Goddess Of Vengeance.
Chapter - 11.
War.
A three-letter word that never scared me.
When you grow up with a brain like mine, the chaos which comes with war becomes predictable and peace is the thing that feels unnatural, unfamiliar.
Atleast war is transparent. We know it will bring scars, blood, death with it.
But we never know what peace can bring. What kind of peace is it. Peace that comes before misery or the one that comes after everything is destroyed.
So, I would always choose war over peace.
And taking the Mafia Princess from right under her family's nose was the cleanest declaration of war I could have ever given.
"Do you have any idea what you've done, Ilya?"
The voice belonged to my grandfather—Viktor Livetsky.
He sat behind his massive mahogany desk in his study, the room smelling heavily of expensive cigars and old papers.
Grandpa was the Patriarch of the Livetsky family—a man who had ruled our empire with an iron fist long before my father "died", long before my brother decided to disappear on his hiatus.
I stood in the center of the room, my hands resting behind my back. My shirt was still stiff with dried blood that belonged to the woman I hate.
"I know exactly what I've done," I said smoothly. My voice was neutral. Cold.
Grandpa slammed his palm onto the desk, the sharp sound echoing off the walls.
"You kidnapped a Sokolov!" he snapped, his icy green eyes—which I inherited—narrowed at me. "You didn't just take a hostage, Ilya. You took Rai Sokolov's daughter. The New York Bratva will burn down everything to get her back. This is direct war!"
I didn't flinch at his voice.
That's the thing with loud, snapping voice. Rather than intimidating me, they irritate me.
One of the reason why I never liked Jeremy's bestfriend and Maya's brother.
"The war started the moment I took over this family, you know that." I replied, my tone devoid of any fear. "As far as I am concerned, Newyork Bratva is not going to burn anything while one of their Mafia Princess is still a hostage in my basement."
He stared at me for a long, quiet moment.
He took a slow drag from his cigar, leaning back into his leather chair.
A strange, knowing shadow crossed his aged face.
"You think you're holding leverage," Viktor murmured, pointing the glowing tip of his cigar at my chest. "But from what information I have gathered, a girl like Maya Sokolov is poison. She’s spoiled, arrogant, and bred on defiance. If you drop your guard around her for even a second, she will slip a knife into your chest."
"She can try," I said, a faint, dark smirk touching my lips. "She already tried with her words. A knife won't make much of a difference."
"Keep her alive," my grandfather ordered, his voice turning icy—like I would do otherwise—"Fix her wounds. But do not forget what she is to us, Ilya. She is an enemy."
"She was always the enemy," I said coldly, my hands fisting behind my back.
She was always the enemy.
Always will be.
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The basement medical room was quiet and dark, lit only by the harsh white fluorescent lights glowing at the right side.
The room smelled like alcohol, antiseptic, and fresh blood.
My boots echoed against the cemented floor as I walked toward the bed in the center of the room.
And there she was.
Maya Sokolov.
She looked small in the broad medical bed.
Her oversized leather jacket and blood-soaked clothes were gone, replaced by a plain gray hospital gown that clung slightly to her skin.
A female nurse took them off.
Obviously.
Her once-shiny platinum hair was spread across the white pillow like silk, framing a face that was dangerously pale.
Her long dark lashes rested against her cheeks, her chest rising and falling in a slow, unnatural rhythm.
Dr. Abramov was wiping down his surgical tools near the tray. He looked up as I entered.
"Status," I commanded.
"The bullet grazed her side, sir," he said quickly, straightening his posture. "It tore through muscle and she lost a lot of blood, but it missed her vital organs. We stitched her up, gave her blood, but did not give her heavy sedatives as you ordered. She'll be waking up soon."
"Get out," I said, my eyes fixed on her face.
"Sir, she needs—"
"I said get out."
The doctor swallowed hard, gathered his things, and rushed out of the basemeny, shutting the heavy door behind.
Finally, we were alone.
I sat on the stool beside the bed, staring down at her.
One second.
Two.
Three.
My heart did that strange, twisted thud against my ribs.
I hated it.
I hated how my body reacted to her mere presence.
It wasn't affection. It wasn't soft.
It was a sickening, toxic pull that made my chest burn and sent an electric shock straight to the dark pit of my mind.
I leaned down, resting one hand on the mattress right next to her head, my body hovering over hers.
Even unconscious, she looked infuriatingly beautiful.
The same girl who had used me as a bet, mocked me, and thrown my salary in my face like I was nothing more than dirt under her expensive heels.
A nameless guard.
That’s what she had called me.
That's what she considered me.
That's how she looked at me.
Slowly, I reached out. My calloused fingers hovered over her skin before brushing lightly along the curve of her throat.
A strand of hee hair spilled on her face and before I could tuck it back, her eyelashes fluttered.
A low, painful groan escaped her throat. Her brows furrowed, her face twisting in pain as the agony of her fresh stitches hit her all at once.
Then, her eyes opened.
Those sharp, blue eyes were foggy at first.
But the moment her gaze focused on my face—and then dropped to my hand behind her face—the haze vanished.
Pure, unfiltered panic flared in her eyes, quickly masked by a wave of burning hatred.
"Get... your fucking hands off me," she rasped, her voice dry and weak, but still dripping with poison.
I didn't pull away.
In fact,my fingers slided slowly up to cup her jaw, holding her head trapped against the pillow so she couldn't sit.
"Missed me, Maya?" I aaked coldly, my thumb brushing against her lower lip.
Her eyes narrowed at me. "Go. To. Hell." She rasped.
"Only if you come with me,"
That triggered her.
With a sudden, violent twitch, her free arm lashed out, her nails aiming straight for my face.
I caught her wrist before she could touch me, my grip tightening around her skin like a vice, pinning her arm above her head onto the mattress.
She gasped aloud as the sudden movement pulled at her fresh stitches.
A dark red stain began to bloom through the white bandages around her waist.
"Stop moving, you idiot," I growled, holding her both wrists with one hand while holding her waist with another.
"Don't touch me, you fucking liar!" she spat into my face, her chest heaving violently against mine.
A mock amusement crept up in my eyes at her words. "A liar? I know, and I am good at it too."
"Ha. You're fucking not, you delusional bastard. Now I can tell when you're lying."
For few seconds there was nothing but silence in the room before I leaned down. My lips touching her temple just faintly and I felt her body stop resisting.
"I hate you. Can you tell if I am lying or not?"
I felt her body instantly tensing at my words and her resistance restarted.
"Kill me, Ilya!" she repested the same words again, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and something far more dangerous. "Shoot me right now or let me go, but don't fucking touch me like this!"
"Death is too easy for you and for your family, Maya. I am going to keep you alive. Healthy. So you know that early breath you're taking is because of me." I said coldly, lifting my head to look in her eyes.
"You're still just a guard," she choked out, her bloodshot eyes were filkee with water, but a mocking smirk appeared on her lips.
The smirk that I hate—and crave—so much.
Her thumb pressed against the side of my hip, searching for a weapon. "A pathetic... nameless guard who can't even keep his hands to himself."
A slow, cold smirk spread across my face.
She thinks she is pressing my trigger buttons, unaware that i have already destroyed those buttons.
"And yet, now this nameless guard is going to show you and your so well-named family, what a living hell looks like."
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Some memes for my divas as an apology:
A/N: ... Um, yeah. I am still very much alive. And yes, I have no excuse I was just not in the mood of writing.
I am really really not understanding what i am doing. You gotta tell me that if you're feeling connected to the story or not. Or is there any illogical scenes or any sudden scenes happening. If you can clearly see what the character's feelings or if the character is confused.
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