Page 138 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I only remember what his smile did then, what it always did: took me out of the pain. Made me feel not so alone anymore.

Focus, Gavril.

“C’mon, you just gonna stand there?” Osip taunts. He steps forward, makes a swing he only half means. I duck easily, as he knew I would.

But I can feel it, broiling under the surface like a poison. After all today’s events—the beating, the fighting, coming face-to-face with my brother’s betrayal—I’m weak. I’m no match for Osip. I’m no match for anyone.

I’ve fought too much today. Pushed too hard. And yet, victory is the only option. I can’t be anything other than the last man standing.

“Hellooo?” my brother singsongs now. “I see I’m going to have to get this show on the road myself then.”

Sweat beads my brother’s surgery-marred face. All his men wait. Joy, my Joy, waits.

I can’t fail her.

Osip’s next punch lands with a painful thud. The one after, I clumsily dodge. I can’t keep doing this. I throw myself forward with some swings of my own. Some of them land. Most don’t. Still, it is enough for now.

Osip isn’t smiling anymore.

Man to man, brother to brother, we will end this.

In a way, we’ve been building to this from the start. It was what we used to do when we were bored kids on the street: play-fight to pass the time. To get stronger, so that when the fight came—and the fight always came—we would be ready. When the drugged-out junkie, the sadistic lowlife, or the bored cop stepped up to us, we would be ready.

Another punch slams that thought right out of me.

“Fight me!” Osip roars. “You’re not even trying!”

My head is overheated. The various aches and pains have fused into one pumping thrum of searing agony over my entire body.

Focus, Gavril.

But when we play-fought, I’d usually win. I was older, plus Osip had this thing where he’d fake high and go low. I knew it was coming, and countered every time, and yet he always tried it anyways. There’s a lesson to be learned in that, but I’m too weary and too hurt to figure it out.

“Come on!” Osip screams in my face, raising his fist high. I punch low just as his real hit arrives.

He jars back a few steps, surprised. Hurt.

Good.

“That’s more like it!” he hisses with a sadistic grin.

But he has no idea how much more I have in me. Neither do I, until I do it. I slam my fist into him next, and then again. So fast that surprise doesn’t even have time to replace gratification on his face.

I can’t forget who my brother is. This is the same Osip I exiled for his crimes against civilians.

And I must remember who I am, too: a killer. A man who does whatever it takes.

My brother staggers back into his men, who watch in silence.

I can’t stop now. I lunge for Osip with more punches, more kicks. He gets one or two in, but I hardly notice. Everything is pain, every hit is painful, so what’s some more? What’s anything other than saving Joy?

He stumbles backwards, then squares up and charges towards me.

In a way, I’m almost sad as he does. I know what is coming next. I know how this ends. He extends his torso up, getting as tall as he can.

Fake high. Go low.It was the same pattern every time.

So when he bobs towards my face, then drops towards my midsection, I am ready.

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