Bratva Beast (Bravikov Bratva #1)

Chapter 1

THIRTEEN YEARS LATER

ISABELLA

“ Isabella?” Papa’s voice bellows from behind the closed door. The extensive house has an open first floor decorated out of a home and garden magazine. Warm browns and rich blues accent the antique furniture and the twenty-four inch travertine tiles. Papa’s decorator has redone the place twice since I moved out to go to college.

“Isabella?”

My feet start moving before my brain registers that I’m headed into the lion’s den. He’ll be angry that I didn’t come in after the first yell. Taking a big breath, I blow it out as I open the door. He sits, leaning back behind his Louis XVI Mahogany desk that once belonged to JFK in the first-floor study of his Long Island North Shore estate. I cringe, ducking my head, bringing it up to stare into his powerful face. “Papa.” He looks older than his mid-fifties. Thinning hair and a paunch stomach don’t change the fact that women crawl all over themselves to have him. Money and power trump good looks.

His impatient tone brings me back to the room. “Sit. We need to talk.”

Oh shit. This can’t be good. Mikhail Bravikov is the Pakhan of the Bravikov Bratva. He took me into his household when my father, his number one enforcer, was murdered, and my mother wasn’t an option to keep me. He became my guardian, and I became his ward. I’ve lived here, off and on, for the last thirteen years. I take the seat on the left, in front of the desk.

He purses his lips. “I spoke to your advisor.”

I’m starting my fourth year of medical school at Vagelos College of Physicians and Surgeons at Columbia University. It figures he’s keeping track of me. My heart is racing. What did my advisor say to get Papa to call me home?

“Your advisor tells me you’re brilliant. Your professors love you.” He settles back with a cheshire grin, like Garfield, the cat. “I would expect nothing less.” He cracks his knuckles and leans forward. “I’ve decided you need to move out of your apartment.”

Don’t react. Be calm. Remember, he plays games. “May I ask why?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m worried about Cynric. He hasn’t been the same since his accident. He lives just down the street from your school. You’ll live there.”

I take a slow breath. “My current rotation is at Harlem Hospital. It’s a much farther distance from Cynric’s.”

“I had you moved to Irving Medical Center.”

That’s not what I want. I’m getting valuable experience at Harlem. “Okay.” My peers are going to eat me alive for this change. Resignation bubbles from my core. It’s not like I can change his mind.

Papa’s demeanor shifts and the hardness I’ve grown accustomed to seeing appears. Crap, I didn’t hide my irritation.

“This is my decision.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. I will go to my apartment and get my things and go to Cynric’s.”

He waves his hand. “It’s already done. Saxon took your things.”

I nod. I hope Saxon didn’t go through my things. Serve him right to find my dildo. I’m careful not to laugh and refocus on my guardian. “I’ll head to Cynric’s after class.”

“Please do.” He stands, then I stand. “I’d like for Cynric to rejoin the world.”

My brow peaks. “Not sure I can do anything to effect change with Cynric.”

His eyes narrow. “I’ll speak with you a couple times a week, and you can share how he’s doing.”

“Yes, sir.” I wait for his nod of dismissal and walk to the door. He says he’ll call, but he never does. I hug the housekeeper as she opens the front door. Grabbing my backpack, I walk to the black SUV idling in the drive. Cynric is papa’s oldest son, always groomed to be his successor, but Cynric was badly injured in a car racing accident and disfigured. He’s been a recluse in his Manhattan penthouse ever since.

CYNRIC

My cell rings, and I snag it off the desk. “Papa?” I can sense his irritation before he speaks.

“Cynric. I’m sending Isabella to live with you.”

The image of thirteen-year-old Isabella slams into my brain. “Why?”

“She needs a place to live, and you’re right down the street from her college.”

“How old is she now?”

My father grumbles. “She just turned twenty-five. If you hadn’t been hiding in your cave, you’d be aware of what was going on in the family.”

Fuck. I shouldn’t ask questions. “Okay. I’ll have the housekeeper set up a room. Anything else you want me to know?”

“No. She’s your responsibility.”

Why would she need me to look after her? “Is there a problem?”

“She’s beautiful, and I haven’t decided who she should marry. I want her kept safe until she goes to someone that will protect her with his life.”

“She’ll be safe, Papa. I guarantee it.”

“Good. And it’s time for you to leave your condo. I’m not getting any younger.”

Fuck you, old man. I don’t need you telling me how to live. “Someone’s at the door. I’ll speak with you later.”

He growls as he ends the call, and I blow out my breath, trying to remember what his ward looks like. He became her guardian after that night we took her home. I don’t remember the last time I saw her. My hand instinctively rubs up the side of my face to my hairline. The rough skin reminds me I resemble a beast. I am a beast. A distant memory hangs in the back of my mind. Isabella standing next to my bedside holding my hand so I don’t scratch the bandages. The thought drifts out of reach. I bark at my housekeeper as I exit my study. She needs to prepare a room. I lied to my father. No one could come to my door without me knowing it.

A little over an hour later, I’m back in my office as the elevator dings, and the doors slide open as I watch my security screen. My youngest brother and three cousins step off with boxes, suitcases, and a black trash bag overflowing with hanged garments. My housekeeper opens the door, and Saxon tries to hand her the clothes. I snarl over the intercom in the condo. “Take the stuff to the second bedroom. Don’t pawn it off to Mrs. Belova. She’s my fucking maid, not yours.”

The woman shuffles down the hall and opens the door to Isabella’s new bedroom.

I have cameras and audio for every common area in my condo and my building. I’ve set up my study to have everything I need to do my business. A large desk with a bank of monitors and a state-of-the-art computer network. The gym is located just steps away from my desk, and I can stare out at the best view of the city as I work out. Through the windows of the penthouse, you get a three-hundred-and-sixty view of the city.

I run the legit side of the Bratva and whatever else my father chooses to give me. Since my accident, I’ve found I want more security where I live, and I rarely choose to leave. I seem to only go out to execute our enemies. Papa is right. I have been absent. I shouldn’t care about the scars on my face and neck. No one would dare say anything, but I’m vain enough to hate the stares, and the more time I spend alone, the more comfortable I am away from people.

“Cynric?” My stupid brother yells from the hallway. He can’t enter. There are two locked steel doors between us, but he’s pushed the talk button on the speaker system. My penthouse is a fortress.

I press the button on my end. “What?”

“Izzy should be here any minute. What did she do to piss off Papa?”

“You’re such a woman with gossip. Fucking grow up.”

He flips me the bird, and I laugh. He’s nine years younger than me and a full-grown man-child. The elevator door slides open, and the most beautiful woman steps into my foyer. I can’t help but speak out loud. “Fuck me. She’s all grown up.” Perfectly chiseled bone structure reminds me of a supermodel. Her long, rich, auburn hair cascades down her back as her sharp gray eyes scan the foyer. She slides her backpack off her arm as Mrs. Belova meets her with a handshake. Isabella’s beautiful eyes smile at the older housekeeper. Her twinkling eyes remind me of her mother’s before life stole her future. “Isabella’s too innocent for her own good.” I growl as I will my cock to stand down. I want to see that waterfall of hair across my pillow. Shit. I can’t have her. She’s too young and way too inexperienced for me. Not to mention, Papa wants to give her to someone else. Her eyes dart to the back of the condo, and I can imagine my housekeeper is warning her off finding me. Saxon steps into the foyer, and Isabella flinches as he gets close to her. Mrs. Belova notices Isabella’s reaction and swoops her toward the kitchen. I flick the speaker. “Come here, Saxon.”

Why would Isabella be afraid of my little brother? I hit the button to open the two doors leading to my sanctuary and meet my brother at my door. I bark as he walks in and he startles. “Why does Papa’s ward fear you?”

His head flicks back and forth from me to the hallway. I step to him. I outweigh him by fifty pounds of solid muscle. My self-imposed exile has given me the opportunity to work out multiple times per day. I growl. “Why is she afraid?”

He stumbles on his words, which tells me he’s hiding something. He ducks his head. “I threatened her.”

A freight train pummels through my head as I search for a reason not to grab him and slam him into the wall. Clenching my fists, I demand. “Explain.”

He looks up, steeling his look. “There was an incident between her and Anton. I told her not to tell our father.”

There’s more to this story, but I don’t want to deal with him anymore. I’ll get the truth out of the little pixie. “Don’t bother her again, little brother. I won’t like it.” He nods and skulks back down the hallway. “Little prick.”

ISABELLA

Cynric’s housekeeper is really nice. She shows me the room I’ll have here in the swanky penthouse and then feeds me my favorite dinner: lobster mac and cheese.

“So, Isabella, what do you study?”

I set down my fork. “This is my fourth year of medical school. I plan to be a trauma surgeon.”

She nods. “Wow. That’s ambitious.” She glances at the kitchen and back at my bowl. “Oh. I’m sorry. What would you like to drink?”

“Water is fine.” The penthouse décor lacks warmth. The gray walls and monotone furniture with all the glass make the entire condo seem vacant. Would it have hurt the decorator to put in just a splash or two of color? White, black, and gray make the place seem like a prison.

The housekeeper beams. She’s too nice to live here with Cynric. He was an asshole before the accident. I’ll bet he’s even more rude and brooding than he was before. She smiles a knowing smile. “Do you know Cynric?”

I nod. “Yes. He’s Papa’s oldest son. I haven’t spent much time with him, except around his second surgery.” He’s always been cold, broody, and distant.

Mrs. Belova touches my hand. “He’s had a difficult time.”

I shrug. I don’t have any response. That man has never been easy. Papa called me to help with him after his second surgery to repair the graft on his neck. It was my job to keep him from scratching at the wound. Thank God for the heavy drugs that kept him out of it for days. My mind drifts back to his bedside.

The sterility in the hospital room seems more poignant as a visitor. The smell of cleaner permeates the gleaming white vinyl floors and stark white walls. My back aches from sitting in the hard plastic gray chair. I have pity for my future patients’ families, sitting in a dreary room waiting for their life to continue. I’ve sat next to his bed from the moment they returned him from surgery. Papa used his clout with the hospital to grant me access to recovery. The nurse has popped in to check on him. She’s inquired about who he is and why he’s important. I shrug. I don’t gossip, and would never say anything about anyone in the bratva. Every time he moves, I take his hand in mine. He drifts in and out of consciousness, rubbing his thumb across my hand as I hold it. Papa refused to tie his hands. I natter at him to pass the time. He often shifts back long enough to call me a woman’s name before he goes back under.

“Katia? I’m done with you. You can leave my bed.”

Her name is the sixth or seventh woman’s name he’s uttered. I sit quietly, offering a “sh,” as he rises out of his slumber. “Just sleep, Cynric.”

He mumbles as he falls back under. The morning of the third day, I wake to Cynric’s annoyed gaze. He slurs in Russian. “Why the hell are you here?”

I sit up in my chair and answer in Russian. “Papa wanted someone to keep you company.”

He frowns. “I don’t need you or anyone.”

I stand and walk towards the door to motion for Saxon to get the doctor. “Certainly not. I thought about tracking down Katia, but you dumped her, and it would seem mean to give her hope that you wanted her back.”

He cringes. “Who told you about Katia?”

“You’ve talked about her. Good thing I learned early not to pay attention when one of you speaks, or I could write a steamy romance novel about your exploits.”

The doctor strolls in with Saxon and Papa. Standing, I step to Papa. “I’m going to go home to shower and change. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He nods.

When I return, Cynric is asleep again with an older nurse at his bedside. She widens her eyes at me. “He yells a lot. I think it’s a good thing I don’t speak Russian.”

You bet your ass it is. They’d kill you if you heard stuff you shouldn’t.

We do this dance for two more days until the doctor is ready to bring him back to reality. I kiss Papa’s cheek. “Let me know if I can do anything else.”

He touches my cheek. “You’re a good girl.” He motions for Saxon to walk me out. “Someday you’ll be doing this whenever I need a doctor.”

I nod. I’m hoping to get into Med School far, far away from Manhattan.

Mrs. Belova clears her throat and my focus returns to the penthouse. I stand to take my dish, as she pulls it from my hand. “Why don’t you get settled? I’m sure you have class in the morning.”

Did my advisor send me an email about my change in rotation? I’m sure my leaving Harlem Health Center is going to damage my record. I walk out of the kitchen, noticing a blinking light in the corner of the living room ceiling. There’s a camera. Farther down is another light, and at the far end of the hall I see another perched over a stark white steel door. I wonder what’s behind the door?

My room is the second door off of the living room. I walk into my room, glancing around. I’m surprised there aren’t cameras in here too? The room has a queen bed and furniture. Boxes from my apartment sit stacked in the corner. The top box says ‘electronics’ in shitty handwriting. I scan the boxes for bedroom ones. I just need to get some sleep and figure out everything in the morning.

Thrashing in my bed, my dream takes me to the past.

I walk out of my room in our Pakhan’s estate. I’ve been living here for two years and do my very best to stay out of the way. Peeking around the corner, I scan for men. The kitchen is dark as I creep to the refrigerator. I open the door, casting a glow across the room. Shit. I flick my head around, searching for someone to notice the light. I grab the container of chicken salad I had for lunch and a soda. Mayo sits on the shelf, and I add it to my arms. I set the stuff on the counter and find the home-made wheat bread. Papa’s housekeeper is an awesome cook. It didn’t take me long to catch up to my expected weight after living with my neglectful mother. My mind reflects back to living with my mother and always feeling hungry and scared. I dismiss the thought and put on the small light above the island. Smearing the chicken mixture on the bread, my stomach grumbles. I add the second slice to the top and crack open the soda. The fizz tickles my nose as I take a sip.

A door slams. Mid-bite into the sandwich, having eaten half, I pivot my head to the door and debate if I have enough time to escape. I don’t. Three men trudge into the kitchen. Blood covers Cynric and two enforcers as they chuckle walking into the room.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen this scene. My father and Papa’s enforcers often came to the house in similar disarray. My father was a step-brother to Papa’s late wife, so I’ve seen the Bravikov Bratva life. The men’s voices still as they enter, and I refuse to raise my gaze.

“Isabella?”

I bring my eyes up first, before my face raises to focus on Papa’s oldest son.

He nods. “You’re up awfully late.”

“I. Um. I lost track of time while I was studying, and I was hungry.”

It seems like he’s going to ask more and a door slams shut. Voices carry through the foyer into the kitchen. Wystan clomps into the kitchen speaking in Russian. “You don’t have to go back. He’s dead.”

Cynric snarls. “I didn’t expect you’d kill him before we got the info.”

Wystan’s eyes snap to me, and I hold his gaze. “Fuck.”

Cynric shrugs. “She doesn’t care.” He glares at me. “Do you?”

I put the last bite of sandwich into my mouth. “Nope.” I put my dish in the sink and drop my can in the recycle bin. Ingrid, our housekeeper, is a stickler for recycling.

Cynric talks around me. “I got what I wanted before I left. I just figured he’d bleed out.”

Wystan grabs a drink out of the fridge. “I guess I moved that along.”

Eyes bore into the side of my face as I move to the doorway. “I’m going now.” Wystan steps in my path. I look up and cock my head. “Yes?”

He points his finger. “Don’t tell anyone what you see and hear.”

I nod. “I understand.”

He opens his mouth as Cynric scoffs. “Leave her the fuck alone. No one gives a crap about her or what she knows.”

I head to my room and close the door. “Truer words have never been uttered. Asshole.”