Page 30 of Used By the Merciless Bratva
“I’m sure you would have cussed him out if you could,” he remarked, bumping his arms against mine.
I chuckled. “I don’t think I knew any curse words then. I was thirteen.”
His left arm came around my shoulders as he pulled me in. “Nobody should have to experience that. Not at thirteen.”
Another sigh left my lips before he removed his arms from around me.
“I thought the memory was hell until I got myself into this sick situation. Now I’m getting married to my dad’s murderer because some people are looking to kill me for some possession I didn’t know existed until last week. This is the real hell.”
“I understand how it all looks right now. It’s crazy, I get it,” he said, clasping his fingers on his lap. “There’s something my aunt used to tell me when I was much younger, and I would go on and on about how much I hated being born into a world ofcrime. She said, ‘Don’t look at your situation like it was dumped on you. See it as something you went to buy at the store yourself. The less control you think you have over something, the bigger a problem it appears to be, and the harder it is to solve.’”
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can control in this situation.”
“There are a lot. Your perception of the boss. Your wedding dress and choice of appearance. Your mood.”
Half-rolling my eyes, I answered, “Easier said than done.”
“It all starts with telling yourself you’re not drowning. Then your hands will move to start swimming.”
“Poetic much?” I teased.
He smiled.
His phone’s ringtone filtered through the brief silence. Looking down at the screen, he ended the call.
“Girlfriend troubles?” I inquired.
“Nah. Just someone who had a taste and can’t help wanting more,” he revealed, winking.
“Ugh,” I uttered, playfully cringing. “She clearly has the worst taste.”
“Stop playing, baby.”
I giggled. “Being a Mafia soldier obviously has nothing on your charms,” I stated. “Did you grow up in all of this?”
“My dad was a Mafia affiliate. You know, not attached to any Mafia but offering information and services to them as required. He was killed by some of his fellow affiliates. The Yezhov Bratva didn’t let his death go in vain. They stood up to avenge him. They killed the four colleagues who conspired to kill him. I was still in high school then, but I made up my mind to join them after school. So I spoke with Sir Konstantin after graduation, and well, here I am.”
“Sorry about your dad.”
“It’s fine. Every sane person in this line of work is always prepared for death; they know it could happen at any time.”
“My mom used to say the same thing.”
“Where is she?”
“Dead,” I replied. “She was severely depressed after my dad died. She couldn’t deal with his loss—couldn’t stay, not even for me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “What about yours?”
“She remarried. Never liked my dad’s job. She’s now based in Denmark. We talk once or twice a year.”
I would give anything to be able to speak to my parents, either of them, once a year. My foster parents were perfect, but they couldn’t fill the void my parents’ absence left—a fact that used to make me feel like a bad person.
It wasn’t until I learned that missing my real parents didn’t make me ungrateful for my foster parents that I started allowing myself to think of how much I missed them at times.
“Well, the food is now cold. What do you think of ice cream and a variety of snacks while we talk about anything but our mostly dead parents?”
