Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Read Online Free Page B
Author: Riley Rollins
in trying to slip away. The consequences wouldn't be worth it.
"Brock," I say nervously. "What are you doing?"
His face is red, his eyes glassy. He's obviously several drinks deep as usual. His hair is stringy and unwashed, his sweatpants stretching to accommodate the girth of his stomach. He's overweight, but in the dangerous way, where he can throw his weight around and do some real damage.
"Hey, doll," he says, slurring his words, and coming closer. "Fuck you doing? Supposed to be at work, you little liar." He sways around, clasping the bottle against his side.
He's always accusing me of cheating and sneaking around behind his back, although the truth is that I've never touched another man while I've been with him. No matter how much he's abused me. I think he's projecting his own guilt onto me. And in fact, I'd like to know what he's doing out here at this time of night. But no way would I ever dare ask.
"Who's this little slut?" he says, locking his beady eyes onto Mackenzie. She crosses her arms over her chest, obviously uncomfortable.
I try to mask the look of disgust on my face. Brock really hates when I show any emotion other than happiness.
"Kenzie," I say, turning to her, "Catch you this Saturday." She nods, silently thanking me for freeing her. There'll probably be hell to pay for that, if Brock is sober enough to remember later. He doesn't like me doing anything he didn't specifically order me to do.
Mackenzie does an about face and walks the other direction. I bet she's circling the block before heading home, just to steer clear of Brock. And honestly, I don't blame her.
Brock steps forward and grabs my arm. "Get your fuckin' ass going," he says.
6
Havok
A fter the meeting , the boys down shots of vodka together. I toast with apple juice. I don't drink or ingest any chemical substances when I can help it. Not after seeing what drink and drugs did to my father. The boys fucking rag on me for being a pussy, but frankly I don't give a shit. Every group of drinkers needs someone sober to do the fast thinking, and I'd rather it be me than any of them.
We wrap up, and I leave the White Bear, stepping back into the bowels of West Ark.
The temperature has dropped even further, and the frigid night air stings my face. The nightlife has nearly ceased. Even the bars are closed at this hour. The few drunk and stumbling people on the sidewalks are wrapped up in heavy coats and scarves. Me, I leave my face bare, welcoming the air's bite. It reminds me of back home in Moscow.
Yes, back then. Back when I still contained normal human emotions. Before they were all bled out of me by Bratva trainers dunking my head into buckets of ice water over and over. By endless hours of kneeling on glass shards, building me up, sculpting me into a brutal killing machine.
I struggle to free my hands from their bonds, and the rope burns my skin, rubbing it raw. The masked man drives the tip of the steel blade into my father's throat. A choked cry escapes from my chest, flying up and away into the night like a bird of paradise. Tears fall from my eyes, dripping into the dirty snow beneath me.
"This will teach you, you worthless addict," he says to my father's corpse.
That was the last time I ever cried.
I turn the corner onto Grant Road. I'm headed to my car, parked in a garage down the street from the club. It's a Tesla X, a personal gift given to me by a client just a few months back. A thank-you gift for mincing the target in an industrial grinder. Yeah, I have to admit, I deserved a tip for that one. It wasn't easy to set that up.
The car drives great. Electric, I found out, so it's good for the environment. Not that I really give a shit about trees and squirrels.
When I'm about to enter the concrete skeleton of the parking garage, I hear a faint scuffle, and what sounds like a woman's voice. It's coming from an alley halfway down the street.
If there's one thing I can't fucking stand, it's the sound of a woman in
"Brock," I say nervously. "What are you doing?"
His face is red, his eyes glassy. He's obviously several drinks deep as usual. His hair is stringy and unwashed, his sweatpants stretching to accommodate the girth of his stomach. He's overweight, but in the dangerous way, where he can throw his weight around and do some real damage.
"Hey, doll," he says, slurring his words, and coming closer. "Fuck you doing? Supposed to be at work, you little liar." He sways around, clasping the bottle against his side.
He's always accusing me of cheating and sneaking around behind his back, although the truth is that I've never touched another man while I've been with him. No matter how much he's abused me. I think he's projecting his own guilt onto me. And in fact, I'd like to know what he's doing out here at this time of night. But no way would I ever dare ask.
"Who's this little slut?" he says, locking his beady eyes onto Mackenzie. She crosses her arms over her chest, obviously uncomfortable.
I try to mask the look of disgust on my face. Brock really hates when I show any emotion other than happiness.
"Kenzie," I say, turning to her, "Catch you this Saturday." She nods, silently thanking me for freeing her. There'll probably be hell to pay for that, if Brock is sober enough to remember later. He doesn't like me doing anything he didn't specifically order me to do.
Mackenzie does an about face and walks the other direction. I bet she's circling the block before heading home, just to steer clear of Brock. And honestly, I don't blame her.
Brock steps forward and grabs my arm. "Get your fuckin' ass going," he says.
6
Havok
A fter the meeting , the boys down shots of vodka together. I toast with apple juice. I don't drink or ingest any chemical substances when I can help it. Not after seeing what drink and drugs did to my father. The boys fucking rag on me for being a pussy, but frankly I don't give a shit. Every group of drinkers needs someone sober to do the fast thinking, and I'd rather it be me than any of them.
We wrap up, and I leave the White Bear, stepping back into the bowels of West Ark.
The temperature has dropped even further, and the frigid night air stings my face. The nightlife has nearly ceased. Even the bars are closed at this hour. The few drunk and stumbling people on the sidewalks are wrapped up in heavy coats and scarves. Me, I leave my face bare, welcoming the air's bite. It reminds me of back home in Moscow.
Yes, back then. Back when I still contained normal human emotions. Before they were all bled out of me by Bratva trainers dunking my head into buckets of ice water over and over. By endless hours of kneeling on glass shards, building me up, sculpting me into a brutal killing machine.
I struggle to free my hands from their bonds, and the rope burns my skin, rubbing it raw. The masked man drives the tip of the steel blade into my father's throat. A choked cry escapes from my chest, flying up and away into the night like a bird of paradise. Tears fall from my eyes, dripping into the dirty snow beneath me.
"This will teach you, you worthless addict," he says to my father's corpse.
That was the last time I ever cried.
I turn the corner onto Grant Road. I'm headed to my car, parked in a garage down the street from the club. It's a Tesla X, a personal gift given to me by a client just a few months back. A thank-you gift for mincing the target in an industrial grinder. Yeah, I have to admit, I deserved a tip for that one. It wasn't easy to set that up.
The car drives great. Electric, I found out, so it's good for the environment. Not that I really give a shit about trees and squirrels.
When I'm about to enter the concrete skeleton of the parking garage, I hear a faint scuffle, and what sounds like a woman's voice. It's coming from an alley halfway down the street.
If there's one thing I can't fucking stand, it's the sound of a woman in
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