Page 29 of Inevitable Endings
My father… he never believed in the boy I was. The boy whoenjoyed quiet moments, who could lose himself in simple things like reading, or the feel of a paintbrush in his hand. He would look at me with those cold eyes of his, those calculating, hard eyes, and say that I would never be worthy of his legacy, of the empire he was building.
‘‘You are weak,’’ he’d tell me. ‘‘You are nothing like me.’’ His voice would echo in the cold, empty halls of our house. I remember feeling small under his gaze, like I could shrink into the floor and disappear. My father wasn’t a man who tolerated weakness. And he saw weakness in me. He saw a boy who wasn’t strong enough, who didn’t look the way a leader should.
The day my father decided he would ‘correct’ me, I was 9. It started slow. A few slaps, some harsh words, and then the days turned into weeks, and soon it became a constant thing. He would push me harder, demand more. His form of punishment was far from gentle, there was no belt. No, he liked to get creative. He would force me to stand for hours, locked in some confined space, and then make me perform physical tasks I wasn’t capable of. Sometimes, he would have his men hold me while he twisted my limbs just to see if I could endure it.
But it wasn’t just the physical pain. It was the mental torture. Every single day, he would tell me that I was weak, that I wasn’t worthy of his name. He pushed me to the brink, always asking, always demanding that I prove myself. And I hated him for it. I hated that I was constantly under his scrutiny, hated that he didn’t love me the way a father should. But I couldn’t escape it. There was nowhere to run. No one to help me.
I remember the day I realized that nothing I did would ever be enough for him. He made me stand in front of a mirror, my shirt off, and demanded that I look at myself. ‘‘Look at that body,’’ he said, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘‘Pathetic. A man should have strength. You are nothing more than a little boy pretending to be something you’re not.’’ His words cut through me like aknife, and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I didn’t dare let him see. Not then. Never then.
That day, he started making me run. Every morning before sunrise, I would run around the property until I could barely breathe. He watched, and when I faltered, when I slowed, he would make me do it again. And again. Until my legs felt like they would collapse beneath me. Until I was panting, my chest tight, my muscles burning.
By the time I was 15, I was no longer that pale, chubby little boy. I had transformed. The boy who had once cowered in fear now stood tall. I looked in the mirror and saw the man my father had wanted. I saw someone hardened by pain, someone who had endured and survived. My skin had darkened in the sun, my body had grown muscular and lean. The softness had been beaten out of me, along with the boy I used to be.
But by then, the boy had disappeared. There was nothing left of him.
I was just a boy when my father was murdered. There was no time to mourn him, hell I let him choke on his own blood and it bled him out. I had been thrust into the position of leader, of head of the Bratva, the same way a wolf is forced to lead a pack after killing its alpha.
The men who had once bowed before my father now bowed before me. And I ruled with an iron fist, just as he had taught me.
And like my father, I didn’t just tolerate weakness; I sought it. I used it. I hunted for any sign of fragility in the men around me, for cracks that could be exploited. I understood the pain of being pushed, the fear of being broken, and I used that understanding to make others bend to my will. I had been that boy once, broken and crushed by my father’s hand, and I would never allow myself to be that weak under anyone’s again.
The empire was mine, but it wasn’t born from some lofty sense of duty or pride. I didn’t care about it out of love, likemy father had. I cared for it because it was the only thing that filled the hollow ache inside me. The only thing that gave me purpose when everything else felt like nothing. The empire was my weight, my shield, my reason to wake up every day. Because the void in me? It gnawed. It never stopped. It needed to be fed.
I was no longer that pale, chubby boy. I had changed, transformed, through pain and relentless force. By the time I was 19, I started to cover my body with tattoos. A serpent with fangs across my forearm, winding up to my elbow, a mark of strength, a symbol of how I saw myself now: predatory, ruthless. Slavic symbols etched into my skin, the marks of my heritage, of my unrelenting desire to claim what was mine, what was rightfully owed to me. I wasn’t just a man now. I was a weapon.
I was the image of fear, towering over everyone, my muscles thick and hard like stone. The boy I had been was dead.
Dead to the outside world. But sometimes, in the dead of night, when the silence pressed too heavy and the blood on my hands felt too warm, I swore I could still hear him—whimpering beneath my skin, begging me to let him live.
But I couldn’t.
I was tall. I was imposing. But more than that; I was dangerous. My tattoos were more than decoration; they were a map of who I had become, a living testament to the things I had done to survive. Every inch of my body, every scar, every symbol was proof of the fact that I had clawed my way to the top and kept my spot with blood-stained hands.
People feared me. Not because I wanted them to, but because I made them. I’d learned how to break them, anyone who stood in my way. I could see their fear, feel their weakness, and I knew how to use it to bend them to my will. The empire wasn’t just about power, it was about control. And I had control over everything. Even myself, in a way.
But I wasn’t fool enough to think it was enough to just build anempire. I knew, deep down, that I could never fill the emptiness that had been carved into me all those years ago. So, I took what I could. I ruled with the same coldness that had been taught to me, with the same brutality that had been instilled in me. And when I looked at myself in the mirror now, all I saw was a man who had learned to wear his scars like armor.
Dominik, my cousin, was the only one who could truly see me. He understood that part of me, the part I didn’t show to anyone else. He understood the weight I carried on my shoulders. When I took over, he was there. He was loyal, always there, even when the rest of the world feared me. He never questioned my decisions.
The loss of my sister and mother, there was never any closure. I never found their bodies, never had a chance to bury them. They were gone, erased from my life. And sometimes, when I lay in bed at night, I could still feel the ache in my chest, that empty space where they should have been. But they were gone, and all I had left was the empire, the men who served me, and the blood that bound them to me.
I blackmailed, murdered, kidnapped, and worse. I did whatever it took to get what I wanted. The underworld bent to my will, each move calculated, each death inevitable. I didn’t need to ask for loyalty; I demanded it. I didn’t just earn my power, I took it by force, and I made sure everyone knew it.
Men with connections, families with influence; they all crumbled beneath me. I made examples out of them, taking what was most precious to each one and watching them break. Money, power, control—they were all tools, but fear... fear was the real weapon. And I wielded it like a master.
I was colder than my father ever was. He had built his empire with brutality, but I had perfected it. Where he relied on terror, I made sure every single person knew they had no choice but to bow. They either feared me, or they feared what would happen ifthey didn’t.
I became a more feared man than he ever was, a name whispered in corners and dreaded across borders-Diable, the Devil in Russia. People didn’t speak of me like they did my father; with some level of respect. They spoke of me in hushed tones, terrified of what I might do if I ever turned my attention to them. My reputation wasn’t one of legacy, it was one of complete annihilation.
Every life I took, every enemy I crushed, made me more powerful, more ruthless. The empire grew under my rule, and with it, my legend. No one was untouchable. No one was safe.
The fear that had once consumed me, that had been my constant companion in the shadows of my father’s violence, was now the thing I controlled. I had become the monster I was born to be, and it had made me stronger, harder, more unstoppable than anyone could have ever imagined.
I didn’t need to prove myself anymore. My actions had already spoken for me. Now, I only had one rule: Never show weakness. Never let anyone see the boy who had once been weak, who had once been nothing but a scared little child trying to survive. That boy was long dead. In his place was a king, a ruler of an empire that would never bow to anyone.
Until her.
When she looks at me I feel him again – that boy. She is that boy, but embodied differently. Embodied beautifully, with long wavy red hair and deep brown eyes.
