Page 32 of Bratva King's Secret Twins

“Come on now, Nikolai, I’ve taught you better than this,” he scolds, narrowing his eyes at the hammer I have dangling between my fingertips. “Maybe you should have Aleksandr come; at least his ways of torture are creative.”

“Trust me, Papa, we are only getting started,” I counter between gritted teeth, my voice low and simmering with barely contained rage. “I was thinking of carving that stupid smile into your face. How does that sound?”

Despite every conscious fiber of my being screaming that I am in control, there’s a part of me—a dark, vicious part—that feels like a caged animal, one rude remark away from tearing my father’s chest open and ripping out his still-beating heart.

It has taken years of self-control and patience to learn how to contain this beast within me. The countless nights spent honing my mind, restraining my impulses, mastering the art of control. I’ve walked the razor’s edge, balancing between the man I strive to be and the monster lurking in my blood. Because there is nothing worse than a mad king, a ruler so consumed by his own rage that he is willing to sacrifice every man who dares look at him the wrong way.

Boris’s laughter grates against my nerves, a sound that seems to mock my every effort to remain composed.

“Now that’s the spirit, Nikolai,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension. “Show me that fire. Show me you’re not the weakling. Be my bastard of a son.”

“I am nothing like you,” I snarl, my grip on the hammer tightening until my knuckles turn white. “You’ve built an empire on people who would rather betray you than stand in the pits of hell alongside you. I am better than you. My people would die for me.”

Boris’s eyes flash with anger, but the twisted smile never leaves his face. “And yet here you are, Nikolai, standing in the pits of hell with me. What does that make you?”

I throw myself at Boris, my nails digging into the flesh of his cheeks as I grip his jaw, placing the hammer on his chin. I know I fucked up when I see the light in his eyes, as if he recognizes this version of me as kin.

“Ahh, there you are. A Mafia King who is willing to kill.” Boris chuckles, adjusting himself in his chains as if this is a Sunday afternoon and he is getting comfortable on the couch. “Maybe a lesson or two did get through that thick skull.”

I push air through my nostrils and push myself off the madman. My laugh is humorless, making my way to the weapons adorning the table and evaluating which knife would cut the slowest out of the bunch. I would have to scold myself later for that outburst. No one man should make me this violent. My breathing steadies as I run my finger along the edge of a machete, and I respond.

“If I listened to all your lessons, I would have killed my wife in cold blood and then cut up her body and sent them to my children. Seems like you’re a fucked up teacher to me.”

“Ahh, you see, you were always a terrible student.”

I peek at him over my shoulder, unwilling to show him how eager I am to still learn from the infamous Boris Petrov, once called the Demon of New York.

“If you were a better student, you would see the lesson was in loyalty and what to do to those whose loyalty falters.”

My jaws click as I run my teeth together and turn my attention back to my examination of torture tools. I run my fingers over a scalpel, and I turn to look at him over my shoulder, “How does a scalpel sound?”

He clicks his head to the side and gives me that toothy smile I fucking hate. “Splendid.”

“You were always so caught up in lessons that you never knew where you faltered.” I spin the scalpel across my knuckles and smile in that toothy way that makes others think we are blood-related. I wag the sharp end of the scalpel at him as if he is a naughty child and continue, “Because let’s make one thing clear: you are a failure.”

His face smooths out to the scowl I got accustomed to in my childhood, the wrinkle between his brows, his eyes hardened, and his lips plastered into a straight line. This makes me laugh in a way that isn’t to show that I can match his madness. No, this laugh is pure pleasure that I’ve hit a nerve.

“You see, I did learn from you because I know all about loyalty,” I say, taking a dancer’s step closer to him as if we are doing a psychotic version of the tango. “I learned loyalty to the Mafia. Loyalty to your followers. Loyalty to the grunt worker who may see a thing or two he wasn’t supposed to.” I allow the mask of my control to slip ever so slightly so that family resemblance really gets under his skin.

I drop my voice down to a whisper, “But what about loyalty to family, huh? What about loyalty to the ones you supposedly love?”

I mock him, tapping the knife to the apples of his cheeks that are already swelling from earlier activities, but he doesn’t give me the satisfaction of a flinch.

“You see, that’s where you fall short because those people could be the end of you. That’s a lesson you should have learned, or do I need to teach you again?”

Boris’s eyes flash with something—anger, perhaps, or amusement but he shakes his chains as if he could break free like the Hulk, and I step back, clicking my tongue. “Don’t be mad at me that you don’t follow your lessons.”

“A lesson in love,” he spits. “Love is a weakness. I taught you that too, didn’t I? I showed you what happens when the facade of love clouds you. You leave yourself open to be taken for a fool. You then have to let your bastard run the Mafia you built from ashes just to save face, or if given the chance, you have to kill him too, just like his whore of a mother.”

My nostrils flare, but I maintain composure. “Funny. You wish you could kill me so you don’t have to look into the eyes of the man who actually loved my mother,” I taunt, gripping the scalpel's handle so tightly my knuckles turn white.

“What are you ashamed of, Boris? That when she got tired of your shit, she found someone else? Someone worthy. Someone who wasn’t a limp dick piece of shit.”

Boris’s face darkens, his bloody smile fading for a moment.

“Your mother was a weak whore who lived her life thinking about the next nut she could get,” he says with a look of excitement on his face as if he hasn’t said something just as cruel thousands of times.

“She betrayed the Mafia and paid for it with her life, and I will make sure she never rests in peace so that I can torment her little betrayals until my last breath.”

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