novelxo Bratva Prince: Chapter 1
I checked the chamber of my gun, pulling the slide back just far enough to glimpse the bullet in the chamber before letting it go with a click. I adjusted my grip, holding it firmly in my hands with the barrel pointed towards the two-story house a few miles away.
I steadied my breathing, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself down despite the anger coursing through my veins.
My baby sister is in there.
From the moment she was born, it has been my job to protect her, to keep her safe and look out for her. And for all her life I’ve done that. Been there for her, comforted her when she was upset or when she was going through a hard time. Even though she was a grown woman now, in my eyes she was still that scared seven-year-old girl who would wake up screaming from nightmares in the middle of the night. The little girl who needed me to sleep at the foot of her bed to protect her from the bad dreams.
She needed me now more than ever, and I was prepared to do whatever it took to get her back.
Nero, Boss of the Chicago Outfit, had kidnapped her and now held her prisoner in the farmhouse a few miles away. He’d done it because he was angry about the Bratva’s involvement in his war with La Cosa Nostra. He wanted us to back off. Kidnapping the Pakhan’s only daughter was his way of trying to gain the upper hand. But all it did was piss my father off.
The weight of the Kevlar vest strapped to my chest was uncomfortable but necessary. We had no idea what we were walking into. I had one handgun strapped to my waist, another tucked behind my back and a P-90 hanging over my shoulder.
Father came up to my side, his anger like a dark cloud hanging over our heads as he scowled at the house. “Ty so mnoy. My zachistim kazhduyu komnatu, prezhde chem dvigat’sya dal’she. Nasha rabota – okhranyat’ dom.” You’re with me. We’ll clear every room before moving on. It’s our job to secure the house, he commanded in Russian, ramming a clip into his handgun. He tucked it behind his back and gripped his P-90 tightly in both hands.
I nodded once, taking aim.
Vladimir, Father’s Sovietnik came jogging over, slightly out of breath. He was relatively new to his position, but he proved everyday he was more than equipped to handle the responsibility.
“Charges laid, boss,” he panted, pulling out his gun. “A few rounds of C4 under two cars and one attached underneath the back deck near the back door.”
Father nodded. “Were you spotted?”
“No, boss.”
Not surprised. Vladimir was as light as a feather on his feet. He could go anywhere, move over any surface, without making a single sound.
Father turned as Arturo, Alessandro and Vincenzo walked up from behind, guns at the ready, a group of their own men at their backs.
I’ll admit, I didn’t like Arturo when I first met him. I didn’t like any of them. When Father first told us of their request for a meet, I was sceptical. I was sure they had some ulterior motive. That they were going to double cross us and try to take us out. I had sat the whole time with a hand on my gun, ready to put a bullet in their heads the second they made a wrong move.
I did my research on them. I learnt everything I could about them before that day, both from what I could find on the internet and through my own contacts. I dug deep into Arturo. I had to. If there was a chance he was going to marry my little sister, I had to make sure he was good enough.
In my opinion, he wasn’t.
Arturo had a little black book full of women he would call on the regular. To fuck. To use. He never kept a woman longer than a week and had no problem flitting from bed to bed. I wasn’t sure if he could keep his dick in his pants once he married my sister.
Even though Illayana tried to hide it, I knew she was a romantic at heart. She wanted an epic love. A love with trust, understanding and loyalty. Could Arturo give her that?
I wasn’t sure.
“Here’s the plan,” Father began, eyes on the Cosa Nostra men, “when we get in there, spread out. Go room by room. Find Illayana. Kill anyone you come across. Except for Nero. I want that bastard alive. He’s mine.” He glanced at my younger brothers, Nikolai and Lukyan. “You two are with Arturo.”
“Da Otets,” Yes Father, they both replied in Russian, nodding their heads.
“We clear?” Father asked when Arturo hadn’t responded.
Arturo’s blue-green eyes shone with fury and he glared, his grip on his gun so tight that the veins in his forearms popped. “Clear,” he gritted out.
Whether his anger was from the situation or from the fact that Father was giving him an order, I wasn’t sure. And quite frankly, I didn’t care. It didn’t matter right now. Only one thing did.
Getting my sister back.
Father nodded at Vladimir. “Blow it.”
In teams of two, we entered through the massive hole we’d created in the back of the house, plaster and wood crumbling beneath our feet. Smoke curled in the air, hindering my vision. Screams echoed in my ears as Father and I stepped into what was left of the kitchen and moved further into the house.
We didn’t have a floor plan for the place. We didn’t have the time to acquire one, so it was crucial we take the time to clear each room as we went. A few bodies laid on the floor, bloody and broken. I put a bullet in each of their heads as we passed, not willing to take the risk of them getting back up and attacking us from behind.
We all peeled off in different directions. Arturo, Vincenzo, Nikolai and Lukyan went left. Father, Alessandro and I went right. A mixture of Bratva and Cosa Nostra men split between us, some coming with us and the others going with them.
I kept a tight grip on my gun as we stepped into a large dining area, glass and broken pieces of furniture littering the floor. Three men rushed in. The barrels of their guns were the first thing I noticed and I took cover, flipping a long table over and shielding my body from their gunfire. Father and Alessandro joined me, firing back.
I poked my head around the side, lined up my shot and fired, hitting one of the fuckers right between the eyes. Blood exploded out of his head, splattering the walls. Bullets whizzed in every direction as an epic gunfire battle took place.
Using military hand signals, Father told me to rush them while he and Alessandro provided cover. I nodded, pulling out another gun so I had one in each hand.
They jumped up, firing relentlessly, forcing the men to pull back and take cover or risk getting shot. They each took shelter behind a section of wall, one on the left and the other on the right, leaving the entryway into the hall clear. Adrenaline pumping through me, I sprinted over to them and dove, rolling along the floor and coming to a stop on my knees right in the entryway. Before either of them could react, I flung both arms out to my side and fired, killing them both. I spun quickly, keeping both guns up as I scanned the rest of the room.
It was clear.
I got to my feet as Father and Alessandro reached my side.
“You move fast for a big coglione,” fucker, Alessandro said, wiping blood off his face with the back of his hand.
I grunted, tucking one gun back away.
“Alright, Alessandro, you and your men take the stairs. We’ll go right, down the hall,” Father instructed, reloading his P-90.
Alessandro nodded. He barked an order in Italian to his men and they followed after him, heading up a flight of stairs and disappearing around the corner.
Father laid a hand on my shoulder and tapped twice, signalling he was ready to go. Keeping my gun up, I took the lead, heading down the hallway, Father matching each of my steps with his own. He kept close to my back, his hand staying firmly on my shoulder as I led the way. When I turned, he turned. When I slowed, he slowed. When I crouched, he crouched. We were like one. Cohesive. Fluid. Both an extension of each other.
When the corridor came to an end, I plastered my back against the wall and peeked around the corner, checking if the coast was clear.
The hallway was empty. Not a single soul in sight. There were four rooms; two on the left and two on the right.
I tapped Father’s hand, which still sat snugly on my shoulder, letting him know we were good to go.
Like a well-oiled team we moved as one, footsteps quick and guns up as we hurried down the hall. I stopped at the first door on my right. Father stepped around me to stand on the other side. He gripped the handle tightly, his eyes boring into mine.
We’d done this same dance a thousand times before. Whether it be infiltrating a crack den or a simple B&E, the routine was always the same. We swept the place room by room, checking for any potential threat and eliminating them before they became a problem.
The drills Father put my siblings and I through prepared us for moments exactly like this. The training was rigorous. Bloody. Brutal. And I loved every minute of it. He would turn our warehouse into a giant obstacle course, filled with all different kinds of danger. From trip wires that released electric nets with enough power to knock us out, to Father’s men placed strategically throughout the space, armed with rubber bullets.
Do you have any idea how much it hurts getting hit in the nuts with rubber bullets?
A-fucking-lot.
Father’s lips moved, not making a single sound as he mouthed, “One, two, three.” He opened the door and I rushed in, quickly checking the space. It was a small bedroom. A single bed was tucked away in the far corner, with chains connected to the headboard and foot posts. The mattress was stained with blood, piss and God knows what else.
I wrinkled my nose at the horrid stench and turned around, walking back out. “Clear,” I said, heading to the next door.
We repeated the process, checking each room before moving onto the next. There were two more bedrooms exactly like the first. Except one of them had a naked, unconscious woman lying on the bed, her body bloody and bruised, as well as a tiny bathroom with no mirror.
All clear.
The hallway turned left and right, screams and gunfire echoing from both sides. Thudding footsteps reached my ears a moment before someone came bounding around the corner, running smack into my chest.
At first glance, I thought he was just a kid. He was definitely short enough to pass as one. No taller than 5’3. But the bushy beard and gang tats on his face proved he was anything but a child.
The man-child stared up, and up, and up at me, his eyes going wide open in shock.
I couldn’t really blame him. At 6’7, I was taller than most people. Not to mention that I worked out 24/7, so I was pushing a tight 240. My thighs were literally the size of his body.
Indecision flashed across the man-child’s face before he reared back and punched me in the jaw. Or tried to.
He didn’t quite have the reach, so instead of hitting my face, he got my chest.
The blow was weak, sloppy. But his downfall was the hesitation. If you’re going to hit someone, hit someone. Don’t half-ass it. Don’t second guess yourself—especially if it’s a matter of life and death.
I arched an eyebrow, raised my gun and fired, hitting him in the middle of the forehead. The armour-piercing round tore through his head, spraying blood and brain matter all over the walls. His body thumped to the ground. More footsteps echoed around me, like a stampede of gazelles were running towards us.
Father plastered himself to the wall opposite me, leaned over to get a count of how many Outfit/Zeta men were about to be on top of us and then jerked back. He held up four fingers.
Sweet. Two for him and two for me. I held up a hand to our men that had been following us the whole time, a silent message to hang back and let us handle it.
I reached behind me and pulled out my knife. I spun the blade in my hand, holding it in a reverse grip and brought it up to sit parallel with the gun in my right hand. I took aim and waited, my complete and total focus locked on the space in front of me.
Across from me, Father gripped his P-90 tightly with both hands, aiming it towards the sounds of rushing footsteps. The second someone stepped into view, I fired my gun, hitting him in the side of the head. As he dropped, I stepped forward and spun, my knife ramming into the chest of another guy as he ran right at me. He didn’t even see me coming, he just impaled himself right on my blade. All I had to do was apply the slightest bit of pressure to pierce his flesh. He did the rest.
The other two men had their guns aimed at me, reacting fast to the death of their comrades. I hunkered down, using the dead guy’s body in front of me as a shield. Father fired a stream of bullets, taking them both out before they could send off a single shot. Stretching my neck to the side, I checked the coast was clear before yanking my blade from the guy’s chest and letting him fall to the ground.
I wiped the blood on the sleeve of my shirt, cleaning both sides of the blade before tucking it back away.
Father stepped up to my side. “Good work,” he grunted, checking to see how many bullets he had left in his magazine. He must have had enough, because he didn’t bother reloading.
I inclined my head at his compliment. It wasn’t often Father gave them, so acknowledging it was the only thing I could think to do.
Father looked behind him into the darkness of the hallway. His head whipped back and a frown creased his brows. I knew why. We were going to have to split up to cover more ground. This place was bigger than it looked from the outside.
I hooked a thumb over my shoulder at the hallway behind me. “I’ll go this way. You go that way,” I said, pointing in the other direction.
Father looked like he was going to protest. I didn’t give him the chance. I looked at the group of Bratva men waiting off to the side for their next command. “You three with me, the rest with the Pakhan.” That gave Father a backup of six men. More than enough.
As I turned to walk away, Father spoke. “Aleksandr.”
I froze, but didn’t turn around.
“Bud’ ostorozhen, syn moy,” Be careful, my son. He said in Russian, a deep sincerity lacing his voice I’d never heard before.
The kidnapping of my sister must have affected him more than he was letting on. He never usually said stuff like that.
I nodded once and continued on, not turning back. I was a lot like my father that way. We both didn’t handle emotion very well. We were hard. Tough. Preferred to act instead of speaking.
With the Bratva men trailing behind me, we made our way through the house, checking each room we came across. We ran into a few more men, having to fight our way through. I fucking loved every minute of it. The brutality of it. The violence. The way it felt taking their lives. Ramming my blade into their bodies. The blood pooling on the floor. It was cathartic, in a way. Relaxing.
Well, it was for me anyway. I’m pretty sure normal people didn’t feel that way about killing. But I wasn’t normal. I was a blood-thirsty killer.
When we came to a set of wide, double doors I stopped, my head tilting as I studied it. Just from the door alone, I could tell whatever laid in the room beyond would be different to anything else we’d come across. I raised my gun and flicked my head to Erik, signalling for him to open it. Erik nodded, twisting the handle and flinging the door open wide.
I marched in, prepared for the worst and stopped dead in my tracks.