Dark Deception (Deception Trilogy #0.5)

  Dark Deception

  Rina Kent

  Dark Deception Copyright © 2021 by Rina Kent

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Author Note

  Prologue

  1. Adrian

  2. Adrian

  3. Winter

  4. Winter

  5. Winter

  What’s Next?

  Also By Rina Kent

  About the Author

  To the lovers of villains.

  Author Note

  Hello reader friend,

  If you haven’t read my books before, you might not know this, but I write darker stories that can be upsetting and disturbing. My books and main characters aren't for the faint of heart.

  Dark Deception is the prequel of a trilogy and is not standalone.

  Deception Trilogy:

  #0 Dark Deception

  #1 Vow of Deception

  #2 Tempted by Deception

  #3 Consumed by Deception

  Don’t forget to Sign up to Rina Kent’s Newsletter for news about future releases and an exclusive gift.

  Blurb

  Stolen. Broken. Corrupted.

  Being born a leader taught me one thing.

  I take what I want.

  Including the lone rose who’s struggling to survive on the streets.

  Only I’m no knight and I won’t do any saving.

  If anything, I’m the nightmare she can’t wake up from.

  The monster she can’t escape.

  The devil she can’t fight.

  I’m the blood that’ll be coating her pure petals.

  Prologue

  Death can come in the form of a doppelgänger.

  There’s this myth as old as time that says when you meet someone who looks just like you, one of you will die.

  Who is the question.

  Who would die first? Me or her?

  According to the myth, the first to see the other one is bound to meet their end. In the same decade. Same year. Perhaps even the same day.

  I lift my trembling hands and stare at the blood coating them, intertwining with my fingers and crawling under my nails.

  Oh.

  I think this means I saw her first. I made eye contact first.

  What bad luck. But I guess I’ve never had the good type. Not when I was born, and certainly not when I was shoved into this life.

  My attention remains on the deep crimson covering my hands like a second skin. It’s thick, sticky, and its dark color burns in my head. I rub my palms together to wipe it off, but that doesn’t make it better. If anything, the fresh, warm blood smears further, as if it’s already chosen my hands as a permanent place of residence.

  I screw my eyes shut, dragging in sharp intakes of air. The sound is raspy, guttural, grating on the surface of my lungs with long rusty nails.

  That’s okay. When I open my eyes, I’ll wake up. This isn’t real. It’s only my wild imagination and my superstition joining forces to torture my mind.

  It. Is. Not. Real.

  My lids feel like they’ve been glued together when they part from each other.

  The blood is still the same—warm, sticky, and almost black due to the lack of light. I clench my fists, my body turning rigid as a taut whip.

  Wake up. Wake the fuck up.

  My nails dig into my palms, but nothing I do pulls me out. Nothing stops this nasty cycle.

  I lift my head and study my surroundings. Savage trees envelop me like a cocoon. They’re so tall that the dark sky is barely visible through the small opening overhead.

  Clouds condense over the moon’s silver hue, and I shiver. The thin sweater over my cotton dress barely protects me from the chill.

  Feeling the cold should be a good sign, but it isn’t. It’s not a clear indication of whether or not this is real.

  The blood on my hands won’t disappear and neither will the tremor shooting through my body.

  He is after me.

  If he finds me, he’ll kill me.

  I squeeze my eyelids together and count aloud, “Three, two, one.”

  When I open them again, the trees are the same and so is the chill. The blood is colder now. Thicker. Stickier. Like a demon’s possessing my mind and is starting with my hands.

  No.

  I dig my nails into the long scar on my wrist and claw at the skin as hard as I can, intending to remove it and peer under it. To see the blood actually flowing, to differentiate this nightmare from reality.

  If there’s no pain, then this is not real. It’s only another cruel manifestation of my subconscious and another self-punishment. Soon, it’ll be all over and I’ll wake up, safe and sound.

  My skin breaks under the assault of my nails and searing pain explodes on the injury.

  My mouth parts and a tear hangs from my lid.

  This is real.

  This is not a nightmare. I didn’t sleep and wake up in hell. I went there with my own two feet.

  No.

  No…

  My dry lips tremble as a few droplets of blood fall from my wound and join the massacre on my hands.

  This much blood can only mean one thing.

  I took a life.

  My demons finally won.

  They’re silent now, not even attempting to whisper those malicious things, those thoughts that have plagued me day and night. They rose in volume, crashing and clawing at the confines of my head until I heard them.

  Until I made their wish come true.

  “I’m not a murderer. Not a murder…” I murmur the words to myself. Maybe if I keep doing it, I can undo what happened.

  Maybe I can go back and change it.

  I stare up at the gloomy, bleak sky, tears clinging to my lids. “If there’s someone out there, please let me go back to change it. I’m not this person. Don’t let me be this person. Please…”

  Only the howling wind answers me, its sound echoing in the empty forest like vengeful spirits with yellow eyes and gaping mouths.

  “P-please…” I beg. “Please stop torturing me with my own self. Please.”

  I know my pleas have no effect whatsoever, but it’s the last hope I can hold on to. The last thread that can save me. Because I desperately need saving right now.

  And I don’t trust myself to do it anymore. If I try, I’ll just make it worse. I’ll spiral out of control and slide down the path of no return.

  Next thing I know, I’ll be my own demons.

  I’ll be my own downfall.

  I’ll be the thing I’ve run away from my entire life.

  “Please make it stop.” My voice chokes and I sniffle. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

  This time, the wind isn’t my answer. The shuffling of footsteps comes from around the trees.

  My feet falter and I stop breathing. My demons couldn’t have found me this soon.

  Though…wait. This is reality. My demons don’t show up in reality. That means the footsteps belong to someone more dangerous than them.

  I spin around and sprint ahead, elbowing the low branches out of my way. The fallen leaves crun ch under my flat shoes, but I don’t stop to think about the sound I’m making—which gives a clear indication of where I am. That’s not important right now. If I’m caught, I’ll be killed.

  Actually, my fate will be a lot worse than death.

  Live. You’re a fighter. You were born to live.

  Mom’s words echo in my head, charging me with a large dose of adrenaline. I have to live and stay that way for both of us.

  I need to live.

  The footsteps grow closer with every passing second until their thudding is right behind me. I don’t look back or even try to. Instead, I use the trees as camouflage, dashing between them so fast, my tendons cry out in pain.

  If my pattern is irregular, he won’t find me. If I’m unpredictable, I’ll be able to escape death’s clutches.

  I was taught to never take the short end of the stick or have less than what I deserve. It’s ironic that he taught me that but is now coming after me.

  So ironic.

  The trees clear out and I come to a screeching halt at the top of a cliff. Pebbles escape from under my feet and roll down over the huge boulders and finally to the dark, murky water that’s crashing against the rocks. The sound of raging waves echoes in the air like a symphony of death.

  The sky is completely cloudy now, casting a gloomy shadow on the angry sea.

  As I peer down, a strange yet familiar thought plays at the back of my head.

  It would be so easy to end it. So easy.

  One step is all it takes. One step and I’ll drown my demons with my own hands.

  One step and I’ll kill them once and for all, so they’ll never come out again.

  “Do it.”

  A shudder zaps through my spine at the sinister voice coming from behind me.

  He found me.

  I whirl around so fast, I lose my footing and swing backward. I reach out to him and grip his arm with both hands, nails digging into his shirt. Blood smears on the light gray cloth as evidence of my desperation to live.

  He’s motionless, like a cold statue, as I remain suspended in mid-air. His face is shadowed and I can’t see anything except the contours of his jawline and hair.

  Since I know he won’t make a move to help me, I try to use my hold on his sleeve to pull myself up.

  “You ended a life.” His calm yet threatening tone stops me in my tracks.

  I shake my head violently. “I d-didn’t want to.”

  “It still happened.”

  “No, please…don’t…”

  “Die for your sins.” He yanks his hand free and I stumble backward and down the cliff.

  I open my mouth to shriek, but no sound comes out. The fall isn’t as painful as I expected it to be. If anything…it’s peaceful.

  After taking one last look at the silhouette peering down on me, I close my eyes, letting the tears loose.

  It’s finally the end.

  1

  Adrian

  Being brought up a certain way forces certain expectations.

  Sometimes, they’re the easier type where all you have to do is go with the tide. Others, it’s all about taking action.

  I learned early on that taking action is proportional and depends on a set of predefined circumstances.

  Acting too soon or too late can cause tragedy.

  Refusing to take action in the first place is the main cause of self-annihilation.

  Being birthed by monsters and raised among them had taught me a valuable lesson.

  Never let my guard down.

  If I do, other creatures of the dark would feast on my weaknesses. They won’t hesitate to drag me down to the road of no return.

  Or so they wish.

  They’d have to reach me to touch me. They’d have to possess the ability to look me in the eyes and not tremble in fear.

  They’d have to reach my level of power.

  After losing everything as a kid and being raised in the ranks of the New York Bratva, I had to be smart about acquiring power. I couldn’t be too obvious because that would trigger my father’s suspicions.

  He’d think that I’m after his rank and title, his power and assets. And while that’s true, it’s not even the beginning of it.

  Georgy Volkov is one of the brotherhood’s four kings and has been for decades, from before I was born. He shares an easy friendship with the Pakhan, Nikolai, and the rest of the leaders.

  They look up to him with a reverence that he earned by massacring traitors in cold blood. Even if one of those traitors was a defenseless woman.

  While I’m his only son and heir, Georgy is smart enough to be wary of me. His guards watch me more than they watch outsiders, and he’s often shipping me off to Russia or Eastern European countries, so I don’t grow roots here.

  The last exile was my enlistment in the Russian military special forces with the guards that he recruited to keep an eye on me since I was young.

  That was his mistake.

  While the Spetsnaz was brutal, it hardened my mind and purged out whatever humanity lurked inside me.

  It made me the monster he wanted me to be since I was a boy.

  And unfortunately for my father, monsters don’t give two fucks about who they eradicate in their path toward their goals.

  Monsters take until there’s nothing left.

  He’s older now, in his fifties. It’s time for me to take over willingly or unwillingly.

  I sit beside him in a closed meeting with the Pakhan, the other leaders of the brotherhood, and some heads of the Italian families.

  Dozens of guards occupy the private restaurant room, all armed and scowling even when their bosses are drinking and plotting an upcoming drug shipment.

  I wouldn’t usually be allowed in these meetings, but I’m the one who brought forward intel about a coup being plotted in one of the South American cartels.

  In my plot to bring down my father’s reign, I’ve been investing in hackers and behind-the-scene players. I’ve been slowly but surely building my arsenal with the help of my confidant and right arm, Kolya.

  My father assigned him on a mission to watch me, but it’s been a long time since Kolya switched sides.

  When we found out about the South American cartel, I didn’t hand that information to my father on a golden platter and instead spoke directly to the Pakhan. Nikolai appreciated the gesture and has been looking at me with respect.

  Something I’ll use in my favor.

  The brotherhood and the Italian leaders are arguing about whose side to pick in the upcoming battle. Some are saying that we should stick behind the current boss because he’s been ruling for a long time and has several loyal lieutenants. Others are arguing that we should back the coup because he has more ammo and traitors within the cartel.

  My father is on the first side. He always went for the most obvious solutions, even if it meant destroying everyone’s lives.

  In the midst of all the bickering and arguments, the Pakhan’s sharp gaze falls on me. He’s older than my father and his features are covered by a sheen of the wisdom he acquired over the decades.

  Nikolai Sokolov has been one of the founding members of the bratva in Russia back in USSR’s times and his line is considered nobility in the Bratva. A fact everyone in this brotherhood brags about.

  Nikolai twirls his drink. “What do you think, Adrian?”

  I can feel my father stiffen beside me as silence echoes around us. Since I’m under Georgy Volkov’s umbrella, my opinion shouldn’t matter to the Pakhan, and yet, he asked for it. The reason is simple: I proved myself worthy to have an opinion.

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” my father hisses under his breath so only I can hear.

  He knows I’m a threat.

  Good.

  This isn’t the first time that I brought something to the table and Nikolai skipped over my father to ask for my opinion.

  “Neither,” I say calmly.

  Others start to argue, but Nikolai raises a hand, demanding quiet. “Explain.”