Page 2 of Merciless Queen

I shove into him again, gritting my teeth as I glare at my eldest remaining family member. “Let me go, Ivan.” Without theunclemoniker, there is no recognition of the relation between us, setting us apart.

His eyes narrow right before he’s yanked off me, his handprint still a ghostly pressure against my throat, as a figure pushes between us. The only man in this family who actually gives two fucks about me.

My cousin shoves his father back another step, becoming a rigid wall between me and him. “Back the fuck off her,Otets.” The Russian term forFather.

My uncle sneers at his son, jerking his chin and straightening his unbuttoned suit jacket. “Dimitri, move out of the way. She has shit to account for. Such as,where my brotherisand why he isn’t answering his phone.”

Dimitri goes to raise his hand, but the pointless showdown is annoying. This has to be said anyway, so I nudge around my cousin, positioning myself between them. After a long look to Dimitri and a shake of my head, instructing him to back downand that I’m fine, I face Ivan to admit the words that’ll change my life. Change all our lives.

“Papa’s dead. Erico Rossi shot him.”

Ivan’s responding curses are enough to shake the mansion. A mixture of Russian and English slurs fill my bedroom, but I tune them out as he stalks to my window and back, his heavy steps thundering over the thick carpeting.

Dimitri grasps my upper arms to force me around and face him. His worried expression searches mine, presumably for the grief I’m too numb to truly feel. “Vanessa, I’m sorry.” He glances at his father who’s now rapidly typing on his cell phone, mumbling threats before murmuring, “Areyouokay? Considering what he did, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t feel…” He trails off, which I know is partly due to the company we’re around, but I can fill in the blank.Sad.

The question isn’t surprising because Dimitri knows all about me. Knows all, seen much of it, and even understands the confusion I could be feeling right now, and as usual, he’s correct. For Dimitri, the question’s sweet, and one few others would get from him. Most of our lives, it was only him and me. Since his father moved into our mansion shortly after Dimitri’s mother ran off, deciding it was simpler for my father’s only Spy, rather than the two there would normally be, to be near his Pakhan. As such, Dimitri and I spent a lot of time together, except for when I was off attending a private secondary school for a few years, or later, the frequent instances he was dragged away for training. While I, awoman, was being coached for a different role. Dimitri would be a soldier and eventual leader and I was slated to be someone’s wife.

That didn’t distance us though. If anything, it brought us together. Whatever Dimitri’s training consisted of, I’ve gathered it’s not good. He and his father have had a rough relationship for as long as I can remember, and a distaste is always heavilypresent when he’s faced with his father, like now. My cousin and I have shared every gritty, horrible detail of the verbal and emotional abuse we both survive—except one.

One that I’ve long guessed is linked to his father and what constantly has him travelling to Canada, but no matter how many times I’ve asked, Dimitri will not reveal the precise reason behind his hatred.

My hatred for my own father was a combination of everything Papa’s forced me to be, everything he’s disallowed me from being, and everything he’s chosen for me, right down to my friendships. Dimitri has witnessed the small moments of physical abuse Papa sent my way: the shoves and rough nudges, and the emotional abuse when he’s controlling my clothing choices and teaching me the concepts of utilizing my body as a weapon since a gun was out of the question.

That might have been my father’s plan, mind you, but I had my own. Whenever Dimitri is in Russia and isn’t travelling, he’s been helping me. Training me to fight in both hand-to-hand combat and weapons, though we’ve barely scratched the surface of those. Neither of our fathers are aware because either, or possibly both, would lose their ever-living minds if they knewa womanwas claiming a bit of control over herself and her body. Heaven forbid.

“Da,”I finally answer Dimitri’s inquisition about my wellbeing in a low whisper, gaze darting toward his father to ensure Ivan isn’t listening. “Better than I should be, all things considered.”

Dimitri reaches for my chin, angling my face up to better inspect my claim. “Any injuries?”

I shake my head.

Ivan stalks toward our side, his hands a bustle of motion and emotion as he shoves his son toward the doorway. “The organization must be informed. Someone must claim controlof the Bratva before anyone outside leadership learns of this tremendous loss. We must act now,syn, let us go.”

While he tries to shoulder his son away, Dimitri stands firm, practically shoving his father through my door alone but not following. “Net.I’ll be there soon. I’m staying with Vanessa for now.”

Without sparing a glance toward me, my uncle sneers, his wrinkled skin rippling along the edges of his face. “A man is dead, Dimitri. The Bratva will be moving into new leadership. Come.”

Which means himself.

Papa might have been azasranets—an asshole—but he’s been running the Bratva since he was twenty-one and his own father met an early death. Papa made the current Bratva what it is. The weapons we control. The drugs we create, even those new and experimental and not yet popular on the markets. The clubs, bars, restaurants, and girls—it’s all him.

It should bemine.No one else’s.

Papa and I always had similar planned outcomes for my future and the Bratva, but the way in which the goals were achieved varied. For him, marriage to a suitable man would get the Bratva handed to my husband. But without a man’s ring on my left hand, I’d never claim that control alone. Too bad for both my future husband and father, I’m determined to have a partnership with him rather than a dictatorship over me.

This ismyfamily.Mybloodline.

All mine.

And Ivan, no doubt, is about to steal it for himself. It’s right there. In the gleam of impatience in his eyes as he waves Dimitri to follow, his eagerness to claim power. To announce to the entire organization that while my father may be dead, the Bratva lives on.

It does. Through the Volkov name—me, and not my uncle.

“I’ll be five minutes.” Dimitri decides with finality. He stares at his father until the older man backs down, whatever age-old dislike between these two physically festering in the single glare. His father concedes with another scowl and he walks out, slamming my bedroom door shut.

The moment it’s closed, I fall into my cousin’s arms. He’s one of two people to ever witness me reveal true emotions. Tears tread from my eyes, but they’re from shock more than grief. I wipe my face against Dimitri’s shirt and breathe in his familiar scent, using it to calm me.

Dimitri’s large hand palms the back of my head, petting my hair as he makes murmured noises. “I’m so sorry, Vanessa.”

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