potential suitor coming by next week. Piero of the Rossi family.”
The name didn’t ring a bell, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if it did. My opinion on any of this was inconsequential.
“The match will be good and will create an alliance between our two families.” He was silent for a moment, his head cocked to the side as if he were waiting for me to say something. “If your suitor is pleased with you, the wedding will be set three years from now, on your eighteenth birthday.”
Happy fucking birthday to me.
I was sure he was expecting an outburst from me. I was good at them.
But I kept my teeth clenched together, refusing to give him the satisfaction. That’s what he wanted, anyway. He wanted to see the hurt, the display of shock on my face.
He wanted me to fight back so he could punish me, like it was some sadistic ritual for him.
Father lifted a dark eyebrow, clearly surprised I said nothing. When the corner of his mouth kicked up, I clenched the linen napkin in my lap so tightly the fibers seemed to embed themselves in my flesh.
It was then I felt a heavy weight land on top of my two curled ones. I looked down, seeing Gio’s tattooed hand covering mine. When I looked at him, he had his focus on our father.
His expression showed nothing. He had such a good poker face, but the minor act of solidarity and support meant a lot in easing some of the volatile stress building in me.
My father snapped his fingers, and the servant came in. Marco waited until his place setting was cleared before rising and picking up his now refilled glass of wine. Without saying a word to his family, he turned and left, the sound of his heavy footfalls growing more distant the farther away he walked.
I exhaled and slumped in my seat, refusing to cry. I had to be strong. I had to think of a way to get out of this.
Because I would not end up like Amara, forced to be with a man who would beat and rape me with zero repercussions because I was his wife.
His property.
No. I wouldn’t ever allow a man to treat me like I was an inanimate object solely for his pleasure.
Fuck. That.
Chapter 4
Dmitry
“I’ll toughen you up yet, boy.”
It wasn’t my father’s words that had icy fear skating down my spine. It was the way he looked at me, the sadistic glint in his eyes.
A part of me hated Leonid Petrov.
A piece of me wanted to love him because he was my father.
But the strongest part of all appeared like a tidal wave. It crashed inside of me and filled me with unadulterated terror whenever he walked into a room.
At fifteen years old I should have still been treated as the child I was. I should have been innocent, cherished, and shown so much love I suffocated in it.
But that would have been a wish for a child who’d had any sort of normal childhood.
Because when you were the son of the Pakhan of the Desolation Bratva, you’re specifically bred for one reason.
To be molded and trained to follow in my father’s footsteps. To be the heir he needed.
As the eldest son, it rested on my shoulders, and I gladly took that responsibility if it meant protecting my younger siblings, Nikolai and Tatiana.