Page 4 of Deviant Need

Smiling, I look at the tree one more time before we break through the tree line, heading back to the house that hates us. The tree is our secret, something they can’t ruin or take away or tell us we’re not allowed to have. It belongs to just us.

Chapter 1

Daniil – Present

The car window blurs in front of me as I chew my nails down to nothing, and blood coats my tongue with that familiar metallic taste. The raw skin burns where I tore my thumb too deep, but I can’t stop. My other hand picks at my sleeve, pulling threads loose one by one, the repetitive motion the only thing keeping my brain from spiraling completely.

This is stupid. Beyond stupid.

If my father found out about this, I’d be fucked. Not the regular kind of fucked where he yells and throws things. The real kind. The kind where he looks at you with those dead eyes and you know you’ve crossed a line you can’t come back from.

Roman made it clear when I was young: I’m an Avrorin. Questions about before don’t exist.

That topic is buried, and asking about it is basically saying his family isn’t enough, so I never did. I’ve spent my whole life wondering anyway, though. Who my biological parents were, where I actually came from, why they died, and how I ended up here.

It took me days to work up the nerve to tell Mikhail I wanted to do this, but when I finally did, he didn’t even hesitate. He said I should go for it if it’s what I needed, that maybe taking a DNA test would give me some closure. We agreed immediately to keep it between us, that the rest of the family couldn’t know, especially not our parents.

Roman and Lina raised me and are the only parents I’ve ever had. The life they gave me is complicated, which is the understatement of the century when you factor in the whole criminal empire situation, but I’m okay with it.

Because this life, messed up as it is, gave me Mikhail. He’s been my constant since we were kids, the one person I can count on, the one thing in this entire disaster of a family that has never once felt uncertain. I go quiet, he gets loud. I pull back, he pushes forward. It’s been that way since we were kids.

I love my family. I wouldn’t replace them for anything, not even for a normal family where people discuss normal things over breakfast instead of which rival needs to disappear by Thursday. Not that contract killings bother me. I don’t have a moral high ground here, stopped pretending I did years ago.

My role is finding people. Breaking into systems, tracking locations, running data across every branch of the family’s operations. Not just New York but the entire country, Europe, the Balkans, Russia, anywhere really. Thousands of names. Thousands of people I’ve tracked down and handed over to be eliminated.

I didn’t understand any of that when I was young. I thought we were just rich. The older I got, the more I understood what the Avrorin name actually means.

Roman comes from generations of Russian mafia royalty, old dynasty power that predates the Soviet Union, survived its collapse and came out stronger on the other side.

His family wrote the codes everyone else still follows. The vor v zakone structure, the rankings, the laws about loyalty and blood, all of it built on foundations his ancestors created.

Other families cross themselves when they hear our name because they know the stories their grandfathers told them about what happens when you challenge an Avrorin.

When Roman moved us to America, I remember the private jet, remember him telling us we were going to build something bigger. He did.

Every construction contract flows through him now. Every police captain knows to look the other way. Judges retire early when they make the wrong ruling, and half the city owes him favors; the other half owes him money. Nothing happens in New York without his knowledge or permission.

Roman has never treated me differently from his actual sons. He’s easier on me than he is with my brothers, and Lina protects me more fiercely than she does her own blood, but sometimes I catch her looking at me with this guilt in her eyes.

Okay. I think about it for real this time.

What’s the worst that could happen?

No, actually, I can’t answer that. With this family, the worst is always worse than whatever I imagine, and the thing I keep landing on is my father finding out. That’s it. That’s the ceiling of bad.

The deepest breath I can pull burns in my lungs from the pressure, and then I push the car door open and slam it behind me. Pulling up my hood, I tug the sleeves over my hands. The fabric sticks to my damp skin.

It’s scorching outside. New York summer hitting that sticky, unbearable heat that makes you question every life choice leading up to this moment. The hoodie stays on in ninety-degree heat because it hides what’s underneath. Sweat pools at the small of my back, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out on this sidewalk.

The building’s smaller than I expected. Clean glass front, generic signage, and it’s private DNA testing. They won’t sell your information, or so they claim.

I spent hours researching before I contacted them through an encrypted email, because growing up in this family teaches you one thing faster than anything else: trust no one, verify everything, and assume someone’s always watching.

The woman behind the desk stops typing and looks up. “Good afternoon, do you have an appointment?”

Obviously. That’s why I’m standing here at the front desk instead of just wandering around like a lost idiot.

The words stick. Won’t move.