And that’s a good idea for a shitload of reasons.
“Are we seriously holding a funeral for your bike?” Cyrus stares between me and the rest of the Serpents’ club that has gathered here today to commemorate a legend.
They say nothing because, unlike Cy, they’re not safe from my temper—if they piss me off, they’ll be gone in a heartbeat.
Listen, I don’t remember the names of half the idiots who decided to join the club. Cy and the guards confirmed they’re clean, and since they’re the kids of other members in the Bratva, they’re kind of obligated to respect me on the outside, even if they disregard me on the inside.
Tough shit. They’re stuck with me.
The main reason our parents agreed to send us to The King’s U, a university funded by mafia money on the depressing coast of the United Kingdom, is that they have full control over the board, the grounds, and the mansion we live in.
Another reason is that the other club at the college, the Heathens, is run by the New York mafia kids—sans the actual heir, if I may mention; seriously, what’s the point?—and we just love getting into each other’s business.
Call it the Russian sense of camaraderie.
Anyway, the Serpents’ club was born just to antagonize the Heathens. It’s pretty recent—since Cy and I enrolled in college last year. Bro rejected all the Ivy League colleges in America just to be a pain in my ass. But I get it, really.
I don’t trust myself half of the time, so it’s a good call that he’s here with me. If he wasn’t, I’d already be worm food.
In short, this club is my personal stage for mischief and endless shenanigans. Partying, fucking, sneaking guys into my room, and bribing the staff so nothing gets back to my dad.
Let’s say he didn’t react well the first time he caught me with a guy. Almost killed me, actually.
He promised to “end the life he gave me” in the most painful way possible the next time I put my dick somewhere “unnatural.” So, yeah, I’m not in the mood to die yet, so I’ll be keeping the gay tendencies under wraps until further notice.
I still love the freedom of being so far from home. My dad can’t touch me or backhand me or kick me until I pass out.
Yes, it’s temporary, but it’s better thannothing.
Cy said I can’t trust any member in the Serpents’ club, especially not with my semi-secret sexual orientation, or they’ll use it to put a target on my back. Semi because Cy, Danil, and Mariana—my chief guards—know.
All the guys I’ve fucked know, too, but they’re not part of this world, so they don’t really matter.
Ihope.
Seriously, can I not get killed at twenty for literally justfuckingaround? Please and thank you.
Cy has the mansion under control—handpicked staff and guards whose heads he probably holds shit over—but the other members aren’t as solid.
They’re potential spies.
And because of that, I make their lives as uncomfortable as possible. That’s expected of me anyway, so why the hell not?
“Shh. Don’t listen to his nonsense, Zver. I’ll miss you so much.” I pat the remnants of my baby that are holed up in the back of a van. I’ve kept it in the garage since the brutal murder a few days ago, but Cy insisted on getting rid of the “scraps of metal.”
He got punched for calling Zveroushka mere scraps of metal.
“This is absolute nonsense,” he continues nagging to my right, like an annoying fly. “You should be focused on other important matters.”
“Don’t blaspheme. Nothing is as important as the death of my baby.”
“How about the one who caused the death of said ‘baby’?”
I shake my head, feigning sadness. “I even sacrificed my Zveroushka, and he’s still running away. Isn’t it sad?”
“It should be enraging, not sad.” Cy lowers his voice so only I can hear. “Someone breached our security and managed to blow up your ride?—”
“Mybaby.”
