Chapter 1

LUCCA

3 YEARS AGO

Death greets me like an old bastard friend as I stare at the mutilated body of Timothy Mikhailov. The man who was like a brother to me.

The burned, disfigured version of what remains of him is lying before me on a slab in the morgue.

On the two slabs next to him are the lifeless bodies of his wife, Galina, and Evan, their three-year-old son.

Death was kinder to them. The bullet to their heads would have taken them quicker. I can only pray to whoever will hear me that they felt very little pain, and it was quick.

My gaze drifts to Evan’s tiny body, and a mixture of rage and despair rakes through me as I stare at the bullet wound.

He was a child, a baby, gone far, far too soon, gone from this world because of the evil that men do. I don’t have a paternal bone in my body, but when I remember the day he took his first steps toward Timothy and called him papa, I felt like a father then too.

This is not the first child I’ve seen this happen to, and he’s not the youngest I’ve seen either.

The youngest death—murder— I’ve seen is still my baby brother. I can say with certainty that my soul died that day so long ago from the moment I saw him, and a void of darkness filled that space inside me. But still, my heart beats with anguish when I see sadness like this.

I’ve seen the cruel hand of death more times than I’d like in my life. Unfortunately, this is one of the worst, creating a numbness inside me I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to shake.

The sting is always the same when it takes people I care about, and there aren’t many of those people left in this world.

Timothy Mikhailov was one of those few. His wife and child were like an extension of him, and they felt like they were mine to protect too.

Now all three have crossed over to the other side and are no more. They’re gone far, far away from me to the place I’ve tried to avoid.

The horrific scene before me reminds me that something human still resides in me under the hard exterior of the man I am.

Something that awakens my cold heart as well as that sense of helplessness I hate. The feeling pushes me to recall the only other time I felt this destitute. The same taunting vibe hangs in the air.

A tell that death came for retribution it felt it was owed. Maybe because every time death comes for me and I survive, it feels cheated, and I’m always robbing death of that satisfying finishing blow to end me.

This time death issued payback like a bitch, and it seems like it had help.

There are ligature marks around Timothy’s neck and angry bruises on his cheek.

That already tells me more than one person did this to him. One person would never have been enough to take down a man like him. More people were involved, and because of the skill set I know this man has, I’m going to assume it had to be a group of fuckers. And they could only have gotten to him if they’d weakened him severely first. I wonder if they used his wife and child to do that. It’s likely.

The rest of his body tells me the story that my best friend was tortured before he was killed.

The skin on his legs was burned off, and all that remains is the skeleton with burned flesh fused to it. So, all I see is burned flesh right up to his stomach, and that’s where the bullet wounds take over.

There are several on his arms and shoulders. In my world, you only shoot a man in those parts of the body if you want them to live so you can scare them into giving you information.

The three bullets in his chest would have been the finishing blow. The one in the middle is to his heart.

Why was Timothy tortured?

What did he know?

I saw him only two days ago. If there was anything that was going on, he would have told me. That’s how close we were.

Whatever happened to Timothy was planned. Planned well and executed by people who had skills akin to his and mine.

It would have been some kind of elaborate setup to tie up a man you wouldn’t be able to beat.

He was just like me. A Vor in the Bratva. Untouchable, formidable, and nearly invincible.

We are both part of the Pakhan, Grigori Ivanov’s group of elite enforcers he hand-selected to protect and serve the Yurkov Brotherhood.

We are assassins and in the Bratva for life. We are in to live and to die if we must like the Spartans of old.

But I do not think my best friend’s death was about our code of honor.

So, what did he die for then?

Gritting my teeth, I inhale the clinical smell of whatever the coroners used to clean the morgue. It’s strong and should eradicate the scent of the dead, but I can still smell them clinging to the cloying air.

“I can see your thoughts, moy syn,” comes a voice from behind me, speaking with a thick Russian accent.

The voice belongs to Damien Mikhailov, Timothy’s father.

“I knew you would come as soon as you got the message, moy syn,” he adds, calling me moy syn again.

It means my son in Russian. A title I feel unworthy of at this moment. Timothy and I have always had each other’s backs, and this time I wasn’t there to help him.

I’ve always felt honored that Damien would treat me like his own. He has since I was thirteen. After my family was massacred, he took me in and raised me.

Damien was my father’s best friend. Like my father, Damien is a brigadier. So, I was raised to become part of the Vory from that age.

His footsteps echo on the morgue’s stone floor as he comes closer, and I drag my gaze away from the demise of his son to look at him. I meet his bloodshot eyes as he stops a breath away.

“I did,” I reply in a raspy voice. “I’m sorry this happened, Damien.”

Expressing sorrow of any kind doesn’t come easy to me. You never hear words of sorrow leave my lips unless you deserve them.

“I know.”

My gaze drifts back to Timothy, and I look over his body, my eyes stopping at the areas that raise my suspicions. Damien said he could see my thoughts, so I’ll pass the shit and get to the point. “Timothy was tortured.”

“He was. Let’s talk out here. Out of respect.” He points to the door in the corner.

“Of course.” We make our way out of the room, but I still feel like I’m standing right next to Timothy. “What happened, Damien?”

“They got into his home. Most of his men were burned to a crisp, and others shot in the head execution-style. The same as his wife and his child.”

“How the fuck did that happen?”

“It was a setup, Lucca,” he clarifies, and my blood runs cold. “This did not just happen.”

“Who fucking did this?”

“The Pakhan’s lapdog,” he answers, and the cold blood flowing through my veins drains from my body.

Damien pulls out a silver ring from his pocket and holds it up to the light so I can see the insignia of our Brotherhood embossed in the center. Every member and high-ranking associate of the Yurkov has one.

The insignia is a griffin carrying a dagger. Next to the dagger is a unique number that identifies the member or associate. The ring acts as identification and a symbol of loyalty.

The number on this ring is 106. The sight instantly flares my temper, and I

snap my gaze back to Damien. “Where did you find that?”

“One of my police associates found it at the crime scene. He called me in before the Pakhan when he saw Timothy, and he took it before forensics could process it as evidence. It had Timothy’s blood on it, Lucca. My associate had it checked out and verified before I got here.”

I can only imagine that it must have been one of the associates still loyal to Damien. He would have known the consequences of fanning the flames of Hellfire.

Fanning the fucking flames of Hell is the only way to describe alerting Damien because that ring belongs to Governor Raphael De Marchi, and he is indeed the Pakhan’s lapdog. An instrumental weapon of great importance wielded by the Brotherhood.

I’ve grown up knowing that truth and watching him act like he’s from the royal bloodline. Entitled to the same benefits of the Bratva because of the alliance he has with us, and the Pakhan makes it so.

For me, though, that man has always been everything I despise, and my hatred for him runs deep. I’ve hated him since the day I first met him, and he spat on me for getting in the way of his car.

I was seven years old. If my mother hadn’t pulled me out of the way of his speeding car, he would have run me over like a dog in the street, and he never looked back. I’ve had no end of run-ins with that man, each time wishing I could kill his ass. Hearing he’s responsible for Timothy and his family’s death just cocked the hammer in my gun.

“He will pay for this with his life,” I growl.

I take one step to go, but Damien grabs my shoulder with his free hand and stops me. He eyes me with a seriousness that catches and holds my attention. I don’t know why the fuck he’s stopping me when we should be planning a war.

“What are you doing, Damien?”

“That man destroyed my son.” His eyes become glassy. He holds Raphael’s ring up to the overhead hanging light and shakes his head with dismay and desolation. “He destroyed my daughter-in-law and my grandchild. They’re dead, Lucca. Evan was only three. How could anyone be so fucking evil?”

A tear spills over his lids.

“Yes, so he needs to pay,” I bellow and ball my hands into tight fists. “Let me go and end him.”

“It’s not fucking enough, Lucca. I promised Timothy’s mother on her deathbed that I’d take care of him. She will not accept one bullet to the head that would put him six feet under. It would not give her retribution, and it would not compensate me either for the pain I feel.” Again, he shakes his head. “Raphael does not deserve the grace of death. Such a mercy is too good for him. Look at my boy, Lucca. He destroyed Timothy and made it look like his enemies got to him and his family. That’s what people are going to think. But with this ring, we know different.”

“We need to tell Grigori, Damien.”

“No. Lucca, do not stand there and tell me you think Grigori would punish Raphael when he brings in billions to the Brotherhood. This is not the first time Raphael has taken something from me. This is just the first time it mattered. Long have I been suppressed because of him. We are the only Brotherhood in the Bratva that would allow an Italian to have his ass in our elite group.” He bares his teeth. “Being governor has opened doors they wouldn’t have. Grigori would never exact the proper punishment on a man that is so useful to him. Not even for his own. None of them would do anything, Lucca, and you will probably be executed for helping me.”

I stare back at him and try to tamp down my rage.

Death doesn’t scare me. However, the truth does, and everything Damien just said is true.