Page 59 of Vows in Violence

The bat was so heavy in my hands. I was just a child. But I took a deep breath and walked up to the man, who was gagged and bound. His eyes were pleading, and I was glad my father could not see my face. I pitied the man before me. We were both trapped in circumstances beyond our control. Even if I wanted to spare this man, I couldn’t.

I raised the bat to strike. The man closed his eyes, flinching. His fear was palpable, a tangible thing that filled the air around us.

“Wait!” Maxim called out, jogging forward. He ripped the gag from the man’s mouth.

“You need to get used to their pleading,” Papasha said. His tone was almost instructional, as if this were a lesson in a classroom rather than a brutal execution.

And the man pleaded. He pleaded for his life, for his children who would miss him, for his elderly mother. He begged for another chance, for forgiveness. He swore loyalty. He admitted he made a mistake. His voice cracked and broke, the sound of a man pushed to the edge of despair.

I swung the bat. It was heavy, and I was still small. It barely did any damage, but it caused pain. Blood was already trickling down his face. I swung again. The man screamed. He pleaded over and over again. His cries echoed in the container, a haunting symphony of suffering. I wanted to end his misery; I wanted it to be over, but I was not strong enough. I could not move the bat fast enough or powerfully enough.

His death took a long time to complete. By the time I was done, the man’s face was ruined, his neck riddled with holes, and a trickle of blood flowed down his chest, pooling on the floor in a morbid testament to my actions. The bat, now slick with blood, felt impossibly heavy in my hands. I dropped it, the sound of it clattering against the concrete floor and echoing in the container. My breath came fast and hard; each gasp a desperate attempt to steady myself. Adrenaline coursed through me, and Ifelt a tingling at my fingertips. Without my control, tears formed at the corners of my eyes. Regret? Not quite. Pity? Maybe. It was something I could not comprehend, could not explain.

That man is dead. I did it.

The realization hit me like a freight train. The weight of my actions pressed down on me, suffocating and relentless. I turned to my father, expecting some sort of praise, a nod of approval, anything to validate the monstrous act I had just committed. Instead, Maxim’s expression was one of cold disappointment.

Before I could react, he stepped forward and slapped me across the face. The sting was immediate, a sharp contrast to the numbness that had settled over me. I staggered back, more from shock than the force of the blow.

“If I wanted tears, I would stay home with the women,” he snapped, his voice a whip lashing out at me. His words cut deeper than any wound, stripping away any illusion of sympathy or understanding. The men around us exchanged knowing looks, their expressions a mix of indifference and approval. In their eyes, I saw the hard reality of the world I was being thrust into.

I bit back the tears, forcing them to retreat. Crying was not an option here; it was a sign of weakness, and weakness was unforgivable. I straightened up, lifting my chin slightly, trying to mirror the hardened resolve I saw in my father.

Maxim’s gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, his eyes hard and unyielding. “This is the life you are a part of now, Ivan.Remember that. There is no room for softness, no place for mercy. We are warriors, and warriors do not weep.”

His words were a harsh lesson, one that I knew would stay with me forever. I’ve come to understand, as an adult, that In this world, emotions are a luxury we cannot afford. Compassion is a weakness that can be exploited, and mercy is a folly that can lead to downfall.

I nodded, the movement small but resolute, a silent acknowledgment of the lesson imparted.

The men dispersed, their business with the dead man concluded. My father’s hand rested briefly on my shoulder, a gesture that was both a warning and a form of twisted encouragement. Then he turned and walked away, expecting me to follow.

As I stepped out of the container, the cold night air hit me, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. I could still smell the blood, still hear the man’s desperate pleas echoing in my mind. But I pushed it all down, locking it away in the deepest recesses of my consciousness. There would be time to confront these demons later, if ever.

For now, I followed my father, each step a reaffirmation of the path I have been set on. The path of blood, of power, of ruthless survival. The path that would define who I was and what I would become.

In the silence of the night, as the stars bore silent witness, I made a vow to myself. I would learn, I would adapt, and I wouldsurvive. I would become what my father expected of me. No tears, no weakness. Only strength, only resolve.

This is my world now.

The memory stings as the cars turn into the governor’s drive at the Valachi mansion. I grip Vivi’s hand and pull her in, kissing her forehead.

Vivi was never supposed to take on the burden of being a monster like me. She did it to save me. Despite her gentle nature, she killed someone. I will spend a lifetime making that up to her.

We get out of the cars and head inside the house. My hand grips Vivi’s tightly, reluctant to let her leave my side.

Lulu steps forward, a reassuring smile on her face. “I promise that she will come back to you as soon as you are done,” she says.

“Her coming back doesn’t depend on your promise,” I reply, my voice firm. “If you break it, I will still get her back.”

Vivi is usually quick to correct me when I’m cynical, but she doesn’t say anything this time. Lulu takes her under her arm, and the two head down a hallway further into the house. I watch her go, a knot of anxiety tightening in my chest.

“Come, Romanov. You are going to want to see this,” Damon says, breaking me out of my thoughts.

He leads me to a door that opens to basement steps. Unlike the basement of my house, my former house, this basement is fully and tastefully furnished. The furniture matches the paint on the walls and ceiling perfectly. There is even art down here. My father, Maxim, kept a simple, plain house. The extravagance irritates me.

We walk through a carpeted corridor until Damon pauses at a door. The soft texture beneath my feet only heightens my irritation. “This is precisely what we need after a day like today,” he says, opening the door to reveal a spa that looks like it was built in the 1940s. Red and white tiles decorate the room, a throwback to another era. The tiles glisten under the soft light, creating an almost surreal ambiance. But in the basin of the tub sits a man tied to a chair.

A sudden flashback hits me: the man in the shipping container, the fear in his eyes, the weight of the bat in my hands. I force the memory back, burying it deep where it belongs.

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