Page 6

CHAPTER 6

Ford

M y brother is clued into a lot of things, but how a freshly baked honey cake made it into my home is not one of them. And it’s fair to say that his instinct not to touch the treat Billie baked me likely saved him a beating.

I don’t ever intend to share anything about her. Billie Taylor is all fucking mine.

I wish she didn’t hold that type of power over me, but the more I see her, the more I let her slip under my skin, and the immediate pleasure of that hit rises to the surface.

“Mother is going to kill you,” Hawke says with a mouth full of a protein bar when I step into the kitchen. I have boxes of the shit in my cupboard for when he comes over. He’s sweaty, most likely having hit the gym after we were done helping Eli. He sent us home early today because he and his wife Jewel were having a date night, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

I hadn’t even realized the time. It feels like time is something that doesn’t exist whenever I’m with Billie. Then again, it was the same with all my other previous addictions.

That doesn’t sit well with me.

Another addiction.

Another vice.

When we step outside, my brother and I face one another. Silently, we count to three and draw our hands at rock, paper, scissors. I win—which is usually how it goes—and that means I get to drive my car. Hawke does win on occasion, but even then, I end up driving back when he wants to drink.

As we get in the car, I look over my humble home, which offers me everything I need. Hawke’s place is flashier and more materialistically impressive, but even with the fortune we’re worth, I prefer a smaller space that’s more functional. And it’s not like I need a lot of things.

A small part of me hopes that Billie sticks around until I get back so I can fuck her senseless—and finish her tattoo. But I’ll never ask her to stay. It’s not my right. I’ll let her use me until she’s done with me, and I’ll deal with the repercussions after.

But I’m certain she was insinuating she’d be around more because it meant more fucking. Which I have no problem with, but I cut off that conversation, and I don’t like to make assumptions. I’m not good for someone like Billie Taylor. Even I fucking know that, so I’ll do everything I can to sabotage her forming any attachment to me. But I’m failing miserably as I let her abuse my body time and time again and lose myself completely in her.

“Did you get all clean-shaven for Mom or something?” Hawke asks as he ruffles my hair with a cheesy grin. I shove him back into his seat.

“Fuck off. One of us has to look presentable,” I say, but I think the black jeans and black shirt I have on aren’t up to the standards of our mother, who loves all things shiny, expensive, and beautiful. But it’s certainly better than the sweaty shirt Hawke’s wearing.

“Please, I’m the favorite.” He huffs without a doubt in his mind.

I don’t reply to his statement. We both give her hell in our own ways. But we both know she cares about us exactly the same and punishes us the same.

Anya Ivanov is a woman who hated kids and never wanted them but ended up with two fucking delinquents. We stole from her when we were fifteen. We were nothing but street rats. Our mother had died three years before that because she loved getting high more than she loved her own kids.

But we got by from stealing from the rich. Until we tried breaking into Anya’s house. She caught us and held a gun to both of our heads. It was more terrifying than the two dogs we’d sedated only a few minutes before. She scared the shit out of us, that is, until River walked in and asked her to put her guns down.

She looked at us with one perfectly raised brow and said, “Why? If they want to be big boys and steal from me, I’ll show them how I handle big boys.” She then flicked the safety off the guns.

River looked at us, indulging his wife.

“How old are you two?” he asked us.

We told him we were fifteen.

And that’s when our lives changed.

And to be honest, with how well we know her now, we’re lucky to be alive.

Our mother is a ruthless, cold-hearted bitch.

She is the fucking best.

And River is the only fatherly figure we’ve ever known. To be honest, he’s probably also more of a motherly figure than Anya. He showed us what it was to be part of a family.

To kill for family.

Anya and River balance each other out. Even if they’re both fucked up.

But River seems to have all the patience in the world for Anya’s antics, even if it costs him a car or two when she destroys them. In fact, she smashed up one of his cars not even two years ago because she forgot their anniversary, and he didn’t remind her. They’re definitely not the ideal couple to base a healthy relationship on, but they’re fucking powerful.

When Anya and River first took us in, even though we fought it, we liked the things they provided us with, like a nice school and fancy shoes. The shoes were a big thing for us, considering the shoes we had before we stole from a homeless person.

During the drive to our parents’ house, Hawke talks about various topics, not ever really expecting a response. It’s how we work. He can’t keep his mouth shut, and I’d rather not have to contribute at all.

As I pull up to the house, I spot River waiting on the front patio. We’re thirty-six minutes late, and I contemplate breaking one of Hawke’s legs so we have a reasonable excuse as to why. Even then, I don’t think it’ll be enough to soothe our mother’s wrath.

Anya hated it at first when we called her “Mother.” We did it just to annoy her. But to be honest, no matter how cold and ruthless she is, she’s been more of a mother to us than the one who gave us life. And now she won’t tolerate it if we call her anything else.

When we step out of the car, our father glares at us disapprovingly. “You’re late. Your mother is pissed.” He raises a glass of whiskey to his lips, smirking.

“You’re only happy because it’s not you she’s pissed at,” Hawke says.

“Is that why you’re hiding out here?” I add.

“Damn right.” He chuckles. “But someone has to let the dogs out to go to the bathroom.” He whistles, and with lightning speed, the two chow chows bolt from the darkness. They’re not the same dogs from eleven years ago, but Ivan and Thor are a staple in the family. They greet us happily, tails wagging. I bend over and pat Ivan, him being my favorite of the two, as Thor goes to Hawke.

They appear friendly until the well-trained assholes are commanded to attack or someone breaks in. We’d know because we were made to wear the padded protection gear and run around the fucking backyard when they were being trained. Let’s just say dogs are not a deterrent for Hawke and me when breaking into premises.

We follow our father into the house and find our mother pacing the kitchen. She’s always been a shit cook, but at least she tries. And she only cooks when we come over, adopting the Taylors’ family tradition of dinner once a month to feel “connected.” Whatever the fuck that means.

Except in true Anya fashion, once a month was far too long for her not to be in our business, so we’re here once a week, as requested.

If we’re overseas, we’re required to fly home.

We don’t miss our weekly visits.

Or else.

“Oh, so you think it’s a good idea to roll in late?” Anya snaps at us, a lock of hair escaping her usually perfectly secured bun. She blows at it, irritated. Hawke and I point to one another at the same time. “I don’t care whose fault it is. Take a seat. Dinner is ready.”

Hawke salutes her, and she says something in Russian, which I know are swear words, as we walk to the table. River’s already sitting at the head of the table, looking smug. I swear the fucker actually gets off when we’re in trouble, and I sometimes wonder if he cleverly dragged us into this household for his own amusement so he wasn’t the only one being punished by his wife’s hand.

“What’s with the smiling?” Hawke asks. I think, in a lot of ways, Hawke mirrors River, especially in the way he’s openly a smartass.

“Your mother makes me happy,” River replies. That much we know. This man could literally go out, come home covered in blood, and have the worst day, but when he sees her, everything else is forgotten.

Their love is sickening, considering they have no filter on their still-booming physical attraction despite them both being almost sixty years old. But Anya doesn’t look like she’s aged a bit since we first moved in. That scorn forever molded into her expression.

I itch to pull out my phone—a habit of mine when in social settings. But considering the last time I did that at the dinner table, Anya stabbed a knife through it, pinning it to the table, and established a “no phones at dinner time” rule, I think better of it.

“What work did you do today?” Anya asks as she carries a plate of chicken into the dining room. It doesn’t look fully cooked. But she places it on the table, reaches for a knife, and stabs it. We all stare at her as she attempts to cut it. “Let me guess, top secret because Eli Monti said.” Anya doesn’t dislike Eli. She actually respects his family. But she hates that we work for someone else.

Our relationship with Eli didn’t start out on a good note. One day at school, Eli picked a fight with us, and despite hearing the warnings to stay clear of him, we had no issue hitting back harder. Eli was a finely tuned weapon even then, but we’d grown up fighting for our lives—literally. We were bigger and played dirtier. He was impressed by that, and when he discovered who we were living with, we became friends. We all left the school bloodied, none of us reprimanded for the scuffle, with Dutton shaking his head, disappointed that he didn’t get an opportunity to play with his knives.

Eli might’ve come from money, but he’s as fucked up as the rest of us.

That’s what we liked about him.

And then, as the years went by, we started fucking around, doing illegal shit with him. You name it, we did it. Even killing with him and for him. Then we became his seconds and Dutton, his silent adviser.

I should feel guilty for fucking Dutton’s sister. But I don’t.

“Mother.” Hawke interrupts the carnage that is Anya Ivanov trying to shred a chicken apart. River’s smirking like a dickhead at the still-bleeding chicken. Jesus . I’m not a religious man, but that shit ain’t right.

I ate before I came. For the simple fact that the food sucks unless she orders in.

But I still attempt to eat it.

“Don’t “Mother” me.” She stabs the meat again. “You show up late, and now you want to criticize my cooking?” she snarls, despite no one saying anything.

I’ve never seen someone make such a mess of cutting poultry.

“Red,” River says. Her gaze shoots up to him, and she puts down the knife, a forced smile appearing on her lips. “A deal went bad today. You both know how your mother is when things don’t go her way.” Our father reaches for her hand, and she lets him squeeze it before she pulls it back and looks at the disaster, which is the roasted chicken.

“It’s fine. It’ll be sorted because our sons will be sorting it.” She smiles like that makes her happy, and being the only woman in this house, we sure do love to make her happy. Because when she’s upset, we all feel it.

“And who will we be killing tonight?” I ask. It’s very rare for our mother to ask for our help and not handle a situation herself. But when she does, I think it’s because killing is her love language, which means this time it’s personal.

“A man wouldn’t sell me a ring I wanted for my collection. He tried to haggle with me.” She humphs .

My eyebrows furrow. “So why didn’t you just kill him?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes, then sits on River’s lap. He pulls out his phone, and I imagine it’s because he’s ordering takeout. “Well, he had his ten-year-old daughter in the room.”

Hawke and I are silent for a moment until it dawns on us.

“Wait. Did you not kill him because you didn’t want to traumatize his daughter?” Hawke asks, openly in shock.

She curses with a thick Russian accent. “I’m not a complete monster.”

“Bullshit!” Hawke says, and I look away, ready for the reprimand to come because Hawke can’t keep his mouth shut. But it seems my brother, and I’ll be going on a hunt for this fucking ring tonight, and I wonder how many men exactly we’re going to have to kill for it.

If the man had any smarts, he would’ve fled the country by now. But some people tend to underestimate my mother because she’s a woman. And they discover their error too late.