Chapter 2

TWO

Dimitri - 3 years later - age 15

It was a chilling case of deja vú, my brother's hand a heavy weight on my shoulder, a constant reminder of his dominance. At fifteen, I was no longer a child, and my growing muscles were a testament to my maturity. But Maxim, now a man at twenty-one, carried himself with the Bratva's authority.

At this moment, with our father's drunken rants piercing the air, I was transported back to that moment when my father shot Bogdan in the head, his body falling to the floor in a puddle of blood, his brains splattered everywhere, his mother shrieking .

There had been a meeting with some of Bratva's Vors a few hours ago, some of my father's most trusted men. However, I had suspicions about who was running our Bratva. As the days passed, I believed it was Maxim who was in charge, not our father. My father was erratic and unpredictable, making rash decisions. Now that the meeting was over, two of the men had stayed back to speak to my father about some issues with a transport; he'd already killed one of them, unhappy with whatever news he'd imparted. The other stood stock still, facing front.

"Pakhan," Maxim finally interrupted, careful to keep his tone even, as was wise when addressing my father. My father had been pointing his gun at the Lev, the remaining Vor, who was still as a statue. It was impressive how still he was staying. "Might I say something? About the transport."

My father paused and turned, his face confused. He started towards us. "You?"

Horror washed over me, mixed with admiration, as I understood what Maxim had done. Betrayal. He swung his gun back towards Maxim, but my brother was quicker. This time, when the body fell, I was glad.

Going up to the body, I peered down at it, toeing it with one of my dress shoes. My father was a stickler for what we wore. We were always to look the part; there was no casual attire for the Volkovs.

"Hmm, the old fucker's really dead," I muttered, looking at Maxim. "You killed him." The comment was unnecessary and obvious, but my father had always been like the bogeyman in the stories. It was best to check that he was dead. If it were up to me, I'd cut off his head just to be sure.

"He was bad for the Bratva, and I am finally ready," Maxim said, more like he was trying to convince himself. I hoped he would inject more confidence in his voice when he told others. The Vor, Lev, looked over at him with skepticism. "Give us a moment, Lev," he said, realizing he was still standing there listening .

"Of course, Pakhan. I'll arrange the cleaners and bring the other Vors back for a meeting." He bowed quickly and left without glancing at the floor and the body there. I gave it another nudge, somehow fascinated that the meat sack on the floor was all that was left of the nightmare that was my father. Huh. That was all it had taken, a bullet. Maxim should have done it sooner. Maybe I should have done it.

"I'm leaving," I announced, looking up at my brother, the idea that had been simmering for so long now spoken out loud.

Maxim's eyes widened at my declaration but quickly masked his surprise. "Leaving? What? Dima, where will you go? You aren't even done with your studies." His tone was even, but he excelled in that. If anything, it was scathing and mocking, which infuriated me. The gun was still clenched in his hand, held down by his side, but there was concern in his eyes. If anything, Maxim was the one person in my world who protected and cared for me. He'd agree to this.

"Anywhere but here," I replied, stepping away from my father's lifeless body. The sight of him, once a towering figure of terror, now reduced to a lifeless heap, stirred something within me. Not fear, not sorrow, but a strange sense of liberation. "I need to get away from all of this, Maxim."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Dimitri, you can't just walk away from the Bratva. This is our life. Our duty. Besides, I will need you by my side now more than ever. The transition of power won't be easy. Challenges and enemies will try to take advantage of our father's death. Now, you will be my heir."

I shook my head. "No, Maxim. It is your duty. Marry some heiress. Have some babies. I don't give a shit. I'm sorry, but I won't be a part of it. I can't stay here and become what he wanted me to be. I can't." I looked at the blood on the floor, the remnants of a life lived in violence and fear. "I need to be free. To breathe."

Maxim took a step closer, placing that fucking hand on my shoulder again, but this time his grip was gentle, almost pleading. "You're my brother, Dimitri. I want you to be free, to find your way. But you can't do it alone. Let me help you. Stay for a while until things settle down. Then we can figure out a way for you to leave safely without putting yourself or the Bratva at risk."

I could see the sincerity in his eyes, the genuine concern for my well-being. I knew he was right; leaving abruptly could cause more harm than good. But I also knew I couldn't stay trapped in this world forever.

"No," I said finally, meeting his gaze. "You'll let me go."

He nodded, "Alright, brother." His eyes were sad on mine, but he nodded. "You'll have your funds to use, but I'll let you go. It'll be as you wish."

My breath whooshed out. Freedom. I could almost taste the wind in my teeth. I would travel. Get a motorcycle. Do whatever I wanted. Fuck the Bratva. I was never coming back.