Forced By the Ruthless Bratva Beast (Tarasov Bratva #3)

Chapter 1 – Roman

My shiny black shoes clicked against the linoleum floor as I walked through the hospital corridor. The air was filled with the smell of antiseptic and disinfectants. A hand was tucked in the pocket of my plain and impeccably tailored black pants as I navigated the hallway.

The Tarasov Bratva had occupied a section of the hospital’s sixth floor, and no one that wasn't family or friend was allowed up there. The huge men in black suits slightly bowed their heads as I approached the elevator with Boris Smirnov by my side.

Boris was my right-hand man, a ruthless, cold-blooded killer who answered to no one but me. He was a little taller than I was, with more ink on his skin than a Chicago newspaper's Sunday edition. The man's eyes were cold, dark, and hollow, and he wore a signature frown that accentuated his ruggedness. Boris limped when he walked; however, it was almost undetectable unless one looked closely. But the aura he exuded never left room for people to look at him more than once. The man was a scary bastard with a wrecking ball for a voice that always crushed spirits before his fists shattered bones.

Just like the tats on my body, Boris's told the story of each soul he'd sent to hell.

Boris was called “The Bull,” a nickname he earned after single-handedly taking down a mindless, raging Spanish Fighting Bull in an underground tournament. The monster's horns were as long as Boris's arms, yet he somehow managed to grasp them after a long wrestle. He'd held on tight before snapping the beast's neck with a sickening crack. However, his victory came at a cost—his left leg. The bull's horn had dislocated his bone during the fight, hence the reason he limped while working.

But as mindless as he was, he was still my most trusted enforcer, and he'd proven his loyalty countless times.

One of the men manning the elevator pushed a button, and the door slid open with a soft ding. Boris and I stepped inside, it shut, and I pressed the button to the sixth floor.

It was a smooth, silent ascension, and when we arrived at our destination, we walked out of the elevator. I could feel their gazes on me even before I jerked my head off the floor. The security was tight up here, and all eyes had shifted to the elevator door as the guards subtly reached for their weapons.

The moment they realized who I was, they stood at ease, lowering their guard and also their heads in respect. As I walked through the corridor, my expression stern—devoid of any emotions—I toiled with my cufflinks, my eyes fixed on the ward ahead of me.

I halted in front of the closed door and turned to Boris. “Wait here.”

He nodded, his hands crossed in front of him as he backed the ward, his attention focused across the hallway.

The door creaked open, and I walked inside to find my cousin, Kostya Tarasov, sitting on a sofa by the bed, his body leaning forward. My younger brother, Afanasy, was standing by the door, his back against the wall, and across the bed, Mikhail, my cousin, stood, towering over Sierra.

Sierra Tarasov was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands holding on to her husband's with tears in her eyes.

Her husband, Artem Tarasov, the Pakhan of the Tarasov Bratva, had gotten a liver transplant. It was successful, so I couldn't understand why she was being so emotional. He was out of danger, so why was she still sobbing?

I had great respect for Artem and his wife, not just because I was obligated to, considering their position in the family, but because they and everyone else in this ward were a part of the few individuals that I cared about.

Even so, I just couldn’t rationalize her behavior. Maybe this was because the concept of love and romance was alien to me; that would explain my inability to comprehend how Sierra was feeling.

Artem was lying on the bed, his gaze fixed on her teary eyes with a faint grin playing on his lips. He was the Pakhan , the most ruthless of all of us in this room, yet he was somewhat soft and smiley around his wife. I admired them—their bond and what they shared—but that was all it was: admiration.

I was on a different path, a path devoid of love and any sort of emotion. Romance wasn't for me; I closed that chapter of my life a long time ago.

“Roman, brother.” Afanasy's gaze met with mine. “Glad you could make it.”

“Of course. It was a call I couldn't ignore.” I embraced him before looking at Kostya. “How're you doing, cousin?”

“I've been alive.” He rose to his feet and wrapped his arms around me. “Good to see you, Roman.”

My response was a faint grin and a gentle nod. Then, my eyes darted to the beautiful woman sitting beside her husband. “Sierra, how're you holding up?” I placed a consoling palm on her shoulder.

“Better now that you're all around,” she said, jerking her eyes to look at me with a subtle smile.

“ Pakhan ,” I called softly, bowing my head, my tone laced with reverence. “Feeling better?”

He coughed after attempting to laugh.

“Take it easy,” Sierra said, gently rubbing her palm over his chest.

“I feel brand new.” He chuckled, his voice faint and weak but audible. “It'll take a lot more than liver failure to put me down.”

I flashed him a subtle grin. “I don't doubt that.”

“He'll be back to smashing heads in no time; that's for sure,” said Mikhail, arms folded over his broad chest.

“Not on my watch, he's not,” the wife objected, and there was some scattered laughter in the room. “He needs some time to rest.”

“You worry too much, Sierra.” Artem squeezed her palm and turned to face me with a corny smirk. “Could you hand me a cigar?”

I knew he was trying to tease his wife, and as expected, she fell for it and cast a stern glare at me, her jaw clenching. “Do that, and I swear to God, I don't care how big you are; I will throw you out the window.”

With my hands raised defensively in the air, I backed away. Artem laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“It's not funny!” She playfully slapped his chest. “You don't need that poison in you anymore.”

“But I have a new liver,” he said amidst blissful chortles.

Her eyes narrowed, a hint of exasperation dancing in her gaze as affectionate frustration was etched in her features.

They were the perfect couple despite being from two separate worlds. Maybe that was why they were such a great match: a cruel mafia boss and a sunshine girl with zero tolerance for violence. Sometimes, I wondered how they managed to make their marriage work, but each time, the answer eluded me. I wasn't ready for a lifetime commitment to anything that wasn't the Bratva cause. I'd torn the page of love and romance from my dictionary, leaving a jagged edge that mirrored the scars on my heart. Many people thought I was cold as ice, but they were wrong. I was colder than the frost that had formed inside me.

As good as Artem and Sierra made love look like, it just wasn't for me. And the only reason I could stand being around them right now was because of the respect I had for both of them. Besides, Artem had called us all here for a reason, and none of us knew what that was yet.

He drew in a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as his eyes swept across our faces. “I know you're all wondering why I called you here. So, I'll make this quick.” He groaned, shifting uncomfortably as he sat upright with the back of his head resting on a pillow against the wall. Artem sighed, clearing his throat. “I have an important announcement to make,” he began.

The rest of us exchanged glances, each wondering what Artem had in mind.

He continued, “With my recovery period stretching to two months, I won't be able to do much as the Pakhan .” Artem looked at our curious faces for a moment. “So, someone needs to take my place for the time being, at least until I'm fully recovered.”

Afanasy sighed and stepped forward, his confidence enveloping the room. “Alright, alright. I'll take the reins.” He lifted his hands, his lips curling into a sly smile. Afanasy locked eyes with Artem. “I know I'm the one you have in mind.”

My brother was only fooling around; he knew that if there was a list, he wouldn't even be on it, but he just couldn't help but make a joke.

Mikhail let out a dismissive laugh. “Don't kid yourself. The mantle wouldn't be handed to you even if you were the last surviving Tarasov on the planet,” he teased, a grin spreading across his face.

“Your faith in me is touching, cousin. I'm tearing up over here.” Afanasy said, a hand on his chest, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Enough banter.” Artem's voice returned the order in the room. “I've made my choice.” He paused, fixing his gaze on me. “Roman, you'll take my place as the Pakhan ,” he announced.

My brows rose instantly. I wasn't expecting to be chosen, and this was a huge honor, one that came with an even bigger responsibility. I could feel my brothers' gazes lingering on me, pride flickering in their eyes.

“I chose you because you're the most logical…” said Artem, further clarifying his reasons.

“No offense taken,” Afanasy chipped in.

Artem continued, “You don't waste your time and money on women…unlike some of you.” His eyes left my face and settled on Afanasy.

“Okay, some taken,” Afanasy said with a playful frown.

Kostya leaned back in his chair, chuckling as he turned to Afanasy. “He's not wrong, considering your last mistress almost drained your bank account.”

Afanasy combed his fingers through his dirty blond hair, his green eyes pinned Mikhail. “Well, at least I didn't get caught with a nightclub stripper.”

“Hey, that was one time,” Mikhail snarled at him, his brows furrowing.

I maintained a stoic expression, a faint smirk playing on my lips. “I accept,” I declared, my voice silencing Afanasy, whose mouth was shaped, ready to shoot back at Mikhail. “Thank you for this opportunity. It's a great honor to walk in your shoes. I will not disappoint.” My words were spoken with all sincerity, my eyes squinting slightly.

“I trust you, Roman,” he said, looking right into my eyes. “I know you'll do well as the temporary Pakhan .”

“Thank you, Pakhan Artem.” I bowed my head in reverence.

“Well.” Afanasy exhaled sharply. “Sucks to be you, buddy,” he teased with a wide smile. “Congratulations, brother.” He embraced me.

Kostya stepped forward to hug me as well. “The ice in your veins makes you the perfect man for the job.”

Mikhail stretched out his fist, and our knuckles collided seconds later. “I knew it was gonna be you.”

My gaze locked on Sierra, and she nodded her head with a smile.

Just then, the door swung open, and the visitor's walking stick came into view first before he appeared in the room.

“Uncle Ivan,” we all said at the same time, our eyes widening.

He laughed, strolling in with the aid of his walking stick. Uncle Ivan was pretty old, with gray hair and a gray beard that complemented his eyes. He was our hero growing up, and the tales of ruthlessness as a youth and his dedication to the Bratva cause still lingered on the fringes of my mind to this day.

In Tarasov history, no one was as dedicated to the Bratva as he was, and rumor had it that he would stop at nothing to defend the cause. He was still my hero, and I was working to someday be like him.

One by one, we paid our respect to this living legend who wouldn't stop smiling. One would think he was harmless until they heard his story.

Jorah, his bodyguard, was standing behind him. Uncle Ivan never went anywhere without him. Jorah's expression was stoic, and even while everyone else was smiling, his face was devoid of emotion. Everything was a threat to Jorah, so he was always on high alert.

“Sierra, darling.” Uncle Ivan smiled at her. “How are you?”

“I'm very well, thank you,” came her reply, and she mirrored his gesture.

“I came to check on you,” he said to Artem, going over to stand by his side. “How's the new liver?”

“I wanted to light a cigarette to test it, but…” Artem replied with a smile, stealing a glance at his wife.

The old man laughed. “I won't be able to help you when she comes for you.”

“Thank you, Uncle Ivan,” said Sierra, her gaze never leaving her husband's.

“Roman, my boy.” He chuckled, turning to face me. “I see you're already warming up as the acting Pakhan .”

My reply was a faint scoff, eyes darting to my feet momentarily. I wasn't surprised that he already knew this without anyone in the room telling him. Uncle Ivan always had his ways.

“Artem made the right choice.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I'm sure you'll do great. Best of luck, boy.” He beamed at me, his grip firm but friendly. Then, Uncle Ivan drew a deep breath, glancing around the ward. “I've missed these faces. I think I'll stick around for a few more weeks.”

“Excellent,” Afanasy exclaimed. “Now, we have two reasons to celebrate.”

I sighed, unable to hide the faint grin that spread across my face.

Who needed love when you had family?