Prologue
MAKSIM
Twelve Years Old
“Pull the trigger.”
The voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. The gun is heavy, heavier than it looks, making my hands shake. They’re slick with sweat and blood, only I can’t tell which is mine. The smell burns. Metal, smoke, something rotten, and I breathe through my mouth, so I don’t taste it, but it’s too late. It’s already there. Iron on my tongue.
“Maksim…” he says again, sharper this time.
I grit my teeth and try to focus, try to keep my eyes on the man kneeling in front of me, but they sting, and I blink too much. But if I look away, he’ll hit me again. If I cry, it’ll be worse.
Don’t cry. Don’t shake. Don’t let them see fear.
That’s what he tells me. Uncle Pyotr. That’s what he beats into me with every fist to the face and boot to the stomach.
Be a man, Maksim.
Be the monster you were born to be. You're a Belov.
I learned early that tears don’t matter anyway, that begging is useless because no one ever comes for me, and they never will. They’re all dead.
Papa. Mama. Every single last one. It's just too bad they left me behind.
Now it’s just me. Me and the half-dead man bleeding at my feet, his life in my hands.
All those lessons, all that pain, everything they taught me all comes down to this.
“What are you waiting for?” he growls, breath hot against my ear, cigar smoke spilling into my lungs until I almost gag. “Don’t be a pussy, Maksim. Kill that bastard.”
I give a small, hesitant nod and steady my grip. And with a shaky breath, I force my finger toward the trigger.
“Okay,” I whisper, so soft I don’t even recognize my own voice.
I raise the barrel to the top of the man’s skull. All I have to do is pull. One twitch of my finger and I’ll never be that weak boy again. I’ll finally make Pyotr proud.
But then…the man lifts his head, and our eyes lock.
Blue. Not the dull gray I expected, but blue. Just like Papa’s.
Something twists in my chest, sharp and ugly. And I can’t breathe. His gaze isn’t begging, not even angry. Just…empty. Like he already knows how this ends. And then, worse than anything, the corners of his eyes crinkle. A faint smile, like he’s daring me. Taunting me.
Not him, too.
The world shrinks to the space between us, to my shaking hand, his broken body, and those blue eyes staring back. As the gun trembles in my grip, I realize it’s not the weight of steel anymore. It’s the weight of every ghost and all the pain I carry.
“No.” The word scrapes out of me, broken, like glass in my throat.
A hand clamps down hard on my shoulder, shaking me, snarling in my ear. “What the fuck did you just say?”
But I’m frozen. My eyes locked on the man bleeding out on the floor, and the faint smile still clinging to his ruined mouth. He doesn’t flinch or fight what’s coming. He just waits.
“No,” I repeat, louder this time, my shoulders squaring in defiance.
Not because I feel bad. Not because I’m afraid. Maybe if I push hard enough, Pyotr will snap and end this. End me too. And that would be better. Better than never-ending beatings, of knives carving lessons into my skin, of living as their dog.
I lower the gun, letting it fall, metal clattering to the floor as my chest rises fast, heart pounding so loud it drowns everything else—until the sharp crack of titanium whips across my face.
