Page 3 of Brutal Reign
I’ll never see her alive again.
“Hey, pretty boy.”
A mocking voice cuts through my thoughts.
Three young men—teenagers, really, with the hollow eyes and desperate swagger of kids who have nothing to lose—circle my bench.
“You lost or something?” The tallest boy can’t be more than seventeen, with a baby face at odds with his shaved head and the crude Swastika tattoo inked on the side of his neck. “This ain’t exactly tourist territory.”
I barely look up from the candle’s flame. “Walk away. I’m not in the mood.”
“‘Walk away,’” one of them mocks in a high-pitched voice. “Did you hear that? Rich boy wants us to leave him alone.”
They’re cataloging everything about me: the Patek Philippe on my wrist, the custom wool coat, the Italian leather shoes thatprobably cost more than their families make in six months. They have no idea this is the same neighborhood where I once fought for every scrap.
“That’s a nice watch,” the leader says, pulling a cheap switchblade from his pocket. “Why don’t you hand it over? Save yourself some trouble.”
“I’m going to say this once,” I say, my voice dropping to a low growl that carries more menace than any shout. “Walk away. Right now. Because if you make me stand up from this bench, what happens next is going to be very fucking unpleasant for you.”
They laugh, fanning out around me.
I sigh, disappointed. I didn’t come here for this. I didn't want blood on my hands today, not on her birthday. But they’ve made their choice.
One of them kicks at the cupcake, sending it tumbling off the bench. The candle goes out, the flame dying in the dirt.
Well. Fuck.
Rolling my shoulders, I rise slowly to my full height of six-four. The kids take an involuntary step back, finally realizing that the rich boy they thought was easy prey towers over all of them.
“Oh, shit,” one of them whispers.
The leader tries to save face, brandishing his knife with unsteady hands. “Back off, asshole. We want the watch.”
“You really should have listened the first time.”
The leader rushes me with his blade raised high. It’s sloppy and desperate, the kind of attack that gets you killed in my world. I catch his wrist mid-swing, apply pressure until I hear bones crack, and watch the knife clatter away as he screams.
The second tries to tackle me from behind. I duck low, use his momentum to flip him over my shoulder, and listen to himhit the concrete with a thud that suggests he won’t be getting up anytime soon.
The third, to his credit, doesn’t run. He comes at me with everything he has, slashing wildly with his switchblade. I sidestep easily, seize his knife hand, and drive my knee into his gut. The air leaves him in a strangled wheeze as he crumples to the ground, struggling for breath.
Thirty seconds total. They’re all on the ground, groaning and battered, their weapons scattered like fallen leaves. I haven’t even broken a sweat.
Standing over them, I roll up my left sleeve, exposing the black ink etched into my forearm: a hollow-eyed wolf's head. Most people wouldn't recognize the symbol, but these street rats grew up in Moscow's underbelly. They know exactly what it means.
The closest one’s eyes go wide, all the color draining from his bruised face. “Shit,” he whispers, scrambling backward. “He’s part of the Belov Syndicate.”
His friends catch on quickly, fear replacing any lingering bravado as they realize they tried to mug one of the leaders of Moscow's most powerful bratva. I’ve come a long way from my days with the Kuznetsov Gang, rising through the ranks of the Syndicate, an organization built on ruthlessness and brutality.
I straighten my coat and look down at them with something approaching pity. “Next time someone tells you to walk away, you should listen.”
They scramble to their feet like beaten dogs, limping and cursing as they disappear into the maze of crumbling apartment buildings. Cowards, all of them. Big talk until they meet someone who can actually fight back.
I turn back to survey the damage they’ve caused. The cupcake lies in pieces on the dirty concrete, frosting mixed with grimeand cigarette butts. I pick it up carefully, trying to brush off the worst of the filth, but it’s ruined.
I throw the destroyed cupcake into the nearest trash bin.
I’ll come back tomorrow with a fresh one, maybe bring some bread to feed the ducks like we used to do. Kamilla would like that better anyway.
