Page 1 of Unbroken

Chapter 1

VADKA

An empty bottlerolls across the floor, glinting in sunlight—sunlight?

Shit, it’s daybreak. Have I been up all night?

The bottle stops against the toe of my boot.

I don’t move.

My knuckles ache, bruised and split beneath crusted blood that isn’t all mine. I stare down at it. Hell, I thinkmostof it isn’t mine.

Jesus. My head is killing me.

I don’t remember how many men I killed.

The air reeks of body odor and whiskey. In the corner of the room, a woman’s scuffed shoe lies, broken and crooked, shadowed by the doorway. My eyes catch on it, and for a moment, something lethal twists inside.

Memory grips me. A carefree night on the town. Mariah’s hand on my arm to stop herself from keeling over. Her tinkling laugh and squeal when her heel broke, and she almost fell headfirst into the street. My wife, in my arms, her eyes twinkling at me. A little tipsy. Carefree.

So full of life.

I shove the memory down, out of sight, buried beneath too many feelings to name.

The Irish took my wife from me. And every last motherfucker will pay.

“Vadim.”

Rafail’s voice is low and rough. He hardly ever calls me my christened name. Everyone calls me Vadka, even him, when he’s not pissed or serious, which is most of the time.

I don’t look at him. I stare straight ahead… at nothing. Just me, here with my ghosts and demons.

“Youhaveto stop this.” Rafail’s shadowy form steps in front of me, careful not to slip on the fucking gore that surrounds us. Dressed in a suit at the ass crack of dawn, he’s either catching an international flight or hasn’t gone to bed yet. “Youhaveto fucking stop this,” he repeats.

He crouches in front of me, serious eyes meeting mine. The eldest of his family, Rafail Kopolov, only celebrated his thirtieth birthday a few years back. The youngest reigningpakhanin Europe but one of the most feared. He’s mypakhan.And my best friend.

“You’re going to bring devastation I can’t hold back, Vadka,”Rafail says. His tone barely softens, but the fact that he’s using my nickname means he’s trying.

“They killed her.” My voice is ragged. It never gets easier saying this out loud.Never.My eyes finally lift to Rafail’s, my voice raw. “They killed my wife, Rafail.”

His jaw flexes. “And what happens when you burn down every fucking city from here to Belfast? You think you’ll find Mariah on the other side?”

The pain hits like a knife to my chest, so sharp and visceral I can’t breathe at first.

“I don’t fucking care,” I manage to grind out. My chest heaves. “We’ll find them.”

“They’re already coming,” he snaps. “The Irish want war. Matvei is working on decoding the fucking flash drive we captured. They want blood for blood, brother, but you’ve given them every excuse.” He leans in. “How many more innocents have to die?”

My mouth twists bitterly, and I shake my head. “They want war? Good. And I haven’t killedoneinnocent, Rafail.” I scratch at my chest to distract myself from the undeniable thirst for a drink. My voice is hoarse. “Not one.”

“Not yet,” he says softly.

Silence stretches between us. Rafail drags a hand through his hair and pushes himself to his feet, pacing. I almost feel bad for putting him in this position. I didn’t want war. I never wanted to shed more blood than I had to.

But that was then. This is now.

They pulled the trigger and sounded the battle cry when they killed my wife.