Noises, sounding like heavy chains rattling, drifted upstairs. Silently moving closer to the open basement door, my curiosity won out and I found myself at the top of the steep unfamiliar wooden staircase leading down.

I quietly tiptoed down the stairs, my heart racing at what I might see. As the wall gave way to a view of the open basement, I stilled, drinking in my father’s idea of a basement, a “private space”—rubber flooring covered every inch of the space, the walls, the floor, everywhere. And chain links were bolted to the walls, a single plastic chair the central feature of the sterile room. And the stench of bleach was so overwhelming I flinched as I inhaled each breath of stagnant air. There were no windows, so no natural light, just a solitary lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was a black box.

Nausea built in my stomach when I realized what the room was used for—the Bratva’s enemies. For interrogation, torture. It made sense. No one lived close. Screams could go unheard. Cell service was nonexistent, the grounds completely secure. No one would ever suspect that in this perfect white wooden colonial mansion was a hidden torture room.

My breath caught in my throat as I took in the sight. Then the byki stepped away from whatever they were doing by the far wall. They were all covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. They looked as though they’d taken one hell of a beating.

As they cleared away from the object of their attention, my eyes fixed onto the huge dark man they’d just dragged in. That they’d carried unconscious through the front door. My heart raced as I stared at his naked body. He was one of the tallest and bulkiest men I’d ever seen. His muscles were many, ripped and taut. And a large chest tattoo stood out through the heavy coating of blood. I scrunched my eyes to see what it said. My eyes widened as I read the numbers “221” in bold black ink. The numbers took up all of his chest. It was an identity tattoo, exactly like the one Luka had … just different numbers.

God! I thought as I continued to stare at the man’s battered and bruised sleeping form. Even out cold he radiated power … danger. I’d never seen anyone like him. It both scared and intrigued me.

Who are you? Why are you beaten? I asked in my mind as my eyes traveled farther down his body. He was naked, scars littering every inch of his skin. Burn marks, and other strange markings covered his torso and chest. Then my eyes drifted lower. His long flaccid cock was bared and hanging low on his thigh. I swallowed at the sight and I could feel my face flush as I struggled to turn my gaze away.

He looked like a scarred blood-covered slave of some kind. Like something you’d see in a fucked-up Roman-era movie.

My thighs clenched together and I felt heat spread throughout my body and down between my legs. The reaction I was having was new and terrifying but I couldn’t look away. I was transfixed, my mind racing with thoughts of why he was so important that he was brought here to be interrogated.

Then I frowned as my gaze focused on something else. He was caged and chained to the wall. His wrists and ankles were in short chains, ensuring he couldn’t escape. Even though he looked to be the most dangerous man I’d ever laid my eyes on, my heart cracked at the realization that he wouldn’t be able to move, that he would be in pain.

Noticing the byki beginning to move back toward the stairs, I crept back to the hallway, following the sound of Kisa and Luka talking in the kitchen.

Pulling myself together, I tried to shake the image of the man slumped brokenly on the floor, and joined the others.

Kisa saw me enter as she cleaned Luka’s wounds, his hands gripping tightly to his waist. As I saw them in the kitchen, and heard the byki moving to clear the van from the driveway, anger bubbled up threatening to erupt.

“Why did you bring that man here?” I blurted, my voice betraying every emotion I was feeling.

Kisa’s blue gaze found mine and I saw sympathy flood her expression.

“We needed to get him out of Brooklyn. This was the only place I knew where we could bring him to be safe,” Luka replied. I crossed my arms over my chest.

“And who is he, Luka? Who is this man you brought to our family’s house, disturbing what was meant to be my one real chance to get away from it all?”

“All of what?” Luka asked, his face marring with confusion.

“This!” I bit back, louder than I meant, and gestured to the basement. “A man you seem to have stolen from our enemy. All the Bratva shit I wanted to escape from for a couple of months. The violence, the fighting, everything! I’ve only been here a few days and you bring this to my door!”

Silence reigned after my outburst. Kisa dropped the rubbing alcohol she was holding. “Luka had to do it, Tal. He had to. He needed to honor his friend that died in the Dungeon’s cage.”

My eyes widened.

362 … 362 was the friend Luka had to kill in the cage?

I could see Kisa had realized that I’d made the connection. I briefly closed my eyes. That man chained in the basement was … “He’s 362’s brother?”

Luka’s sad eyes looked to me. “He had a twin. An identical twin.”

Luka looked down at the floor as though he could see through the partition to the man chained up in the basement.

“What?” I whispered, in shock.

Kisa, seeing Luka’s head hanging low as if in exhaustion, said, “He and his brother were taken as children, their family massacred and they were. They were…” Kisa pressed her hand to her stomach and took a deep breath. “They were experimented on for many years. Used as subjects for developing drugs. Anri, 362, was not completely susceptible, but Zaal was.”

Zaal, I thought, sounding the name in my head of the newly incarcerated man. His name is Zaal.

“He’s under the influence of some new drug, Tal. We’re not sure what it is or what it does, but Levan Jakhua has used him as his pet killer we believe since he was eight.”

This time bile rose to my throat as I imagined Zaal going through all that hell. “Bozhe moy,” I whispered. Kisa nodded her head. “Does our father know?” I asked. Luka’s head snapped up.

“Yes,” he replied with a curl of his upper lip. “He’s been no help.” I stepped back, instinctively moving away from my brother. Darkness filled his expression.

Kisa pressed her hands on either side of Luka’s face. “It’s okay. You got him out.”

“Why hasn’t our father been any help?” I asked. I watched Kisa’s face pale. I stilled, suspicion on my mind. “What?”

Luka looked my way and declared, “He’s a Kostava.”

It took me a moment to digest what he’d said. My heart started to race. A Kostava, I must have misheard.… “What did you say?” I asked again, my voice barely audible. My hand instinctively lifted to hold my necklace in my hands.

Luka wore a stormy expression, looking every inch the Bratva knayz, and repeated, “He’s a Kostava. He and Anri were the Kostava heirs.”

I stepped back, my eyebrows dragging down, as I absorbed my brother’s words. “What have you done?” I whispered in shock. I gazed upon my brother, who’d now risen to his feet. He looked like a stranger to me at this moment in time.

“I can’t believe you would do this!”

I watched as Luka seemed to radiate rage and I squared my shoulders. Stepping forward, feeling my hands shake with the depth of my anger, I said, “You’re shaming this family saving a Kostava and bringing him here, to our home!”