Tymon Mazur had my parents killed when they wouldn’t sell their store to him. They owned a simple bakery, trying to make a modest living like everyone else.
It happened thirty years ago.
Time has done nothing to make the memory fade. It was an unseasonably hot summer’s day. My t-shirt clung to my sweaty back as I packed flour bags onto shelves in the storeroom when Mazur’s men came in. The threatening voices had me abandoning my work, and when I peeked around the partially open door, my father noticed and gestured for me to stay back.
Before I could obey, the first gunshot rang through the air. The bullet hit Dad in his stomach. Mom screamed. Someone cursed. Then more shots were fired.
I watched my parents fall.
I watched them bleed.
Dad’s eyes locked with mine right before the light faded from them.
With the horrific scent of my parents' deaths hanging thickly in the air, I hid in the storeroom while Mazur’s men trashed everything my family had worked so hard for.
At the age of eight, hatred filled every ounce of my being. I bit on my fist to keep myself from making a sound. My body shook with fear and sorrow.
Over the years, the hatred fed off my grief and need for revenge, becoming a living, breathing thing.
Over the past twenty years, I’ve built an empire and took over the Turkish mafia. All so I could avenge my parents' deaths.
Today’s the day I step out of the shadows to show Mazur he didn’t get away with killing my parents.
Finishing the last of my drink, I set the tumbler down and rise from my chair. Straightening my jacket, I mutter, “Let’s go.”
As I walk out of the restaurant with Emre by my side, Mirac takes the lead. He’s my personal guard and one of my best men. His wife, Elif, is a damn good hacker who works at one of my clubs.
Emre gets into the back of the SUV with me while Mirac slides in behind the steering wheel.
“To the club?” Mirac asks.
“Evet,” Emre replies, yes.
I use the club as a front for my headquarters. I had offices built beneath the building where we take care of anything mafia-related.
I made sure to never cross paths with Mazur, so the bastard has no idea what’s coming for him.
I stare out the window at the lights from stores, restaurants, and bars brightening the sidewalks.
When we reach the club, Mirac parks the SUV behind the other vehicles in the alley. I shove the door open and climb out, on guard as I walk to the main entrance. One can never be cautious in my line of work.
Glancing at the line of people snaking down the side of the building, all waiting for their turn to enter the exclusive establishment, I only look for threats.
I have five clubs scattered around the city, all the names similar. Revenge, Retribution, Avenge, Reckoning, and Vengeance.
To most people, I’m just a successful club owner. The façade has served me well, lining my bank accounts with more money than I’ll ever need.
Entering the club, I nod at the bouncers. Music pulses in the air, flashing lights giving an energized feel to the ambiance. There are two floors, the second holding the VIP section where many influential people like to hang out. We also have a bar and relaxing area set up on the roof.
I head toward the back, and as I approach a steel door, Scott opens it while Keith remains in place. “Sir,” my men murmur with chin lifts as I walk by them and take the stairs to the lower level.
To the left is a hallway that leads to entertainment areas for illegal gambling. Many yachts, shares, and businesses have been lost and won at those tables. To the right is the office space we use for dealing in arms. The exit at the back leads to the loading docks where we receive any alcohol deliveries. It makes it easy to move the weapons hidden in beer barrels.
The area between the gambling section and the offices is where my men gather to let off some steam. Tables and leather armchairs fill the space, a bar counter lining the back wall. All the décor is black and gold, lending a dangerous but luxurious feel to everything. A smoke cloud hangs in the air. The music down here isn’t as energetic as in the club upstairs.
My soldiers are already waiting, some caught up in deep conversations while others check their weapons.
I take a moment to look at every man. Some have been with me from the beginning, while others have joined over the years. They’ve all become my family.
“Ready?” I ask.
All eyes turn to me, then a jumbled chorus of affirmations sounds up.
Glancing at Emre, I gesture for him to proceed.
Emre takes a step forward, then lifts his chin as he sucks in a deep breath of air. “The mission is clear. Kill only those who are armed. Tymon Mazur is to be kept alive.” Emre runs through the plan again, ensuring every soldier understands how the attack will be carried out.
When everyone’s ready, we leave the club through the back entrance and pile into the line of SUVs filling the alley. This way, security footage shows me entering the club but not leaving.
It’s always good to have a cover story, and if that doesn’t work, there’s the slush fund to pay off the police I have in my pocket to take care of any problems that might arise.
Driving to Mazur’s mansion, my heart beats faster with every mile we put behind us.
Finally, the day has come.
Baba, Anne, bu gece senin intikamını alıyorum. Bu gece bana gururla bakacaksın.
Thinking about avenging my parents' deaths and how proud it will make them has adrenaline pulsing through my veins.
Chapter 3
Lara
When the cat-o-nine tail whip with metal spikes strikes, more pain explodes over my back as it tears through my shirt, ripping at my skin.
I bite harder on my bottom lip to keep the cry from escaping.
Whack.
Eighteen.
Don’t cry.
Whack.
A wave of scorching heat engulfs my skin, sweat beading on my forehead. My back tingles as if tiny tongues of barbed wire are licking me, every strike intensifying the crippling pain.
Nineteen.
My arms threaten to buckle as I keep myself braced in a kneeling position, so I don’t plow into the hardwood floor.
Whack.
Twenty.
Don’t cry!
Unable to stop it, a tear spills over my cheek. I bite harder, my mind void of any thoughts.
There’s only the pain.
“You have a call,” Marcel, the head of the guards and Tymon’s second in charge, mutters.
The whip hits my back so hard that I can’t keep myself from falling forward and sprawling over the wooden floor. Air bursts from my lungs, my skin torn and on fire, my bones aching.
The whip drops next to me, the metal spikes coated with droplets of blood. I stare at it as I listen to Tymon taking the call and leaving the sitting room.
The moment I’m alone, my ears fill with a whooshing sound. My sight blurs, the intensity of the pain increasing tenfold.
You’ve survived worse. Don’t cry.
You’re stronger than this.
I push myself up into a sitting position. My skin feels stretched thin over my back, the drying blood pulling at the gashes.
I clench my teeth, suppressing groans while I climb to my feet.
The punishment is over. At least Tymon didn’t kill me.
Using a hand to brace myself against the walls, I gingerly make my way down to the servant’s quarters. Dizziness threatens to overwhelm me, but I shake my head.
Don’t pass out.