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The next twenty minutes as we drove through Vegas and back to my crappy apartment went by in a blur. I didn’t question why they hadn’t just grabbed my stuff when they’d taken me from my apartment. I didn’t wonder why they were even giving me this small “act of kindness”. I didn’t ask or care because in the end they didn’t care. Hell, for all I knew this was all an act tomake me more compliant, to make it seem like things weren’t as bad as they were.
In the end my feelings and wants and needs, my comforts didn’t matter.
I couldn’t think straight, was sweaty and shaking, and I felt the glaring looks of the two men who sat on either side of me.
Before I knew it, I was hauled out of the back of the car and taken up to my apartment. Because my place was as shitty as they came, anyone we passed—even at this hour—minded their own business. They were either addicts and not coherent enough to care, or they knew who the men trailing me worked for and were too afraid to intervene.
“Grab your shit,” one of the men said harshly as he pushed me into my apartment after the door was opened. It was shut behind me, and I started making my way toward my room, when I felt a tight grip on my forearm stop me.
“If you do anything stupid, I’ll fucking beat you and say to hell with grabbing your shit. Got it?”
I didn’t look at the prick who spoke the words, just nodded and tugged my arm free. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“Make it quick.” His words were clipped as he followed close behind me.
Before I could go inside, he pushed his way in front and surveyed the bathroom. It was tiny and old, with rust and calcium deposits and stains on the tub and sink, a small window above the tub. He went over to the window and tried opening it, and I held my breath, praying it held. It was old and janky, but I’d rigged it a certain way that I could open it where others would see it as sealed shut.
And when it held strong, he moved away, and I exhaled. He checked under the sink, presumably for weapons, but all he’d find was a couple of cleaning supplies, which he removed. What did he think I was going to do with them?
“Make it quick,” he said again and left me alone, and I was shocked he allowed me to close the door. I wanted to thank whoever was listening, but I didn't have time. No one would help me but myself.
I opened the door under the sink, and as silently as I could, I popped up the loose wooden board where my bag was held. Once I had it, I grabbed the cheap sneakers inside, threw on a long-sleeved shirt, and made sure the money and gun were still tucked away. And then I went over to the toilet and flushed it, then quickly went to the window to pry it open. I hoped the flushed toilet would mask the sound of me opening the glass.
Once it was pried open, I tossed my bag out, my apartment fortunately close enough to the ground that I wouldn't break a leg jumping out.
I was halfway out when one of the assholes pounded on the door and barked out, “Hurry it the fuck up.” And just as I swung my body out the window, I saw the bathroom door open and the prick barrel inside. His gaze latched on to me instantly, his eyes narrowing and a curse ringing out.
I landed on the ground and grabbed my bag, then ran like my life depended on it.
Because it did.
2
Arlo
Present day
My mother had been called a whore.
My father had been aboyevik—a soldier—for the Bratva.
I was an orphan at the age of eleven. A criminal at the age of twelve.
I was a murderer when I turned sixteen.
And here I was, fifteen years later, a coldhearted bastard.
You could have summed up my life in those details. The particulars didn’t matter. The people I’d come in contact with were inconsequential. It was easy to pretend to have interest. It was effortless to act like I had a heart.
I’d been told a lot of things during my life, lies to make me fall in line.
“Your mother was nothing but a cheap slut. Women like that don’t last long. They’re used up and thrown away. They serve their purpose that way.”
That had been one of the longest, most “heartfelt”—in my father’s eyes—conversations he’d ever had with me. The truth, I’d later learn, had been far from what he told me.
I’d been taken from my mother’s arms shortly after she’d been forced to give birth to me, thrown into the home of strangers associated with the Bratva—the Russian mafia. From the moment I drew my first breath, I’d been indoctrinated to the life of a criminal. Of death and hatred and loyalty to only one entity.
My mother had been a young Russian girl who had hopes and dreams. That was the fantasy I made up. That was the fantasy she was no doubt told to stay pliant and submissive. Hope could make anyone do whatever you wanted.
