Book 1: The Mafia's Father-Daughter Duo
Book 2: When the Princess becomes a Queen
Kylie McKlee spent her entire life in the Mafia, ruling as the British Underboss, and now, The Russian Mafia Boss.
As she digs deeper into the Mafia life, she uncover...
Trust is like glass; takes years to make, seconds to break
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Torture is one of the main things associated with 'Mafia'.
The knowledge that people willingly hurt another human being, whether it be with knifes or guns or fire.
That's not my method.
My method is manipulation and starvation. Playing with the minds of those who were unlucky enough to be handed to me, or stupid enough to betray my trust and family.
So here I sit, in the same seat I've sat in for twenty four years.
I've tortured hundreds of people when it came to my work, but no one has suffered as much as her. Just the way I wanted it.
The once feminine frame is a mere skeleton, her bright blue eyes dead and cold. Her body shaking from the chill of the basement, not even knowing it is summer time. The once long black hair cut down to her shoulders, a matted mess full of bugs and disease.
Anastasia Volkov.
The woman who I considered the perfect person for my father. The traitor who killed him, and permanently injured my uncle.
The reason why my brother and I had to grow up at the age of eight. The reason why I watched the life leave my father's eyes as I held him in my arms. Why I held my brother's hand as we sat by his comatose father for two years. Some people would feel a bit guilty for dragging out her torture for so long.
I am not one of those people.
All the caring I had for her disappeared the moment she pulled the trigger. The love I have for my father sat right in the centre of my heart, and when she shot him, I could almost feel it myself.
It was a gaping black hole, that took twelve years to heal. The hole which Ryan McKlee left was filled by Ryan Vasiliev.
Even Isaac couldn't fill the painful pit that held my love for my family, but he was one of the stitches. My son, nephew and daughter was the muscle that was put over the gap.
But even when my heart is healed, my mind is not.
Every night, I see the limp body of my father sprawled out across the grass of the Russian house. I still hear the cries of pain that emitted from her voice as soldiers beat her bloody. I can still feel Isaac's arms wrapped around me as I fought to get to my father's side. I can hear the echos of my heartbreaking screams.
That's something I love about the bond Isaac and I share. He knew his own father was hurt, but he stayed by my side when he thought there was a chance I could still be injured.
After that, we had never been so close. He stayed by my side while I broke down into a shell of who I was, I stayed by him when he was forced to watch his father suffer in a hospital bed for two years.
