Prologue
Years before the Barclay brothers lost sight of Alexia Acosta
The number one rule of being a Barclay is simple: remember the laws of the Bratva.
Our father, Hendrix, constantly reminded us of the rules, ensuring we never forgot them. From a young age, we were expected to recite the rules at breakfast, or we wouldn’t be allowed to eat for the entire day.
Hendrix was a force to be reckoned with, even right now, as we sit at the kitchen table, the look of murder is etched in his face.
I focus on the bowl of cereal sitting in front of me, today's choice being Frosted Flakes, not my favorite or what I want, but it’s the only thing we have.
Every so often, my eyes shift to view my baby brother, Bash, ready to catch him at any moment his frail body fails.
Hendrix’s voice vibrates through the room as he demands that Bash recite all five rules and the consequences we all face if we break them.
Bash’s body shakes as he pushes through the low squatted stance Hendrix forced him into.
“R-rule n-number one,” Bash’s voice trembles. “N-never speak with the law.”
Hendrix leans back in his chair and brings a glass of whiskey to his lips.
“And what is the consequence?”
“Y-you will be forced to endure numerous torture techniques and eventually will face death.”
Bash’s face turns red and then back to his normal toasted brown skin tone as he takes his first breath of air.
“Keep going,” Hendrix demands, refilling his glass. Our eyes momentarily connect, and I quickly drop them back to my soggy bowl of cereal.
“Actually, change your position. I want you in a pistol squat.”
With my eyes locked on my bowl, I can hear the pain Bash is in and how hard it is for him to stick out one of his legs.
For context, we’ve been in this kitchen since five-forty-five this morning. It is currently eleven- seventeen in the morning. Bash is a seventeen-year-old who stands at five feet eleven inches. Now, for body mass, he is the size of a typical stereotypical nerd you would see at science fairs.
The kid probably weighs no more than 130 pounds. His usual day involves school, reading, and, when necessary, watching me do drop-offs and handle money pickups. Aside from that, he has no history of working out or even trying to exercise. Among the two of us, I am obviously the one who has to handle all the physical tasks of our father's work.
Finally, in the pistol position, Bash recites rule number two.
“Rule n-number two: You must obey those who are above you—no questions.”
Hendrix’s face morphs with amusement as he watches his youngest son fight for his life to not fall.
“Now, what happens if you decide not to follow the orders given to you?”
Bash’s bottom lip flips out of his mouth and is a bruised color. Looks almost painful, but sadly, it is the only thing he can do to help keep himself steady.
“Y-you will be tortured and marked as a reminder to remember your place in the order.”
“And if you can’t remember?”
Bash’s throat moves as he re-tucks his lower lip, concentrating on steadying his swaying body.
Once he’s finally steady enough, he answers, “There will be a bullet in your skull.”
Hendrix takes another sip from his glass and nods for Bash to continue. But just as he opens his mouth, his brown eyes roll back, showing nothing but white.
My body stiffens, ready to leap towards him, but Hendrix’s eyes are locked on me, waiting for a reason to punish me today.
I grip my spoon, molding it into my palm as the sound of the now-empty glass Hendrix was drinking from crashes into Bash’s head. Blood instantly squirts through the new wound of the month on Bash’s body.
“Finish the rules.”
The order is now directed towards me.
My nose flares and my heart pounds as the anger inside me swirls wildly. I push through and finish reciting the rules.
“Rule number three: Speak against the Sensenmann, and you will lose your tongue.”
In the Bratva, our father is called the Sensenmann, which means "Grim Reaper" in English, but at home and around the club, he's known as Sen. He holds the top rank in the American district. I’m not sure who ranks above Hendrix overall, since he hasn’t provided a full overview of the Bratva structure. According to him, he's the only person we should focus on and fear the most.
“Rule number four: Once you wear the mark of the Bratva, you wear it for life. You are family, and to leave the family means death of the mark.”
The day I turned sixteen, Hendrix took me to the basement of one of his clubs, and there I was ordered to bear the mark of the Bratva.
For my specific marking, my tattoo is thick and deep-lined. Between my shoulder blades is a Slavic sigil that represents loyalty. Below it is the Grim Reaper holding his scythe. Below, and in Dutch, is our binding order to Sen: Loyalty in Blood and Death.
Now, for those who bear the mark and attempt to leave knowingly or in secret, they will be tied down and forced to endure the pain of Hendrix torching the tattoo off their body.
Once Hendrix has finished torching your skin off, he then takes it upon himself to deliver his final punishment—Sixty lashes with a cat-o'-nine tails.
When the final punishment is complete, you are dropped off at the center of the city, where you are laid out for all the city and our rivals to see and do with as they please.
“Rule number five: Turn your back on the Bratva, and you’ll have dinner with the Sen.”
Dinner with the Sen was always confusing to me, but as I grew and watched some of the members fuck up, I quickly understood this particular rule.
When my father asks you to have dinner with him, it’s best to accept that you will not be leaving that table.
Now these five rules are not just words. They are Law.
Every day, he orders us to assume painful positions and recite these five rules and their consequences.
Every day, we experience what is happening as I am talking to you now.
Every day before school, work, or whatever it is we are about to do, our father drills these into us. If we forget, stutter, pause, or fail to hold our physical position, we are punished. Well, Bash is reminded.
And every day I have to be forced to watch the life slowly seep out of my baby brother’s body is every day I make moves to end this all.
I’ve come to accept that being part of the Bratva and the son of Sen is my inevitable path. Despite numerous attempts to resist or change it, I must accept my fate and face the consequences, all in the hope of freeing Bash from this life.
Hell, I wear the mark of the Bratva, and when the Bratva marks something, it is not out of possession—it is a sentence.
And I have never failed to carry one out.
