Page 18 of Savage Truce

She grips me tightly, letting out a soft sob. “I won’t survive losing you.”

“I’m not going to die.” I push her backward so I can lock eyes with her. “With the other organizations backing me, Yegor is outnumbered. It will all be over in an hour.”

Not having much of a choice, Mom latches onto the hope. When I lean down and press a kiss to her temple, she peppers my cheeks with kisses and gives me two hugs. “I love you more than anything, Rodian. Call me as soon as you’re able to. Please.”

“I will.”

Covering her mouth, Mom rushes out of the house to where Aunt Marina is waiting with open arms to comfort her.

I exhale slowly while turning my attention to my father. His coloring is gray from all the worry, and I can see he’s struggling to control his emotions.

“I’ll be fine,” I whisper.

He nods, then pats my shoulder. Just as he begins to walk, he pauses to haul me into a hug. A rough breath escapes him, then he pulls away and rushes out of the front door.

While my family climbs into the SUVs, I pull my phone out to call Andrei.

“Wait!” Artem shouts before running toward me. My cousin grabs my hand and shoves a scrap of paper into it. “Keep it on you at all times for protection.”

While he goes back to the SUV and gets in beside Aunt Marina, I look down at the paper and see it’s a cut-out of an eight-pointed star.

As the engines start, my fingers close around the paper and I press my fist to my heart while watching my family leave.

When I see them again, I’ll be the pakhan, the most powerful man in the Bratva.

Anastasia

Hanging the laundry, the autumn sun barely registers as it warms my skin.

The brick mansion behind me has been my prison ever since I returned to Russia.

There was no arranged marriage. My grandfather took one look at me and told my mother to remove me from his sight, or he would put a bullet in me.

Instead of being a bargaining chip for the great Fedorov family, I’m a disgrace. Not a day has passed where they’ve let me forget it.

“The guests will arrive soon!” Ms. Fedorova shouts angrily from the back door.

Right after my grandfather rejected me, she told me never to call her mother again, because I haven’t earned the right. I have to address her as Ms. Fedorova, as she took back her maiden name after my father was killed by the Cosa Nostra a few years ago.

I glance in her direction, and seeing the hateful expression on her face, my muscles tense with apprehension.

Here we go again.

“You better start preparing dinner, tolstukha. I swear if you embarrass me tonight, I’ll… I’ll…” Her temper spirals out of control, and she storms toward me.

Just like every other time she’s hit me, I’m unable to cower or beg for mercy. Instead, I stare her dead in the eye even though I know it will anger her more.

You’d think after five years I would’ve learned pissing off my mother never ends well for me. I can’t help myself.

Although she calls me ‘fatso’ every chance she gets and abuses me daily, there’s a stubbornness that’s taken up residence in my chest, and it refuses to bend the knee.

The sounds of the slaps as her hand connects over and over with my cheek echo across the backyard while the sharp burns seep into my skin and force my head to the side.

A thousand comebacks gather on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to keep from saying any of them and digging a deeper hole for myself.

Dropping the wet towel in the basket, I begin to walk to the house so I can prepare dinner, but my feet instantly halt when Ms. Fedorova shrieks, “Are you fucking stupid? Finish hanging the laundry!”

Letting out a heavy sigh, I turn around and bend to pick up the towel again.