Chapter 3 Blood, Bratva, and Promises

Dan Belinni

"He’s going to kill him!" someone murmurs a few feet away, but I can barely hear it.

I have no plans to stop this anytime soon.

I move forward again, and my opponent drops to his knees, but I don’t stop punching him. I land blows to his ribs, face, chest… every part of his worthless body my fist can reach.

And no one dares come near.

Adrenaline pumps through me, and my opponent’s groans of pain echo throughout the gym. It doesn’t stop me; I hit him even harder, his grunts acting like fuel for my fucked-up brain.

He stays on his knees, trying with everything he has to protect his face, which has become an insane mess of blood, bruises, and torn skin.

"Dan, we’ve got ten minutes. Finish this already. You’re going to need a shower to get this pig’s blood off before we head to the office." Liam speaks for the first time, his amused tone making it clear just how much he’s enjoying this shit.

Still, his words finally manage to pull me back to reality.

I have an appointment. My father called us in for a last-minute meeting, and I can’t be late.

I step away from my opponent and sigh, frustrated that I can’t finish our fight. The son of a bitch showed up at our fight gym determined to challenge me and made it very clear that death was a possibility.

He was confident he’d be the one to end me, and that only made it more fun, because even though he was also nearly two meters tall and looked like he weighed twice as much as I do, that shit doesn’t matter to me.

I was trained like an animal.

Initiated into the mafia in the fucking Amazon, where survival was pushed to the limit while all the rituals were carried out on me.

I’m only nineteen, but I grew up surrounded by death, blood, and danger. I never had a normal life. I was never just some ordinary boy.

My brothers and I were trained to rule the Chicago Outfit and eliminate any obstacle that dared stand in our way.

The bastard bleeding in front of me wouldn’t be an exception.

I step out of the ring, and some of his friends rush over to help him. Liam hands me a towel, and I wipe my face, watching the fabric turn red with my opponent’s blood.

"Did you kill him?" one of the fighters asks me, but I shake my head.

"He’ll live," I say, knowing the asshole will have serious damage, but not enough to kill him.

I’m not usually dishonorable in my fights, and I don’t fight dirty, but the idiot challenged me on my own turf, and backing down was never an option.

No one threatens me and walks away unharmed.

"What the hell did he take to want to fight you?" Liam grunts, and I shrug because I have no idea.

"Dan fucked his sister," Otto answers for me, and I turn my head, finding my older brother leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

He just got back from a mission, but he’s already dressed and ready to fulfill his duty in the mafia. He’s the most serious and quiet out of the three of us, his posture matching the role of Don he’ll take on in a few years.

Our father is the supreme commander of the Outfit, the Chicago mafia, and we—his three sons—will carry on his legacy.

Liam is insane, but he’s got a surreal mind and knows weapons like no one else. And me? Well, I’m the piece my father throws in when he wants blood and adrenaline. Illegal street races and underground fights are my responsibility, though we use some activities as a front to avoid drawing too much attention, even though everyone in Illinois knows our last name.

Even though there are several mafias in the United States, like some bloody puzzle, each piece has its own territory, its own rules, and its own secrets. We maintain a diplomatic relationship with them, though it’s far from friendship.

Within the Outfit, we control casinos, gambling, drug trafficking, and weapons. Our reach extends far, and we even have operations in Brazilian territory. That allows made men of the Outfit to be sent to the Amazon, where they undergo brutal training in the jungle.

Not all of them make it back alive, but that’s natural selection. Only the strongest survive.

"I have no idea who she is," I say honestly, an impatient sigh leaving my lips.

I don’t usually remember the names or faces of the women I fuck. To me, they’re a good time and nothing more.

People can call me a manwhore or any other shit they want, and I won’t care, because I’ve always made my intentions crystal clear, and every woman I’ve slept with has been a willing participant. I’ve never forced myself on any girl.

They always knew what they were getting into when they came to bed with me: a few hours with my dick was all they’d ever get from me.

"Good thing you fight like an animal, or you’d die because of your dick," Liam mocks again, pissing me off.

My sex life is nobody’s business, but I don’t have time for this right now.

I leave my brothers behind and head for the shower, but my mind is stuck on the surprise meeting our Don called. Meetings like that never bring good news. If he needed secrecy, then something big is involved.

Water runs down my body, and the red liquid stains the floor.

Satisfaction fills my chest, because fighting and breaking my opponents has always made me feel alive.

My loyalty to family is absolute. I protect my own with my blood, and I never hesitate to be cruel if it means keeping us safe.

But the rest of the world? I don’t care if I’m a monster.

That’s the price of respect and power.

"The Russians reached out," our father says as soon as we settle into one of the Outfit’s offices. "One of the Pakhan’s nephews fucked up with an Illinois politician, and the Russian asked us to handle it. They know politicians love media attention and want to keep the spotlight off their mess."

"What was a Bratva member doing in our territory?" I ask impatiently.

"An American girl," he answers with a sigh. "He met her in Russia and came after her."

Liam snorts beside me.

"Always a girl," he mocks, glancing at me sideways. "Some men are still going to die because they don’t know how to control their dick."

"Shut the fuck up, Liam," I growl, and my father curses, dragging the focus back to the meeting.

"I’m busy as hell! I’ve got a pile of shit to deal with, so I need to know if you can handle this."

Thanks to our long history of bribery and corruption, the Outfit has always known how to open doors that should stay locked. Judges, cops, politicians… everyone has a price, and we know exactly how to pay it.

Cleaning up the Bratva mafioso’s mess in our territory wouldn’t be difficult. One phone call, one stuffed envelope, one carefully calculated threat, and any inconvenient investigation would disappear like smoke.

"And what do they have to offer in return?" Otto speaks for the first time, staring at the Don seriously.

"Weapons, for starters," he replies. "Not just any weapons, but pieces you can’t find on American soil, straight from old Soviet stockpiles. On top of that, the Russians can open doors in Eastern Europe—areas that are currently beyond our reach."

The three of us nod in silence, aware of the weight of those words. An alliance with the Russians is a bold move, but a strategic one. Many mafias seek us out because of our influence and power, like Dante Morello, Don of the Cosa Nostra.

They needed help finding Dante’s kidnapped wife, and in exchange, they formed an alliance with us. The deal was strengthened by the marriage of Anna, our cousin, to Vittorio Morello, Dante’s brother and the Consigliere of the Cosa Nostra.

In our world, alliances and deals are more valuable than money. And a partnership with the Bratva, one of the most powerful mafias on the planet, is not something any sane person would refuse.

"I’ll handle it," Otto says.

My father only nods in approval and lights a cigar.

"They mentioned something about strengthening ties," our Don continues, dropping the information as if it were nothing.

"Marriage?" I ask.

"Yes. They want an Outfit princess."

"Amber?" Liam teases with a wicked grin.

Otto grabs a cigar and ignores the jab. Otto is cold, calculating, and very good at hiding his emotions.

"Amber will be Otto’s wife," Don William states, breaking the silence.

Amber is the youngest daughter of my father’s brother, the diamond of the Outfit. She’s beautiful, pure, and submissive. She’s also brilliant and plays the piano like no one else, which in our world is just another thing to be displayed. Mafia wives are trophies, symbols of power and status.

But Amber carries scars. Her parents and sister always treated her like trash. I took on the role of protecting her early on, because no one that innocent should have to endure what she went through.

Over time, my constant protection made her family back off, but the protective instinct I developed for her never left.

Despite the cruel comments people make about our closeness, I’ve never seen her as anything but a sister.

Now Otto is the one who wants to marry her. Not for love or passion—those illusions have no place in our world—but out of duty. He knows that as future Don, he needs to build a family and produce heirs.

"I’m not engaged yet," Otto comments, implying that his marriage to Amber is still negotiable.

"You don’t like her," my father deduces, holding my brother’s gaze.

Otto stays silent. It’s no secret that he’s attracted to our cousin, but my father is right. If Otto truly felt anything beyond lust for Amber, he would fight for her, and that isn’t happening.

"That’s dangerous," he continues, slowly exhaling cigar smoke. "You’re going to live with your wife every day. You need to at least like her."

"Marriage is about business, not love," Liam cuts in, stealing the words right out of my mouth.

Don William just shakes his head, a dry smile on his face.

"At first, yes. But over time, if you marry someone who doesn’t stir absolutely anything in you, your house turns into a block of ice. And believe me, it’ll be the last place you’ll want to come back to."

"The Outfit comes first," Otto says.

My father lets out a low laugh, as if he’s heard that before.

"Until you find the woman who’s going to turn your world upside down," he shoots back. "As Don, you’ll have to be loyal to the mafia and always put the Outfit above everything. But when that woman shows up..."

He hesitates, looking straight into my brother’s eyes.

"She’ll fuck with your head so badly you’d rather die than hand her over to another man."

"I’ll do what needs to be done," Otto replies, and my father ends the meeting, dismissing us to get back to work.

We leave the building and walk to the parking lot, but before each of us gets into our car, my older brother looks at me.

"Are you coming tonight?" he asks, referring to the reopening of one of our clubs.

The renovation took longer than expected, but the result exceeded our expectations: an exclusive gentlemen’s club, where luxury and secrecy come together to create the perfect environment for our clients to spend fortunes without fear of being exposed.

"We transferred the best dancers from the other clubs over there," Liam comments with a wicked smile. He’s already taken half of them to bed. "The male tickets are sold out."

"I’ve got a race tonight," I tell him. "I’ll stop by later."

I say goodbye to my brothers, planning to head to the Outfit garage to make sure my race car is ready. Illegal races and fights give me the adrenaline rush I need—they’re my escape valve whenever the shit in my head gets unbearable.

But the second I start the car, classical music begins playing through the speakers, and a sigh slips from my lips, making me think of Amber.

I hate classical music, but she likes it and always asks me to play it when she’s with me. I’m not the kind of man who gives in easily, but she’s a good girl and she shares my blood. If listening to classical music can ease the crap she puts up with, I’ll play it.

And it’s with her on my mind that I change course and decide to go to her house.

Otto finished his mission and came back to Chicago, which means the marriage to her could happen at any moment. Unless the plans change and she’s handed over to a Russian…

Fuck.

My brother doesn’t love her, but he would be loyal to her. Mafia marriages are sacred, but the Bratva has its own rules. And I have no idea how she’d be treated by a Russian husband.

I shove that thought straight to hell. I need Otto to marry her and protect her. But until then, as long as Amber is under my protection, no one is going to lay a hand on her.

I swore I’d protect her the way an older brother would.

I made that promise to my mother.

And I don’t break promises.