Page 8 of Knot Happening

PIETRO

The crunchof snow underfoot was the only sound that punctuated the stillness of the Russian winter.The chill seemed to seep into my bones, a cold that no amount of threadbare clothing could shield me from.My mother's soft humming, a tune that had been passed down through generations, did little to warm the two rooms we called home.But it was a comfort, a small fire in the hearth of my heart.

"Pietro, moy malen'kiy voin," my mother would say, her voice a whisper against the howling wind outside.My little warrior, she called me, though I felt far from it.I was nearly fourteen years old, and the weight of the world was already etched into the lines of her face.

The week prior, we had buried my father.The mines had claimed him, as they had claimed so many others in our village.A cough that rattled like chains, a silence that fell like a shroud—it was a common story, one that left my mother and me to fend for ourselves.

"What now?"I asked, my voice small.

My mother's eyes, a mirror of my own, held a depth of sorrow that I was only beginning to understand."We survive," she replied, her voice steady.

I nodded, the truth settling heavily upon my shoulders.I was the man of the house now, a title far too large for my skinny frame.The resolve hardened within me, a determination to be strong for her, for us.

We lived in a dilapidated wooden izba; the wind whistling through the gaps in the walls.My mother worked long hours at the textile factory, her fingers always stained with dye, her back bent from toil.I did what I could to help, trapping rabbits in the snow-laden forest, bartering with the old babushkas at the market.

"Let's make dinner, Pietro," she would say when she returned, her smile more tired than the day before.We would sit at our small table, breaking bread and sharing stories of my father, keeping his memory alive between us.

I remember the way she taught me to speak properly, to shed the rough edges of our village dialect."Speak well, my angel," she would remind me.She believed that words were a bridge to a better life, one far removed from the poverty that clung to us like a second skin.

And so, I learned.I learned to speak with a precision that belied my upbringing.I learned to move with a confidence that made people look twice.I learned to navigate the world with a sharp mind and quick fists, a necessity in a place where weakness was preyed upon.

"When I grow up, I'll tell you, Mother, we will live a better life," I promised her one bitterly cold evening.

She kissed my forehead, her lips a fleeting warmth."I know, Pietro.You are my dove," she said, faith shining in her eyes.

The biting cold of the evening had just begun to seep through the cracks of our izba when the knock came.It was not the timid rap of a neighbor but a heavy, commanding pound that spoke of authority and demanded immediate attention.My mother's hand paused in the act of stirring our supper, her eyes meeting mine with a silent question.My heart thudded in my chest, a drumbeat of unease.

I followed her to the door, my frame rigid with anticipation.She opened it, and the frigid air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of leather and tobacco, undercut by the unmistakable musk of an alpha.The man who stood on our threshold was a stark contrast to the world I knew.His coat was fine, his boots polished to a shine that reflected the flickering light of our oil lamp.His eyes, a piercing blue, swept over our humble abode with an air of disdain.

"Hello, babushka," he greeted my mother with a mocking tone, his gaze lingering on her worn apron."And you, malchik," he turned to me, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer.

My alpha side flared to life, a primal response to the challenge in his presence.My scent, a potent blend of dark chocolate and coffee, filled the room, a declaration of my burgeoning dominance.The man's nostrils flared, and he threw his head back, laughing—a sound that grated against my senses.

"What's that, malchishka?"he taunted, stepping closer."You think you can stand against a wolf of the Bratva?"

My mother's hand came to rest on my shoulder, her touch a grounding force amidst the storm of my emotions.Her scent, lilac, and soap, enveloped me, and I drew it in, allowing it to soothe the rage within.I stepped back, my gaze never leaving the asshole’s smug face.

"Pietro," she said, her voice a whisper that only I could hear."Pokoy, moy syn."Peace, my son.

The smile faded as he regarded us with a cold, calculating stare."Your husband, he owed the Bratva a debt," he began, each word a nail driven into the silence."And now, it falls to you to repay it."

My mother's hand tightened on my shoulder, her body trembling ever so slightly."What can I do?"she asked, her voice steady despite the fear that lurked beneath the surface.

He shrugged, his expression one of indifference."You have three options: you can pay, perhaps I'll take this debt out on your body," he gave my mother a look up and down as he listed our options with a casual cruelty that made my blood boil."Or I can kill both of you."

I clenched my fists at my sides, the alpha within me straining against the chains of my self-control.But I remained silent, the weight of our predicament pressing down upon me.

"Ya dumayu," my mother said after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.I will think about it.

The alpha nodded, a smirk playing on his lips as he turned to leave."Don't take too long," he warned, his breath forming a cloud in the cold air.

nine

PIETRO

The frost clungto the air like a stubborn ghost, refusing to relinquish its grip on the city.I walked the streets with a singular purpose burning in my chest, my mother's whispered words a haunting echo in my mind."Perhaps I can run, so you don't have to be cold."

I had scoured the city for work, my pride swallowing the bitter taste of rejection as I was turned away time and again."It's nothing personal, mal'chik," they would say, their words laced with condescension.But the smirks on their faces told a different story, one where a kid's effort was nothing but a joke.

---