Page 14 of If You Go
He hands me the phone and the video begins to play. I assume it’s Gavin’s face that fills the screen initially, smug, sharp, alive with malice. Behind him sits Serge Romanov, bound, gagged, bloody. Natasha—his daughter—on her knees. My gut sinks into the floor at seeing her.
Serge Romanov. I’d met the man before. We’d done a few renovations for him over the years—one of those off-the-books projects where money was no object and discretion was everything. He was Bratva, the head of the Russians in Seattle,and everyone knew it. Didn’t hide it, didn’t flaunt it either. For all his reputation, Serge was surprisingly laid-back. A whiskey drinker, a card player, a guy who could sit in silence with you for an hour without it being awkward. I respected that about him. There aren’t many men in this business you can say that about.
His daughter, though—Natasha. Christ. Just as mean as she was beautiful. Jet-black hair, lips like sin, eyes that cut sharper than glass. She’d walk into a room and scorch the paint off the walls with that attitude of hers. And yet… I’d catch Corver, my quiet, level-headed brother, looking at her like she was a fire he’d willingly burn for. He never said a word, not once. But I saw it. The way his mouth would twitch, like he wanted to smile when she snapped at him. The way he’d linger a second longer than he needed to when he handed her something. My calm, calculated brother falling with a live bomb of a woman. It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so dangerous.
The reno itself was one of the more intricate ones we’d pulled off. Hidden panels, reinforced walls, safe rooms tucked behind bookshelves—you name it, we built it. Serge wanted his fortress to look like a gentleman’s estate, polished wood and marble floors, but underneath it all was pure steel. I still remember him clapping me on the back one night, whiskey in hand, while Corver and Natasha argued in the corner about whether or not velvet curtains were “tacky.”
“Brenden, you build like a Russian—solid. Strong. Won’t fall, even when the world does,”Serge had said, his laugh low and warm.
And Natasha? She’d crossed her arms, glaring at Corver with that sharp little smirk of hers. “You think you know style, techy boy? Stick to your computers. Leave the beauty to me.”
Corver hadn’t flinched. Just raised a brow and fired back, calm as ever.“Velvet’s impractical. Collects dust. Not efficient.”Of course that was his argument.
The sparkle in her eyes said she’d never met a man who told her no. And the flicker in his? That was the moment I knew he’d never forget her.
A loud sound on the phone brings me back to the video. I think it was Natasha yelping. My gut clenches as Gavin takes her throat and shoves her down. I can see where this is going, and I am not sure I have the stomach to watch it all.
Gavin proceeds to rip Natalia’s dress up her body and rape her on camera, in front of her father. She is crying, and her father is screaming, although he is fully tied to the chair with a gag in, he is putting up a valiant effort at getting free nearly knocking himself over at one point. Gavin continues pumping into her, laughing, grabbing her hair, and pulling her head back in a way that looks like he might snap her neck. After what feels like an eternity, he finishes, and I can see blood on her legs as he discards her on the floor. She lies there, so still I initially think he killed her, until I see her eyes blink and her mouth scrunch up.
Corver doesn’t flinch. He’s already watched it. The anger in his eyes is something I have only witnessed from him once before. When we killed the man who murdered our mother. I force myself to keep my eyes on the screen. Every brutal second. Gavin laughing, demanding acknowledgment.
“Now, Serge, I have officially consummated my relationship with your daughter, who was a virgin until just now, solidifying our marriage in God’s eyes. Your only child and heir. This now makes me heir apparent. Do you agree?” He takes another knife from his pocket, his pants still undone. The sick fuck didn’t even put away his still-hard dick. He opens the knife and runs it over Serge’s face. Serge makes a noise that sounds like disagreement. Gavin laughs, reels back, and punches him as hard as he can in the face.
Serge’s head snaps back, and I am shocked. What is Gavin trying to do? The other man with the knife taps Serge’s face untilhe looks back at Gavin once more. “Again, I will ask you. Only one more time. Serge, do you agree that I am the heir now that I have consummated my marriage with your daughter? Or do I need to go get your wife as well?” Serge’s eyes go wide as Gavin speaks, and he looks to his daughter. She nods just subtly, and Serge does the same. He pauses, eyes closed, gathering himself. When they open, the heat in them could scorch the earth. He nods once. Then he pins Gavin in place with a stare sharp enough to carve bone.
Gavin laughs a bitter, evil laugh. The kind that makes your heart fall to your stomach and fills you with dread. “You hear that, my love! I am the new heir, and I am now your husband. Which means…” At that, the other man slits Serge’s throat. Holy Fuck. Gavin Kelly just became head of the Russian mafia. An Irishman just took over the Russian mafia. Gavin watches as Serge gurgles, blood sprayed down the front of his already bloodied shirt, dripping down onto the floor. It begins to pool at his feet and form a stream toward Natalia. To her credit, I almost forgot she was there during all the chaos because of how silent she was.
Then Gavin looks at the camera. At us. At me.
“Stefan,” Gavin said, slow and sure, “I’m head of the Russians now. Bratva runs through me. I’m your equal–but I’m not finished. I never will be until I have back what’s mine: my wife, my child. If I must, I’ll take your daughters, your wife, and your empire. I’ll get Surry back. Remember that.
He turned, address the room. “Boy’s–enjoy yourselves. Until she is pregnant, she’s up for grabs.” The men moved in around Natasha like vultures.
He laughs. The kind of laugh that stains the room as Natasha lets out a blood curdling scream.
Corver cuts the video before the rest can play. “You don’t want to see it.”
I stare at the blank screen, rage burning hot and sharp in my throat.
This isn’t just a turf war. This is personal. It became personal the moment he decided to hurt a woman–one we know only making it one hundred times worse. He checks every box for the kind of scum we take care of. The kind we load into the back of our truck, and haul away with the trash. A vendetta dressed as empire building. And now, whether I like it or not, I’m in it. Because when men like Gavin move, they don’t stop at bloodlines. They take friends. Families. Anyone within reach.
And I just realized we’re within reach.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE SMELL OFsmoke and broken plaster still hangs heavy in the air, even though the fire’s long gone. I stand in the middle of what used to be my kingdom, Tattoos on the Bay, and all I see is ruin. Broken glass crunches under my boots with every step, like bones snapping. The neon signs that once bathed these walls in pink and blue light lie shattered, their wires sparking faintly in the corners.
I can almost see it the way it was—the way it should be. Black marble floors polished to a sheen, raw wood walls that smelled faintly of cedar, shelves lined with everything that made this place ours: taxidermy foxes with sly grins, animal skulls bleached white, potted plants that Hazel used to fuss over, and books—God, so many books. The memory makes my throat tighten.
I built this place from nothing, just a dream and the boys. When Joshua, Brenden, and Corver Slater showed up, everything changed. I’d run into Brenden first, all six-foot-six of him, looking like he’d been carved out of stone. Then his brothers—the quiet genius Corver with his watchful eyes, and Joshua with that wild streak you could smell a mile off. They didn’t just help me put walls up. They made this place strong, safe. My family of choice, before I even realized I’d accepted them.
I remember the day Hazel walked in, portfolio in her trembling hands. She was barely out of her apprenticeship, green as hell, but I saw her talent in every line she’d drawn. Her stars, her shading, the way she captured softness in her tattoos—I couldn’t say no. Everyone told me I was stupid for hiring someone so new. I told them to fuck off. Hazel was mine. And I was right—she bloomed fast, faster than anyone I’d ever seen. Clients lined up for her delicate work, and it wasn’t long before Inked magazine was calling us for features. We weren’t just another shop anymore. We weretheshop.
Now? The cabinets are splintered. The stations smashed beyond recognition. My crystals are ground into glittering dust across the floor. All the memories, all the late nights and belly laughs with clients who became family, all the blood and ink and stories poured into these walls—it looks like none of it ever mattered.
But it did. It still does.
I run my hand across one of the broken chairs, fingertips catching on jagged wood. This was where Hazel tattooed her first full sleeve, hands shaking so bad I had to hold her wrist steady in the beginning. This was where the boys, Hazel, and I toasted with whiskey after landing the first magazine spread, the five of us drunk on success and hope. This was where I carved out a life I could be proud of, after all the shit I’d crawled through.
