Page 22 of The Darkness is Calling

In other words... I am in deep shit.

And I want to scream with frustration because no one listens when I say that this solution, imposed by the senior Vor, forcing me to stay in this house, is A BULLSHIT.

With my fists clenched at my sides, I remember I received a message from my best friend, Oksana, who is waiting for me to give her a sign and confirm I am still alive.

It probably isn’t a good time to call her, but my frustration needs an outlet, and Oksana is always ready for that, especially when men are involved.

And she is terribly curious about the Koronov brothers, about whom she knows almost as much as I do, having been raised in an environment similar to mine.

That alone is more than enough to make her extremely intrigued by the subject.

“You’re alive!” she exclaims, amused, because she always turns everything into a joke, especially when she’s trying to cheer me up.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re in the demons’ nest?”

“I haven’t been here long enough to upset them.”

Then I stop.

Actually, I may have already done that, judging by the tight line of Pakhan’s lips when I gave him replies worthy of someone who genuinely wants to die.

“Did those guys drag you out of the car by force?”

I can’t help smiling, realizing once again how well she knows me.

“Almost.”

“And?” she says with more enthusiasm. “Tell me everything. What are they like?”

“What are they like, or how I am?”

“You are beautiful and badass. Now tell me about them.”

I can almost see her grin while I huff.

“They’re...”

I pause, thinking not only about the dark and dangerous brunet, but also about his brothers.

Yaroslav seems cold, but at least he gives the impression of being human, compared to his brother with the psychopath stare.

And the youngest, Aleksandr, or Sasha, as he allowed me to call him, seems cheerful and very friendly.

But I know how badly I could be mistaken if I drew the conclusion that they are good men. They are not.

They are all cold-hearted Bratva men with a hunger for blood and power, just like everyone else in their organization.

And the Koronov brothers are not far from becoming Baba Yaga to anyone who knows them.

“They’re...”

I try again, but I realize I am inside the house of mafiosi who have surely planted microphones everywhere, and it would not be wise to tell my friend absolutely everything.

“Are they really as bad as people say, or the opposite?”

I limit myself to short answers, hoping she will understand.