Page 14 of Trapping His Darling

The time I spent in the basement with my mother showed me there was more to this world than violence and death. After Leo had raped me, and my father had brutally whipped me for the violation, I had been banished to the basement. In the depths of darkness, my mother tended to me as best she could, a beacon of love and compassion in our cruel world. Hidden away in that subterranean sanctuary, we forged an unbreakable bond. She read to me from the forbidden books, her soothing voice a balm to my soul. Her gentle hands bathed me, and her melodic songs filled the air, as we carved out moments of tenderness amidst thechaos. We sketched our dreams, and dealt cards in the shadows, creating our own world.

After two bittersweet weeks, my father recognized that his punishment had backfired, and he compelled me to return to the heart of our twisted existence, once again forbidding me from seeing her. But I couldn’t heed his command. Every opportunity I had, I slipped back down to that secret haven.

My mother’s sweetness was a stark contrast to my father’s cruelty, a mystery I couldn’t unravel. When I dared to question her about her confinement, she remained silent, her haunted gaze speaking volumes.

“Viktor,” Alexie’s voice pierced through my memories as he entered my room, shattering the fragile sanctuary I had found in my mother’s embrace. “It’s time.”

Alexie, adorned in a sleek, tailored suit, made his entrance at the ceremony, thePYahe’d wielded to silence his own mother snugly holstered beneath his arm. It was a chilling testament to his newfound prominence within our twisted family, marking him as the undeniable heir. He had not only fulfilled his mandated kill, but had added another dark trophy to his sinister collection. My father’s pride in him knew no bounds.

Like Alexie before me, I donned the ominous purple robe, and adjusted the mask concealing my identity. “What if I can’t go through with it?” I murmured, my voice trembling with uncertainty.

Alexie’s response was a derisive snort. “You don’t get a choice in this matter. If you have to close your eyes to carry it out, then do just that. Once it’s done, you can cast off the mask and claim your mantle as a man.”

“I don’t want to become a man,” I confessed, my words barely audible.

“You must learn to control your emotions,” Alexie growled with steely determination. “Believe me when I tell you, this actwill be a mercy for your mother. A swift death is a far better fate than whatever torment Father inflicts upon her in that wretched basement.”

Deep down, I knew he spoke the truth. My mother was wasting away down there, her vitality dwindling with each passing day, even if not physically. It was as if she was slowly fading in every other sense.

No child had ever faltered in this gruesome test, but then again, none of them had the connection I shared with my mother. The other women in the family were cold and aloof, as if they had never cared for their offspring. Child-rearing was an obligation left to the nannies, while these women enjoyed all the luxuries that the Bratva’s wealth could offer. They lived each day as if it were their last, oblivious to the darkness that clung to their opulent lives.

In a twisted sense, it was a form of premeditated death they embraced, knowing that their demise wouldn’t come by natural means, and could strike at any moment; a macabre trade-off, sacrificing life itself for a decade or two of opulent luxury.

But my mother was an exception. All I knew was that she had somehow provoked my father’s anger, and was enduring a relentless imprisonment in the basement for as long as my memory reached.

“Just stay calm,” Alexie urged, leading me into the dimly lit hallway. “They have meticulously prepared you for this very moment. Do you grasp why we must follow this path?”

I shook my head in dissent. “Couldn’t we all just be a happy family instead?”

Alexie’s response was measured and devoid of emotion. “Not after Anya.”

“Who’s Anya?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“She was one of our ancestors’ wives who betrayed the family, sparking an all-out war,” Alexie explained with an almostrobotic tone, as if reciting a well-practiced mantra. “Women are a distraction, the potential enemy within our ranks. In the world of the Bratva, the family is all that truly matters.”

Was this the dark legacy of being the heir? Inducted into a chilling world of indoctrination? I wanted no part of this.

Descending into the parking garage, we emerged into the cold, unforgiving night, ignoring the surrounding vehicles. “Pull your hood up,” Alexie instructed, his voice cutting through the darkness.

The flickering torches illuminated the path ahead, casting eerie shadows. Alexie accompanied me, even though during his own ceremony, he had arrived unaccompanied.

I suspected my father had sent Alexie to fetch me, fearing I wouldn’t accept my part. Ever since the events of last year, our treatment within the family had shifted, and the dynamics had grown colder and more treacherous.

The ceremony unfolded within a massive, inconspicuous building concealed behind the family’s mansion. Until Alexie’s own initiation, I had believed it to be a nondescript concrete warehouse, housing my father’s extravagant collection of cars and boats. How mistaken I had been.

Our family crest gleamed proudly above the entrance, the same symbol that adorned my father’s flesh, etched as a tattoo. EveryPakhanbore such a mark somewhere on their body, whether by choice or under duress.

With the imposing doors now ajar, we stepped inside, venturing further into the depths of darkness.

I set foot upon the unforgiving concrete, a surface forever tainted by the bloodshed that had soaked into it over the years. No amount of soap or water could ever cleanse the stains left by the relentless carnage this building had borne witness to. In the dim, wavering light of lanterns, the tools of death lurked in theshadows, some relics as ancient and brutal as the inquisition’s instruments of torment.

Instead of the confident stride of an executioner, my legs quivered as if I were being led to my execution. I clenched my fists, attempting to still the trembling. In the recesses of my mind, I conjured my mother’s smile and the soothing cadence of her voice, which had once sung me to sleep.

And then, without warning, I ran out of time. There was no turning back now. I stood before my father, his ostentatious attire setting him apart from the others in the room.

My brother donned the ritualistic garb to match the attire of the assembled attendees.

Cloaked in their black robes, the Bratva’s made men encircled us, their faces hidden from view. They were the sole invitees to this macabre ceremony. Although I couldn’t see their expressions, I sensed their collective gaze, filled with expectation and perhaps even derision, anticipating my failure.

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