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Lev

I was born into blood.

My childhood soundtrack was my mother’s screams echoing through the paper-thin walls of our Brighton Beach apartment. By age five, I knew the sting of my father's hand; by age ten, I had mastered the art of hiding bruises. By twelve, I had learned how to throw a punch hard enough to break a rib. Survival wasn’t a lesson—it was instinct. The streets of Brighton Beach belonged to the mobs, and if you couldn’t hold your ground, you didn’t make it to the next day.

I don’t remember the last time I saw my mother’s face. I think I stopped looking after a while because the emptiness in her eyes made my stomach churn. My father was emotionally dead. He was a street soldier for the Colombian cartel—a brutal man who answered to even more brutal men. He came home with blood on his hands more often than not. Sometimes, it was his own. Sometimes, it wasn’t.

“Why do you always hit mama?” I remember asking this when I was around six.

“Because she is fucking soft. Beating her will toughen her up.”

“No, it won’t, and you should stop doing that.”

“You’re going to grow up soft,” he used to say in disgust. “Your mother’s weakness is in your bones.” He always spoke to me in our native Russian language. “There is nothing Russian about her; the only thing she is good at is pumping herself full of drugs and spreading her skinny legs.”

I learned to hate him early. But more than that, I hated the part of myself that resembled him. The coldness. The ability to look at someone bleeding out on the floor and feel nothing.

At thirteen, I had learned to fight back. I wasn’t going to let another man beat me up at will. Whether said man was my father or not. I left home the day I turned fourteen after getting into a fight with my dad again. By then I had stopped calling him dad and he was just Alex to me.

My father was a ghost I barely remembered, and my mother had stopped looking me in the eye years ago. There was nothing left for me in that apartment except the cold silence and the ache of being unwanted. My mother would sit by the window for hours, staring at the street below like she was waiting for someone to come home. For someone to come get us out of that slum—but no one ever did. And eventually, I stopped waiting too.

I took nothing with me when I left. Just the clothes on my back and a knife tucked into my pocket.

Brighton Beach is sharp edges and cold pavement beneath bare feet. The apartment buildings crowd each other like they’re trying to push the others out of their fucking way. The streets are loud—always filled with the sounds of shouting, car horns, and the occasional gunshot in the distance. If you weren’t part of a crew, you were fair game.

I learned quickly that these streets belonged to the mobs, especially the Colombians. They controlled the drug flow, the dock shipments, and half the police force. You stayed out of their way unless you were useful. And I made sure I was useful. Very useful.

By sixteen, I was running small drug drops for them. Then debt collections. I learned how to break a man’s nose with the heel of my hand. How to drive my elbow into the soft hinge of a jaw. How to squeeze the air out of someone’s throat until they stopped moving. I stopped feeling sick about it after the first few times.

You survive, or you die. There’s no room for hesitation.

By seventeen, I was trusted enough to run bigger jobs. I knew the rules. Knew how to handle myself. I didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t make mistakes. That’s why I couldn’t believe how fast it all fell apart.

It was supposed to be a simple transaction. Meet up with the delivery guy, collect the package, take it to the buyer, and return with twenty grand in crispy notes. My cut? One grand.

Easy money.

But when I step into the alley behind the bar, the delivery guy is already dead. Blood pooling beneath his head, glinting black in the darkened alley. I ignore his dead state, and quickly searched him for the package, but It’s gone.

My mind hammers because dead men don’t speak, and in the world I live in, who is to vouch that I didn’t kill this guy and take the package? Just as I stand with my hands stained with his blood from searching him, I see Carlos Mendes, one of the Colombian street lieutenants, stepping out of the shadows. He glances from the body and then at my blood-stained hands.

“What have you done?” He asks in fury that could bring down a building.

“I didn’t do it,” I say, my voice steady despite the thundering in my chest.

Mendes steps closer, his eyes dark and sharp beneath the dim light. "Didn’t you?” His eyes stray to my blood-stained hands.

"I was only looking for the package.”

Mendes’s smile sharpens. "Of course you were."

He stretches his hand and I know he is asking for either the drug or the money.

“I don’t have any.”

He nods toward the two men flanking him. Large and heavyset, with dead expressions. “Frisk him.”

They do a thorough search of me but find nothing.

"Twenty thousand dollars. Or the product. You have twenty-four hours."

My stomach tightens. "I don’t have that kind of money."

Mendes’s smile deepens. "Then you’d better find it." He steps closer, the toe of his boot brushing against my shoe. "Or maybe we’ll just take it out in flesh directly."

My breath turns sharp. I knew how this worked. They didn’t care about the money or the drugs. They cared about the message. If I didn’t pay or deliver, they’d make an example out of me. A bullet in the head, if I was lucky. A slow death if I wasn’t.

Mendes pats my cheek lightly before turning away. His men follow, disappearing into the shadows at the end of the alley. I stand there for a long time after they’re gone. Aware that I am already dead; I just haven’t hit the ground yet.

The next evening, two gigantic men come for me. I barely make it three blocks before Mendes’s men corner me. A black van screeches to a stop at the curb, and before I can run, a fist slams into my gut, knocking the air from my lungs. My knees hit the pavement hard. A boot crushes down on the back of my neck, forcing my face against the concrete.

"Boss wants to see you," one of them says.

They throw a hood over my head and drag me into the van.

The first blow lands across my ribs. A dull crack is followed by a burst of pain that explodes through my chest. My arms are tied behind my back, rope cutting into my wrists as Mendes’s men take turns working me over.

The room smells like sweat and mildew. Concrete walls. No windows. A single bare lightbulb swings overhead, casting distorted shadows along the walls.

I lose count of how many times they hit me. My lip splits. My nose cracks. The left side of my face swells until I can’t see out of my eye. My blood and spit soak into my shirt, sticky and warm.

"You should’ve run," Mendes says, crouching in front of me. He tilts his head, studying me with a faint smile.

I spit blood onto the floor. "Didn’t seem worth the effort."

Mendes’s smile sharpens. He stands and gestures to the men behind him.

"Try harder," he says.

By the third day, I’m barely conscious. My head throbs with every ragged breath. My wrists are raw from the rope. My body screams with pain every time I move.

Mendes steps into the room, rolling his shoulders. "Time’s up, boy. Done having fun."

I lift my head. Barely. "Guess you’ll have to kill me then."

Mendes crouches in front of me, his dark eyes narrowing. "That’s the easy way out." He gestures toward one of his men, who steps forward, cracking his knuckles. “We don’t do easy here.”

A knock at the door cuts through the room, causing Mendes to swear angrily.

"What the fuck is that?"

The door bursts open and two men walk in. His men draw their guns but go pale at the sight of the two intruding men.

The first man is tall and lean, with sharp features and dark eyes that sweep over the room with quiet calculation. The second man is broader, and taller. His dark hair is slicked back, and his eyes—pale and hard—fix on Mendes with unsettling calm.

Mendes steps back. His mouth tightens.

"Dillion," he says stiffly.

What the fuck! Dillion?

Everyone in our line of work has heard of him, but few have actually met him. The taller man steps forward. His gaze drops to me, then back to Mendes.

"Release him."

Mendes’s mouth tightens. "He owes me twenty grand and the life of a trusted street soldier."

Viktor’s gaze sharpens. "Look to your own men for answers. Juan pulled this off. Simple intel on the street can confirm it. Your men set this young man up. I think he stuck his dick in the wrong girl."

“What are you talking about?”

“Juan has his eyes on a girl, but she wanted our young man here, so Juan thought to set him up for a painful death.”

What the hell? This is about Anna? A girl that practically begged me to screw her?

Mendes’s gaze darkens.

"And why the fuck should I let him walk?" Mendes asks.

Viktor’s mouth curves faintly. "Because I have been watching him. I recognize talent when I see it. And his talents are wasted on you."

My heart skips a beat at his words.

I may fucking yet live.

Mendes’s jaw clenches. But he doesn’t argue. He knows exactly who Dillion is and what he is capable of doing. With all my years on the street, I have only heard his name whispered, but I’m yet to climb high enough to deal directly with him. He is a ruthless enforcer for the Colombians.

Mendes doesn’t have enough muscle to challenge him.

"Thirty grand," Mendes says coldly. "That’s the price."

Viktor slides a hand into his jacket and pulls out a thick stack of cash. He tosses it onto the floor.

"Consider it a gift," Viktor says.

Mendes’s gaze flicks toward his men. "Cut him loose."

The ropes at my wrists loosen. My arms drop limply to my sides.

Dillion steps toward me and crouches down. His intense blue eyes meet mine.

"You work for me now," he says quietly in Russian. I don’t trust him. But I know better than to turn down a man like him.

He stretches out his left hand, and my hand closes around his. His grip is strong and steady as he pulls me to my feet. My legs buckle, but his hand doesn’t let go.

After spending my first five years working for him, he had grown to trust me enough to reveal his true identity: he is not just any Russian mobster; he is Bratva royalty, set to lead after his father. And by the time I’m thirty, I have become not just Viktor Makarov’s enforcer, but his friend.

And I owe him my life.