Chapter 1

ANDREI

“Sir, it’s time,” Alexi says, sticking his head through the door

into my office.

I give him a nod and he retreats, leaving me alone. The virgin auction is tonight. As pakhan to the New York brotherhood, I’m expected to attend.

At thirty-two years old, I’m the youngest pakhan any brotherhood has ever had in North America. My lack of age and experience I compensate for with a heavy-fisted approach. The only way to retain power is to rule with an iron fist.

I was born into this life. A life I wouldn’t choose for myself, but often many aspects of life we have no control over.

This virgin auction happens every single year. I don’t enjoy attending, as I always make a purchase. It helps feed the image of me as a brutal leader. I buy a virgin every year to fuck and discard, at least, that’s what everyone believes.

No one is any wiser to the fact this couldn’t be further from the truth. Not even Alexi, my sovietnik, knows the truth. If they don’t want me to fuck them, I don’t.

The biggest turnoff for me is a woman who doesn’t want me. It makes me sick to think of the men that force themselves on these poor women. Instead, I put them to work in one of my many homes in America. Compared to the treatment they’ve endured over the past twelve months, life with me is a blessing.

I shut down my computer and stand from my desk chair. The fulllength mirror on my office wall draws my attention. As I stare at myself, I don’t recognize the man I am today.

I smooth down the front of my tailored suit and adjust my tie, making sure I look the part. A strand of my dark hair is out of place, and I slick it back. My beard could do with a trim, but I can’t be assed to fuck around with it right now.

The heaviness of my position weighs on my soul, crushing what little is left. Bratva life is blood and more blood. We thrive off of hurt, pain, and deceit which has been enough to destroy what I once was. There are remnants of who I was before, but they are in tatters, unrecognizable.

The auction happens in the city at a high-end club. One of our clubs, Strelka. We shut it down today for the auction—invitation only. The men who run the virgin auctions are the lowest of the low, even though they belong to my brotherhood.

They love breaking young women’s minds and torturing them for months. Most of the time, the women I buy can’t remember who they are or the lives they led before the slavers captured them.

I walk out of my office and find Alexi waiting for me. “The car is ready for you, sir.”

I give him a nod, saying nothing. He falls in step behind me, always ensuring he respects my position as the outright leader. Alexi has been a dutiful and perfect sovietnik to me since I became pakhan on my thirtieth birthday, two years ago.

“Is everything in order?” I ask, not turning to look at him.

“Yes, sir. We’ve paid off The NYPD to ensure there will be no disturbance this evening.”

We have several contacts in the NYPD, and they’re all happy to take bribes and turn a blind eye to our operations. The police are as corrupt as the organized crime groups in this city. More cops than you would expect line their pockets with anything we offer them.

“Good,” I say, stepping out of my Manhattan town house. Two of my men stand either side of my front door and give me a nod as a show of respect.

The bustle of people walking along the sidewalk and the drone of engines flood the air. A blacked-out, armored SUV waits in my space, engine running. I open the back door and slide inside, letting my head fall back against the headrest.

Alexi gets in the passenger’s side. Once he’s buckled in, Yakov, my driver pulls away from the house. Strelka is a ten-minute drive, dependent on traffic, which isn’t too heavy at the moment. I can’t understand why I’m eager to get this over and done with.

Public appearances aren’t my favorite pastime. There’s always a chance something might go wrong. This virgin auction brings pakhans from other North American brotherhoods of the Bratva. It’s a tense, alpha driven atmosphere. Everyone wants to be on top and prove their dominance.

There’s something so debase and unrefined about the traditions of the Bratva. When my father died, I wanted to change things. However, my men advised against it.

A leader who shows mercy and disgust for our own ways, the ways we’ve run things for years, is a leader another person can easily overthrow.

Instead, my closest brothers advised me to be brutal and fierce. Despite myself, I took the advice, knowing it to be the truth. I’m thankful I no longer live in Russia, the last time I was there, I vowed I’d never return. It is even more reliant on the Bratva ways of life. The brutality a step beyond what we experience here in America.

It was a blessing when the Moscow Elite drove me and my father away from our homeland. A place I don’t recognize anymore. America is my home now. I’ve been here since I was twenty-two years old.

We thrived here and the current leadership of the Russian Bratva couldn’t stand it. It’s the reason my they assasinated my father two years ago, while driving down this same street.

Bratva members from our home country had been trying to kill us ever since they drove us away. Two years ago, they succeeded.

I REMEMBER that day as if it were yesterday. The day I didn’t go with him to a meeting because I was sick with fever. A minute after he left the house, I felt the blast. His car had been blown up a hundred meters down the road.

It was the worst day of my life. My father may have been the feared and powerful pakhan of our outfit, but he was just Dad to me. A man who had looked after me since my mother abandoned the both of us early in my life.

His death only reasserted the truth he had tried to drill into me for years. An iron fists keeps control, not a soft one. His death was a defining moment for me. One that made me the man I am today. Ruthless on the outside no matter what.

My father had a weakness, and that weakness was me. People observed how he treated me, noticing that he had a soft side. It’s something I’ve concealed about myself, no matter the costs.

“We’re here, sir,” Yakov announces, pulling up in front of Strelka. I nod my head and get out, smoothing down my suit as I step onto the sidewalk.

Alexi is by my side in a flash, giving me an uneasy look. He’s always worried about me. It’s why he makes the perfect sovietnik. I had no siblings, but he’s the closest thing I have to a family in this world.

“Let’s try not to piss off any of the other pakhans this time,” he warns.