1
VAUGHN
AGE FIFTEEN
It’s hate at first sight.
For this setting.
For these people.
For the entire charade, really.
I truly believe this is a waste of time, and I would like to leave immediately if possible. Please and thank you.
Unfortunately, that’s not something Dad would appreciate, especially considering his parting words this morning.
You’re my pride, Vaughn. You go out there and show them what the New York Bratva are made of.
So here I am. In this absolute clusterfuck of a place, exchanging pleasantries and empty words with one of the mentors overlooking this mess.
Sorry, it’s called asummer camp.
The Adirondack Mountains aren’t exactly my ideal location to spend the summer. Usually, I’d be off to Russia to stay with my maternal uncles and cousins for some intense training or somewhere in the Mediterranean soaking up some sun. Not this year, obviously, as I haveto spend time in the mountains in what’s being described as a “historical” moment for the New York and Chicago Bratvas.
Also known as the strongest branches of the Russian mafia in the States.
As the Pakhan’s son, it’s my duty to represent my family at this camp. The mountain is supposed to be a middle-ground location, picked by both sides.
Apparently, our “mentors” for these hellish summer months are older people who are trusted by my dad and the Chicago Bratva leader since they served both sides. They’re “pure” Russian, as the house manager who’s now leading me to my room insisted.
Aside from the security surrounding the cottage-turned-dorm with its wooden walls and outdated common area, we’re not allowed personal guards or phones, and there’s no electricity after dark.
It’s a form of training—both physical and mental. A way to force us into relying on one another, to scrape at decades of rivalry that probably took root back in Mother Russia before my father even existed.
An old Russian ballad drifts through the halls from an ancient radio system, the melody warped by age. The house manager’s voice threads over it, polished and deliberate, speaking about the facilities and the “opportunities” this place offers.
While his refined Russian seeps into the air, my attention catches on the corners, the hairline cracks in the untreated wood…and then I see them. Small blinking cameras, half hidden.
Of course.
Doesn’t matter that Dad sent me here—neither he nor the leader of the Chicago Bratva trusts the other side. And with their heirs shoved into cohabitation, they’d both want full access to whatever happens here.
I let my gaze slide over the thick slabs of timber making up the walls, the clean but worn carpets dulled by years of footsteps, the rural paintings in faded gold frames, showing a romanticized version of eighteenth-century Russian countryside.
The windows capture my interest next. Unlike the scaled-down comforts of the cottage, they’re fitted with bulletproof glass. Too narrow for anyone to climb through—not that anyone could reach this place without an army.
The camp squats on an off-limits peak, far from any trace of human life, surrounded only by towering pines and an unbroken sky.
I can already tell this summer will be long.
And painfully boring.
Outside the large balcony doors, the grounds sprawl down below, with soldiers patrolling from both sides. I can tell they’re as wary as the rest of us, considering how each group keeps to half of the terrain.
There will be a lot of testosterone wars this not-so-beautiful summer.
I can’t wait for the hassle to be over.
