The God (Bratva Blood #3)- S.R. Jones Page 0,24

though, one day I will be bigger and stronger than him, and then I’ll make him bleed.

He runs out of steam and shakes his head at me in disgust before heading into our tiny kitchen area, probably to get some vodka.

I walk to the window and stare out. The winter trees, stripped of their leaves, rise like toothpicks amongst the giant concrete teeth of the housing blocks. Nothing but concrete as far as the eye can see.

Still, it’s better up here than it is down there.

Down there is dangerous. Wild.

People half out of their minds on drugs or drink, or both, stagger around like lost souls.

What must it be like to be one of the moneyed set who live in the middle of the beautiful parts of the old city? To go to fancy restaurants and have a beautiful woman on your arm. I wish I had money and power. Maybe this work I’m doing for Roman, my uncle, will give me enough cash to get out of here.

We’re so poor that we’ve never been into the city proper to see the beautiful buildings. That’s how little money we have. It’s probably only forty minutes away, and I’ve never seen it.

Instead, this is my grand view. The endless, snow swept, concrete jungle stretching for miles.

“You better not be making a mess,” my father shouts mystifyingly.

I’m looking out the fucking window, the idiot.

Then he bellows some more, and I shake my head. “You’re angry at me because your wife cuckolded you,” I mutter. I learned that word yesterday in literature studies.

The truly sad thing about my dad is that he actually loves my mother, and she loathes him in return. He daren’t beat her, so he beats me. He only does it when she’s out, and he always denies it, or makes up an excuse how it’s not as bad as it looks.

One of these days, I’ll pulverize him. I loathe him too. The same way Mother does. I’m not too keen on her either. I’m never having kids. I don’t want to fuck them up the way my parents have me. I’d never do that to an innocent life. Some days, a lot of days, I’d rather have not been born than put up with their endless shit.

The door to our flat opens, and a flurry of male voices fill the dank space of our kitchen. Shit. This means only one thing. My mom is out for the night, at her friends, and Dad is having a poker game.

I hate them. I hate what happens during them.

I slam my door shut, put the dresser against it, and curl up on the bed.

For three hours, I lie there listening to the men’s voices get more raucous as they drink, and gamble and fall out. Then I hear it.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The tread is heavy and slow. That means it’s him.

The door to my room opens a touch but stops when the dresser gets in its way.

“Ah, don’t be like this, Bohdan. Your dad said you might need some help with your homework.”

That’s not what he’s here for.

My dad doesn’t care if his friend tries to molest me every week. My dad doesn’t care that his friend would rape me, if he had half the chance. I’ve had to grow up super-fast since Dad came home. This is all so wrong, but I don’t know how to stop it. I could tell a teacher, but then what would happen? I’d probably be taken away and put into care. It’s happened to two kids from our class this year alone, and one of them still comes to school, and she’s so sad now. The other one went away. I don’t want to leave my friends and everything I know.

My dad lets it happen because his friend lets him off some of his gambling debts if he gets to help me with my homework.

The dresser moves as the door pushes open. My heart is beating too fast. So far, I’ve managed to stop from this going too far. I’ve managed to cajole and threaten and plead until this dirty piece of shit leaves me alone, but I know one day my luck will run out.

He’s not the first, either. Another friend of Dad’s a couple years back used to come and sit and talk to me and stroke my thigh. One day he kissed me. It was so fucking odd. He put his stinky lips on mine and just … breathed. I pushed him hard,