Idon’t believe in people.
They’re fickle, prone to mistakes, and have no clue what the fuck they’re doing most of the time.
They’re useless, tasteless, and shouldn’t pollute the air with their breaths.
This disdain I have for people has been inherent in me ever since I grew out of my child phase and gradually found out what the world is all about.
I also don’t believe in the strikes system. People don’t get two or three chances with me. One mistake and they’re out.
For good.
Anyone who crosses the line once will do it again if given the chance. It’s forbidden fruit, delayed gratification, and sought-after glorification. If they get one taste, they’ll be compelled to have another.
Then another.
And another.
Until they’re reduced to animals chasing their basic needs.
Giving them a chance to get close to the line, let alone cross it, is the personification of foolishness.
My zero-tolerance policy might paint me as cold-blooded and heartless, but that’s better than being labeled soft.
I’ve seen what that does to people. How caring too much can tear someone open from the inside out. I had no control over it back then—couldn’t stop it or prevent it from happening.
But I’m older now, wiser, harder, and I vowed to never let a variation of those circumstances repeat.
Ever.
The fact that I’m standing in a pool of blood—mine and someone else’s—is a manifestation of the person I’ve become to get to this stage in my life.
The guy in my grip is barely breathing, his eyes are swollen shut and his face is covered with mucus and blood from how much I’ve punched him. This fucker thought he could ambush me on my afternoon ride. He also hit me with a barb-wired baseball bat, knocking me off my Ducati Panigale, but that was the extent of it.
I grab him by the collar and shake him a few times, breathing in the stench of his bodily fluids. Under dusk’s light, he appears monstrous with his face all bloodied and unrecognizable.
“Oy! Look who I found!” Nikolai reemerges from between the trees, dragging a struggling blond guy behind him like a sack of potatoes.
The blond has some muscles on him and he claws and kicks to escape, but he might as well be an ant wrestling an elephant. Not only does he barely land any punches, but the ones he does are completely ignored by Niko.
Our evening bike ride was interrupted by these two. The one he’s currently dragging escaped earlier, but Nikolai is no different from a hunting dog. He can smell anyone, then track them down and trap them.
My friend all but sits on the guy’s back and when he struggles, Nikolai punches him in the face, causing his head to bump against the ground.
He’s shirtless, again. Like me, he was wearing a leather jacket when we went out on the ride, but he threw it down somewhere. The guy is allergic to clothes—it’s a miracle he at least has pants on. It’s also his way of displaying the extravagant tattoos that cover his chest and arms.
Some of his long black hair escapes its binding and flies in the air as he taps his pocket, punches the guy he’s using as a chair again, and retrieves a smoke. He strokes the surface twice as if petting it, then shoves the cigarette between his lips and lights it.
“How’s it going with that cockroach?” He jerks his chin at the beaten-up guy in my hold.
With his face, lips, and eyes swollen, baseball cap and shirt bloodied, all the noise he can release is muffled groans.
I shake him again by my grip on his collar. “Last chance before I bury you where no one will find you.”
He mumbles something and I lean closer to hear him better.
“Fuck…you…”
“I see.” I swing the bat he hit me with earlier and drive it straight into the side of his head.
He falls to the ground, motionless, his body sprawled out at an awkward angle.
“Hey, kid.” Nikolai, who was watching the whole scene with unabashed excitement, flicks the ashes of his cig on the other guy’s bleeding face. “Do you know what your friend did wrong? No? Let me try and simplify it for you. One does not refuse a chance Jer offers. See, he doesn’t do that a lot, so when he says it’s your last, he actually means it. I say, you should do better or your fate will be worse.”
I swing the bat that’s soaked with blood on my shoulder and stare down at the guy.
He’s younger. Probably just started at TKU or maybe he’s a sophomore. Either way, he’s new blood, which makes him scared, unsure.
Usable.
His lips purse, probably unconsciously, and his face is red, due to being crushed by Nikolai’s weight.
“I know you’re Serpents,” I say. “What I don’t know is why you think you can take us out. So how about you clarify that for me and I’ll consider letting you live to see another day.”
“We…” he strains with a hint of a Russian accent. Nikolai is completely oblivious to the struggle since he continues smoking leisurely. “We wouldn’t…know until we try.”
“My, my. What do you know?” Nikolai grins. “Serpents have a suicide squad who are out to get us with guerrilla tactics?”
“Is it worth it when we’ll catch you and kill you?” I say matter-of-factly.
“I say, you guys are not on our level, especially kids like you who haven’t had proper training.”
“It’s the only way to get accepted to the club,” the blond grunts, his voice muffled. “Into the Bratva.”
I share a look with Nikolai. Those snakes aren’t only getting bold, but they’re also spouting lies to younger guys, whispering promises in their eager ears, and taking advantage of their youthful, adrenaline-filled energy to get to us.
That’s both smart and stupid.
It doesn’t matter how many times we’re ambushed. Not only will they never get us, but we’ll retaliate twice as hard.
I applaud the effort, though.
“You want to get into the Bratva, kid?” I shove the bat against his head. “Don’t go using sleazy methods to be admitted. That might work at the beginning, but you’ll always be viewed as a cockroach who can be sacrificed at any moment. If you want to sit in the inner circle, be a man about it.”
“And don’t go interrupting people’s rides. That’s the number one rule to stay off assholes’ shit lists. I’m assholes. And you’re somewhere in the middle of my list. Can I kill him, Jer?”
The kid stares at me with bulging eyes. Not at Nikolai. Me.
Fucker is smart and probably heard that I’m the only one who can keep him on a leash. If I’d left him to his own devices, Nikolai would be a death-row prisoner by now. Or just dead.
“We did promise to let him go,” I say, and the kid nods once.
“I did no such thing, you did.” Nikolai slides the burning end of his smoke toward the guy’s eyes. “The insolence of this motherfucker pisses me off, and I can’t let it slide. What’s your name?”
“Ilya Levitsky.”
“Russian. I like that, but I don’t like you, Ilyusha. Any last wishes?”
Ilya keeps his eyes open and continues staring at the burning end of the cigarette. Anyone on this island, or even back in New York, knows of Nikolai’s crazy episodes. If he says he’ll burn holes where your eyes are, he’ll do it.
This kid must be aware of that, too, but even though his body shakes, he doesn’t close his eyes.
Just when the fire is about to touch the cornea, I say, “No.”
Nikolai’s attention remains on Ilya and his chosen weapon of harm. “Why the fuck not?”
“I gave him my word.”
“Your word isn’t mine. Fuck off.”
“It is. You promised, Niko.” I shove the baseball bat against his shoulder and he finally stares at me with eyes so unhinged that no amount of violence will be able to satisfy them.
A long time ago, when we were kids and Nikolai realized how deranged he can get, he asked me to stop him when he slips out of control.
When his violence starts to mess with his head.
When blood is all I see in his eyes.
I don’t right now, but he’s getting there.
“Can I at least beat him up?”
“You did that already.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Nikolai stands, but not before he kicks the guy in the ribs.
He grunts, but he knows better than to retaliate or stay around. He gets up, hobbles to his bike that Nikolai made him abandon earlier, and escapes in the opposite direction of the descending sun.
“Kids these days.” Nikolai shakes his head.
“You mean you, nineteen-year-old baby?”
“Oh, fuck you. I’ll be twenty soon.” He throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground and steps on it, then he hauls up his bike that he practically threw down and let slide into a tree earlier.
After straightening it up, he leans an elbow against it and pats his pocket for another cigarette. “What are we going to do with these cockroaches?”
“Let them fester.” I hop on my bike. Riding, preferably alone, is the only thing that I like doing for myself. No duties or expectations—just me and the wind.
“Won’t they become harder to deal with when they multiply?”
“On the contrary. We can take them out when they’re gathered in one place.”
A slow grin stretches his lips. “I knew you were my favorite. When do we start?”
“Patience, Niko.”
“That word doesn’t belong in my limited vocabulary.”
Don’t I know it.
It’s why I’ve been deliberately keeping Nikolai as far away from strategic planning as possible. At least until the actual action starts.
We both belong to the Russian Bratva in New York. Our parents are the current leaders and we’re expected to take their positions one day.
When that day comes, Nikolai and I will support each other, as we’re currently doing.
I don’t want to make an enemy out of him or else he’d get one of us killed in the blink of an eye. And if he festers in his bloodlust, no one will be able to pull him out of it.
“Should we report this to headquarters?” he asks.
Headquarters, as in, his parents or my father. If they find out the Serpents, whose leaders are the offspring of men who sit with them at the inner circle table, are after us, they won’t let this slide.
It might even develop into an inner war. And there’s no more efficient way to break a strong organization than inner conflict.
The Serpents know this as well as we do, but they apparently don’t give a fuck as long as they get what they want.
And what they want is to eliminate me and Nikolai before we inherit our birthright positions.
What’s better than offing another leader? Doing it before he fully comes into power.
“Why get our folks involved when we can take care of them ourselves?” I throw the helmet that has fallen beside me at Niko and he catches it with a wide grin before he straps it on.
“Wise words. Wise words.”
“Just tone it down a notch.”
“Fuck no. I need my dose of adrenaline.”
“The initiation was a week ago. That amount of adrenaline should’ve lasted you at least two weeks.”
“Didn’t even get me through the night.”
“Despite all the hunting?”
“And punching and kicking and even headbutting.” He lifts his hands and stares at them under the dusk’s light. “None of it is enough. That energy is pulsing in my veins like a ghost. Or a demon. And it needs to be let out. Don’t you have moments like that?”
“No,” I say assertively as I shove my helmet in place.
“Ehh. Is that why you didn’t sleep that night? Or the night of the party?”
“I don’t sleep.” Much.
“Uh-huh.”
“What the fuck is uh-huh supposed to mean?”
He tilts his head slowly, maniacally. “I say, there’s more to it than you’re letting on.”
“Are you going to ride or should I leave you behind?”
“Riding, riding. Christ. Did getting hit on the head make you lose your manners?”
I forgot about that.
Despite the dull ache on my temple and the now probably dried-up blood. It has to do with the strange tolerance to pain I’ve had since I was a kid.
It came after a lot of nightmares.
Which is also behind my lack of sleep.
The engine of my bike revs, then I hit the road. Nikolai follows right after me.
Out of the Heathens’ members, we’re the only two who like being in the wind. Since the road we’re taking is on the seaside, we breathe the salty air that seeps beneath the helmets.
Nikolai flings both his arms wide like the crazy motherfucker he is. Sometimes, it’s like he has a death wish. Wishes, to be more specific.
After a few moments of peace, I go at a supersonic speed, riding wide fucking open.
This is where I find calm. Where everything fades into the background and only my physical body exists.
This is where I go to clear my head and prepare for the next steps to take and the people to eliminate.
I learned early on that power isn’t handed to you. You snatch it, and if you have to bleed for it, then so be it.
Power is a wild horse that’s only tamed by the strongest.
Which is what I am. In every aspect. Aside from my family and the people who will rule by my side, everyone else is a pawn on the map of my path to the throne.
And that path is paved with thorns, betrayals, and destruction. People way older and more experienced than me have tried and failed to come out on top.
Some lost their lives for it, too.
But I have the advantage of being born into this world. Of witnessing how it breaks people and never allows them to put themselves together again.
I’ve become immune to its monstrosity, adjusted to its requirements, and gotten used to its workings.
Which is why I’m taking it one step at a time.
Patience might not be Nikolai’s favorite word, but it’s one of my principles.
Patience and the sheer power of my persistence can get me anywhere.
And knowledge. As my father taught me.
Information is sharper than any weapon, and if you have it in your arsenal, no one will be able to cross you.
This is why I have eyes and spies wherever my enemies exist.
Namely, with the Serpents and the Elites.
One would argue that the Elites have nothing to do with us. They have no criminal background, are posh kids with dull British manners, and belong to a completely different world.
But those who appear to be the least dangerous are the ones we should look out for the most.
The Elites might not belong to any mafia, but they remain a secret order of a greater game. Something nefarious happens behind the scenes of that club, and it’s only a matter of time before I find out what it is. I’ll uncover their plots and why they antagonize both the Heathens and the Serpents for sport, despite knowing our background.
They’re too cunning for their own good. Or their leader, Landon, is. Which is why I’ve been keeping him in my sights for years.
It’s been fucking years and I still know next to nothing about him aside from his family background and that he’s obsessed with sculpting.
From the outside looking in, he’s a respectable man with genius artistic skills and a bright future ahead of him. He’s perfected that image so well that no one dares to suspect he’s hiding a much darker version of himself.
Since I haven’t uncovered anything about him, I’ve been watching the weakest links in his life.
His siblings.
That hasn’t produced anything either since they stay as far away from his business as possible. I had to gradually back off from Glyndon since Killian is sort of obsessed with her.
His twin brother, Brandon, is useless. For now. That might change, which is why I’m not letting him out of my sight.
As a last resort, we sent invitations to the initiation to those in his closest circle in an attempt to get them into the Heathens and then use them against him.
As expected, none of them showed up.
However, I was informed by security that Creighton King’s invitation was scanned.
As in, Landon’s second cousin, Creighton, who’s a fighter and never wanted to join the Elites.
But Creighton was nowhere to be seen. The one who used his invitation was none other than an annoying existence.
A boring existence.
An existence that shouldn’t have gotten my attention.
And she didn’t.
Until she thought she could get under my roof unnoticed, with her wig and attitude that doesn’t fit with the scene she walked into.
The initiation isn’t for little girls like her.
And yet, she ran for it, and she fought, too.
It was useless, and I put an end to it before it properly started, but then she asked me to fuck her.
I don’t want to die a virgin, is what she said.
I can almost hear the tremor in her soft voice and see the quiver in her velvety pink lips when she said that. I can smell the desperation behind the words. Whether it was to stay alive or be fucked, I had no clue.
My cock chose to believe the second.
I meant it when I said I don’t fuck virgins. They don’t tempt me, and I don’t have a broken hymen kink.
But at that moment? I was so close to tearing into her virgin cunt, just to see the dull girl with rigid morals and judgmental stare cry.
I got my chance when she made the mistake of coming to my house and wandering into my forest. Right after she gave me a glance at her deepest, darkest fantasies.
Right after she ran away from the initiation, I hacked into her phone, then saw the site she visited and the kink she signed up for.
I also saw her pictures.
The screenshots upon screenshots from Landon King’s Instagram account and any other pictures of him posted by others.
She had them in a secret folder called ‘My Prince.’
And surprise, surprise, her prince was enrolled in that club she signed up for. He’s been in it for years. I know because I’m in it, too, if not for anything else, than to keep an eye on him.
Cecily put in all the right answers to get her so called prince to ravage her in an unknown place.
The proud, stern girl actually has a kink.
And not just any kink.
It’s the kink of all kinks.
One that good girls like her shouldn’t go anywhere near, let alone sign up for.
As soon as she hit Submit, I scrolled to my notifications and hit Accept.
She wasn’t offering herself for me, but I took her anyway.
If Landon didn’t want me to mess around with her, he should’ve put her on a leash.
I glance behind me to find that I lost Nikolai at my high speed. Either that or the motherfucker actually got himself killed.
A familiar sight at the building in front of me makes me slow to a halt beneath a large tree that camouflages me and my bike.
It’s an animal shelter. The one my sister volunteers at because she’s an advocate of everything pretty and small.
But it’s not my sister I’m looking at.
It’s the annoying existence.
Cecily Knight.
She sits on a bench outside. The rare hint of England’s sun turns her eyes a liquid blue-green as she flips through a book.
Her silver hair that’s nearly white like a witch’s shines under the light. She rubs the side of her nose and her bottom lip pushes forward in a pout.
I stroke the clutch as images of her in more compromising positions flare in my mind.
Writhing, sobbing, wiggling, crying, and screaming.
Especially screaming.
She does that so well, which was a surprise. One wouldn’t attribute that trait to her, considering her rigid, businesslike persona.
But then again, I’ve never thought someone like Cecily would be into primal play either.
The quiet people hide the best, after all.
If it had been anyone else, I would’ve left them alone, but she made the mistake of being where she wasn’t supposed to be.
Landon might have thought he could use her against me, but it’ll be the exact opposite.
That dull, maybe not so dull, existence has gotten herself the worst type of attention.
Mine.
