Page 1 of Deadly Knight
18 Years Old
Free choice isa concept we sell ourselves; it isn’t real. Never has been and never will be.
Free choice means not being bred into a family of monsters—a world and lifestyle that would be otherwise enjoyable if not for the people running it.
If only the hatred I feel over my own life came from noble reasons, such as having bigger and better plans, and doing what’s expected of me counters them. But it’d be a lie.
There is no other path for me.
While I’m not yet a fully sworn-in member of the Bratva—meaning, although inducted, I haven’t taken my vows yet—I’m already ahead of where I’m expected to be. Uncle Ursin, the Pakhan of the Bratva, claims I’m a natural at completing the assigned tasks. Those compliments thrill Papa more than me, though, because the blood staining my hands afterwards tells a different story.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
The notion of embracing my legacy, rising through the ranks and surpassing everyone, brings a sense of pride. When my cousin, Vanessa, weds, and Ursin eventually retires or dies, her husband will take the position of the next Pakhan. With enough work, I can become his second, like Papa is Ursin’s.
I suppose I’m torn because becoming a Bratva soldier takes time away from what matters most. Fromwhomatters most.
Thatwhois currently beaming as I park in front of her modest, three-bedroom house, nestled in the heart of one of Moscow’s oldest and finest neighbourhoods. Nothing else would be fitting for the family who calls it home, nor for the girl who skips down the short path and reaches me by the time I get out of the car.
Katya.
My everything.
She throws her arms around my neck, nestling her face into me. I embrace her, drinking in her faint scent of citrus and sunshine. And like the massive star above, she never fails to warm me.
I pull back to cup her cheek, my thumb tracing her cheekbone, never able to resist exploring her. I’ve been addicted to touching Katya since the moment she allowed me to.
Allowed.It goes back to the concept of free choice. She’s consenting to someone like me—someone who endures the criminal underbelly of life and who’s soon to be a full-fledged criminal in every sense of the word—tainting someone as pure as her.
Papa believes I’ve been putting Katya on a pedestal ever since meeting her four years ago. Even then, she had a siren call I was unable to tune out. She was light and peace—everything I wasn’t then and continue to not be. Everything that calls to the darkness within, which begs for a reprieve.
Being from a regular, civilian family, she’s everything normal. Her mother’s a dentist, and her father is a car salesman. They’ve lived in this very house since before she was born. Katya’s a straight-A student who almost never skips class and always hands in her assignments on time. She works part-time at an ice cream parlour—one I visit frequently just to spend every waking second I can with her.
We shouldn’t work the way we do. While she deals ice cream to innocents, I deal drugs. While she learns to regulate her emotions, I unleash mine on the Bratva’s enemies. While she completes her homework by putting in the work herself, I pay to have mine done because Papa insists I attend one meeting or another, so I don’t have the time to do it.
Something brought us together. Fate, perhaps. Whatever bullshit excuse the universe had, it made her mine. And that means the universe can never take her back.
Three and a half years later, I live and breathe for Katya. For her smiles, her expressions, her very soul. For every breath she takes, I inhale one too, my heartbeat aligned with hers because we’ve been so fused together.
So, it’s not a pedestal I’ve placed her on, like Papa assumes. It’s simply my reality. She’s better than me and always will be. Katya is made to unleash goodness and peace into the world, while I bring death and destruction. It’s my only future. My only path.
Yet for every reason I should let her go to keep her untainted, I don’t.
Can’t.
I’m selfish that way.
“Thinking hard up there?” Katya brushes a thumb along the crease between my eyes, her movement drawing my attention to the dark-green ribbon tied around her wrist.
Two years ago, I jokingly wrapped it around her wrist during our art class. She was focused on the assignment, but I was entirely focused on her. The way her tongue peeked between her lips as she hot-glued craft supplies together. The way she continued waving me away with giggles so she could focus.
“Until I can replace it with a diamond one,”I told her.
She stopped what she was doing and turned to me, her gaze heavy with buried emotion. With a firm shake of her head, she said,“I’ll never need diamonds. I’ll love anything you give me.”
From then on, the stupid ribbon’s been permanently affixed to her wrist.
Like our entire relationship. She deserves so much better, yet I keep hanging on.
