Page 6 of The Darkness is Calling

Something inside my head whispered for me to do it. To take the gun, or any sharp object I could find within reach, and play in the blood of that man who had something about him I didn’t like.

When he smiled, he looked like a devil.

Apparently, I was the only one who thought so.

As if he knew what lived inside my head, each time my father would place his large palm on my knee, halting my restless movement. He never looked at me, but I am certain that in my agony, when I could no longer see anything around me, he had many chances to study me.

All I heard was his deep voice as he whispered words that, to anyone else, would have sounded cold and worthy of a ruthless Vor. But I knew him too well not to recognize the care he hid behind them.

“It's not the time yet, Voron.”

He was broad-shouldered, massive compared to other men his age, a build Yaroslav, my older brother, had inherited as well. His imposing stature made him look terrifying.

And he was.

Only his family ever received something special from him, something no one else even knew existed in the monster that haunted the dreams of many: love for those closest to him.

In the Bratva, feelings are weak links. The people you love are weaknesses. And you never want to appear weak before your enemies.

That is precisely why, in public, my father was colder than the frozen wind of a Siberian blizzard.

But I knew he would always be there beside me. His large hand gave me that single drop of calm, sealing the crack splitting open my mind, the one through which the inner voice demanded that I give it blood.

It was not yet time for the things I dreamed of, but the great Leonid knew how to quiet my impulses.

He gave my thirst a purpose and placed me in the hands of those who did this every day.

I was no stranger to my father’s occupation within the organization. I had even witnessed the execution of a traitor who had tried to abduct my mother and deliver her to our enemies.

But for someone to be directly involved in killing people at that age? That had not happened in the organization for a very long time.

I was proud of myself.

And I always knew I would be the best.

Except, at this particular moment, I think my mother would be a little disappointed. More than a little, perhaps. And I don’t mean because of everything I’ve accomplished so far, but because of the reason I am currently inside this Catholic church on the outskirts of London.

I am stretched out on one of the back pews, one knee bent, the other leg extended, my heel resting on a small cushion old women use to protect their bony asses. My left arm covers half my face, as if I’m trying to take a nap. In my other hand, I hold a suppressed pistol, stroking it slowly with my thumb while keeping it hidden from view beside my thigh.

At thirty years old, it has become a lethal extension of my agile body.

I breathe slowly, catching the scent of incense that dominates this place trying so hard to be holy. For the old women in the first rows, the eight of them who come every week to kiss the preacher’s hand, perhaps it is.

Surrounded by their fear of death, they ignore what is right beneath their noses.

The sinner preaching to them about salvation.

And Death itself, lying on a wooden pew, listening to every sound around him.

“Whoever carries the law in his heart, whether written or unwritten, does not stray from the truth. And blood spilled without right can never be hidden from the eye of the One above. Therefore, let the light touch our souls. Let us acknowledge our sins in silence and rise strengthened, for when we are called, whether before God or before men.”

You got that part right, Father.

Honestly, I would stay a little longer just to hear this hypocrite talk about sacred things even he doesn’t respect, but my phone vibrates once.

A sign that I need to hurry.

It vibrates again.