A Treacherous King- Dark Mafia Romance

forty four

Caine

Eighteen Years Ago

I am sound asleep in my bed when I am suddenly awoken by the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

I bolt upright, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest. I quickly rip the covers from my body and reach under my pillow for the knife my father had gifted me a few weeks before. There was shouting downstairs, followed by more gunfire and the sound of thuds as bodies hit the floor. My father wasn't home. He was having dinner with a few of his associates and had left me in the care of Irina and a few of his men.

I couldn't imagine who would be stupid enough to attack my father at his home. I knew it was common for my father to sustain attacks at places like the docks or at the Grotto, but no one had dared to attack his manor. I had to do something. I couldn't just hide and wait for someone to come find me. It would displease my father greatly to know I had hid away like some coward while his men, my future men, took hits. Even at the young age of twelve he was constantly drilling business and tactics into my brain. I knew that this was a moment he had been preparing me for. I peeled my back from my bedroom wall and silently crept down the hallway.

The light from the foyer was on, the front door wide open. Glass was shattered all over the floor, and the stench of something metallic permeated the air. Blood, I realized.

There were several bodies littered on the floor, blood seeping out from them onto the tile. I only now realized that it had grown eerily quiet. The gunfire had seized and there wasn't any movement that I could detect. Maybe whoever had attacked had gotten what they came for and had fled before reinforcements had shown up.

Once I reached the foyer, I searched the bodies for any sign of life but they were unmoving. I recognized the bodies of some of my fathers men, their eyes glassed over and blood running from the corners of their mouths. The other bodies I didn't recognize. They wore bullet proof vests and AR-15s lay at their sides. I reached down to retrieve one of the ARs when a hand tightens around my mouth. My body instantly switches into survival mode. All the training my father had put me through pushes to the forefront of my conscious. I kick my leg back hard and make contact with my assailants shin. The man grunts and I use the brief moment of distraction to twist my body out of his grip.

"Ty, malen'koye der'mo." You little shit. The man spits. The man quickly recovers and comes for me again but this time I don't have my back to him. I make the mistake of assuming he's going to grab for me again but instead he lands a hard blow across my jaw. The force of it sends me stumbling back and I land hard on my ass. The guy levels his semi automatic at my face. My vision is swimming but I can make out the cruel expression on his face.

"Vy, dolzhno byt', syn Morozov. budushchiy lider Pakhana." You must be Morozov's son. The future leader of the Pakhan. He snarls.

"Ya okazhu Moskve uslugu, vyvedya vas." I will be doing Moscow a favor by taking you out. Right before he squeezes the trigger I clench the knife in my hand and bury it into his thigh.

"Yebat!" Fuck. He shouts. I quickly get on my feet and waste no time plunging the blade into the man's neck. He splutters, his eyes the size of saucers. The gun falls from his hands as he reaches up to try and pry the knife from his neck but I just push it in farther. He drops to his knees, as I pull the knife from him, blood sluicing from the gaping wound. I kick him hard in the back and his body joins the other bodies on the floor. His blood mixing with theirs.

My father always taught me that remorse was a weakness that the Pakhan couldn't afford. Regardless, I always secretly thought that I would feel a tinge of remorse for the lives that I took. But as I stare down at the man's lifeless body, and then at my hands and pajamas covered in his blood, I don't feel anything. Not even an ounce of remorse. Adrenaline coasts through me like wildfire, making me feel invincible. It was an addictive feeling, one that mixed with power and strength.