Page 37 of Bratva Menace

Something soft smacked me in the face. I woke instantly, my body reacting before my mind. The leather hilt of the knife tucked beneath my pillow at all times was gripped between my fingers as I jumped up on the bed, knees braced, arms up defensively, ready for any attack that could come my way.

My big brother was leaning against the doorjam, one foot crossed over the other, arms folded, and a shit-eating grin on his face.

I glared and threw my knife. Aleksandr didn’t move a muscle, not even when the blade embedded deep into the wood right next to his head.

“You big-headed asshole!” I hissed. “I told you I need to be woken up calmly and softly from now on. I have PTSD from the last prank you lot pulled on me in my sleep.”

Aleksandr rolled his eyes. “You do not have PTSD.”

“Yes, I do,” I stated adamantly. “My therapist said so.”

“You don’t have a therapist anymore because you ended up fucking your last one.”

My lips curved. “Oh. Right.” I took notice of the time on the clock next to my bed and let out a groan. “Why the hell did you wake me up? My flight doesn’t leave for another five hours.”

“Come with me.”

“I don’t wanna.” I collapsed back onto the bed and threw my arm over my eyes.

Ain’t no way. Ain’t no fucking way.

I’d stayed up late the night before, well into the early hours of the morning, just hanging out and spending what little time I had left with my family before the big move. There’d been drinking, laughter, constant bickering—our usual. And I had committed every second of it to memory.

Despite the fact that I was hungover and tired as all hell, it had been worth it.

“Lukyan.”

The seriousness in Aleksandr’s voice made me peek out from under my arm. On the outside, my brother was colder than Antarctica in winter. But on the inside, he had a heart as warm as the sun. He hid that kindness behind an impenetrable wall, only allowing it to be seen in rare and important moments.

This was one of those moments. I could see it—a sense of fear and fragility on his face I’d only ever glimpsed once or twice in my life.

“Please,” he uttered softly.

I shot straight up. “I’ll get dressed.”

Aleksandr took me outside. We walked along the gravel footpath in silence. It was 7 a.m., and despite the fact that it was early, it was still as hot as Satan’s balls.

The aftermath of the attack at my going-away party had all been cleaned up, the only remnants of it left behind being the bloodstained grass.

I wasn’t sure what this whole thing was about, but I had the sneaking suspicion it held a great importance to my brother.

So, I went along with him. No questions. No jokes. No inappropriate comments or remarks. Just patience, which wasn’t a trait I particularly possessed in situations such as that.

I could do it for him, though.

Based on the path he was taking us down, I knew exactly where we were going. Aleksandr was a few steps ahead of me, so I just followed his lead as he took us past the warehouse, continuing down the footpath and right to the shooting range behind it.

Sitting in the middle of the field was a large, wooden structure, designed with separate sections so multiple people could fire at once. Directly opposite it, several miles down, were the targets, set up and spaced out evenly in correlation to the spots in the wooden structure.

Usually, the target range was a hive of activity. There was always someone there, practicing and honing their skills. But that time, it was empty, not a single soul in sight except for Aleksandr and me.

He walked into the shooting structure, went right to the slot in the middle, and turned to face me, arms crossed over his chest. Sitting on the bench were three different handguns. A Glock, 9mm Luger, and an MP-446 Viking.

I arched a brow. “Seriously? You’re testing me?”

Aleksandr said nothing. Just continued to stand there all tough and stoic and shit. I knew the drill. He wouldn’t say a damn thing or let me leave until I did whatever it was he wanted me to do.

I wasn’t an idiot, and could put two and two together.