Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Book 0) Read online

  Their town was small, smaller than most even in Albania, and because of this, anything that happened here people talked about. None might have questioned what The Organization did to make their money, perhaps looked the other way when it came down to it, but Valon, over the years, had heard the rumors of what happened in this place. He never thought that he would actually see it in person.

  He didn’t dare question why Bastian would bring him to this place, but he did chance a glance back at Gjarper before facing Bastian once more.

  A predatory smile crossed his face as he gestured out around them. “What do you think of my work?”

  Valon opened his mouth but didn’t know how to respond. He mimicked Bastian, looking around at everything again.

  Luckily, he seemed to take that as answer enough. “In this place, I birth legends. I turn them into the very things that make up armies. In return, I give them everything they could ever want.” He came over to Valon, resting a sweaty but firm hand on his shoulder. “Your father may have been weak and an embarrassment to his people, but you do not have to follow in his footsteps.”

  Valon had never considered Ahmeti weak, not when his reign of terror had been so disastrous and ultimately deadly in the end, but if The Organization had felt he was weak, then perhaps Valon could learn from his mistakes and be better.

  He would do better, if only to be able to get the life his mother had wanted for him.

  “Now, if you can do for me, then I can do for you. In exchange for my compassion, letting you stay in my home, you will fight for me here.”

  After studiously avoiding blows from Ahmeti, Valon was sure that he could duck away from any opponent that came for him, and maybe land a few solid hits if he could. If his opponents were anything like him—in regards to never having fought before—then there was a possibility that this would all work out in the end, that he would be able to earn his keep here and not get thrown out onto the streets.

  Valon nodded his consent, but upon seeing the expressions on Bastian and Gjarper’s faces—one of barely veiled smugness and the other of contempt—he couldn’t help but wonder if he had made another mistake.

  __

  Hours later, after Valon had been led away from that daunting place, taken back to the barn where he’d slept, the dogs that had kept him company over the night were gone, but he could hear their distant howling and knew they weren’t far. But he and Gjarper were not alone, four other men standing around, as though they had been waiting for them.

  Valon, not sure what was happening, looked at Gjarper, waiting for any sign of what was to come. But Gjarper was as stoic as ever. When they were close enough that Valon could smell the rancid scent of sewage on one of the men, Gjarper spoke.

  “Take him.”

  His first instinct was to flee, break away from them, and try to get away from whatever was awaiting him on the other side of those barn doors, but the men held fast, dragging him inside. The marks in the earth from where he’d dug his heels in for purchase was the last thing Valon saw as the doors were closed again.

  He was shoved into a chair, a man already standing behind it with a pair of clippers in hand, the cord plugged into an extension cord. Shaking his head, he was too afraid to voice a plea, even more afraid to jerk away from them as one flipped a switch and the clippers buzzed to life.

  They didn’t care that his mother had loved his hair, that she had painstakingly taken care of it because she had always wanted him to look his best—the fact that he looked more like his father when his head was shaved was left unsaid between them.

  As the blades glided over his scalp, clumps of curling blond strands hitting the dirt behind him, Valon felt like he was losing another piece of his mother. But he didn’t shed a tear, and though wetness pooled in his eyes at another loss, he didn’t dare let them fall. Not yet.

  Not even when the clippers snagged from the knots did the man take any sympathy on him, still pulling and tugging, even to the point where Valon felt the sharp pain of the razors cutting his skin. The time it took for it to be over was vast, but he had managed to get through it without making a sound.

  When it was done, and Valon could feel the cool breeze, only then did they let him go. One chuckled, another smirked, but only Gjarper actually commented on Valon’s new look.

  “Better, but you still look like shite. Come.”

  He had very little choice to do anything but get up and follow Gjarper back to the house into one of the empty rooms. He couldn’t help but touch his head, feeling for where his hair had been, and now it was cut so short he was nearly bald.

  Alone again, Gjarper pulled out a rusted old toolbox from the closet, setting it on the desk at his side. He flipped the top open and pulled out the contents inside.

  There were several small bottles filled with black liquid, and a small machine of sorts that Gjarper fitted a needle to. Valon had an idea what it was, or at least could guess. There was no one that worked under Bastian that didn’t bear his mark. It was a sigil of sorts, one of the Virgin Mary, that while pure in some faiths, was the only thing that was meant to protect them in this life.

  Gjarper gestured for him to take a seat, his expression unwavering. There was a moment when Valon hesitated, believing if he could just leave this place—try running again—then he would get away. Gjarper might have seen it in his eyes, the panic that was there, but he didn’t make a move to try and stop him—he didn’t tense in a way that made it look like he would chase after Valon should he try to get away.

  No, he just waited, letting Valon make the choice.

  After all, he would be the only one affected by the decision.

  But he had heard of those who ran from Bastian when he offered a helping hand. He wouldn’t get far if he left now, especially when there was nowhere else for him to go.

  Swallowing, he traveled the short distance to the chair and dropped down into it, folding his hands in his lap. He didn’t know what to expect as Gjarper’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder for a brief second, but it wasn’t until he heard the soft whirring of whatever Gjarper had pulled from his toolbox did his imagination run free.

  Again, Gjarper dropped a restraining hand on his shoulder, but this time he kept it there as he brought the clippers to Valon’s scalp. The vibrating blades made him jump, but the hand holding him steady didn’t let him get far.

  Carefully, his hair fell in rings on the dirt floor beneath his feet, and as the clumps fell in abandon, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Not when he felt the cool breeze on his now bare head or when the vibrations stopped and Gjarper took a step back.

  The urge to feel where his hair had once been rode him hard, but he resisted the urge, balling his hands into fists to keep from doing it. Despite his fear of the unknown, he didn’t want to show weakness in this.

  It will grow back. At least, that was what he hoped. Not once had his mother ever taken off any more than an inch during any of the times she’d sheared his hair.

  Blinking away the sudden wetness in his eyes, Valon looked at Gjarper, waiting to see what was next.

  “Lay there,” he commanded, pointing to a table of sorts built into the wall.

  Valon was just light enough to climb onto it and stretch out, watching Gjarper from his position. While he had never seen one in person, he could guess what machine he was holding. He couldn’t bring himself to watch him prepare it, nor could he look away from the hole in the roof.

  Flinching when the cold, wet wipe swiped across his skin, Valon heard the click of the machine, his jaw clenching as Gjarper brought the machine closer to him. And as he lay there, under the grueling agony that was getting a tattoo at his young age, Valon kept quiet, knowing that this was just one more thing he needed to get past.

  He would survive. He always did.

  -

  4

  ______

  He had been just a boy when he’d ventured into the world that Bastian commanded, merely an outsider permitted to an unrestricted view of
the horrors that took place there. Valon had managed to go unnoticed for some time, being the perfect little slave boy that Bastian wanted. Truthfully, he’d performed far better than he’d hoped in fear that he might be one of the few unfortunate souls who were tossed in the Pit and made to fight for their life.

  For months, in fact, he had gone unscathed, just another bastard child who had come to Bastian for help, at least until he made one fatal mistake.

  It was another cold night, one that Valon hadn’t anticipated. He’d snuck back into the house in search of another blanket as the other he had did very little to combat the harsh winds. He had always been quick on his feet, and he was almost back out of the house when he heard the grunting, then the sound of furniture being moved across the room, inch by inch.

  He’d always had an inquisitive nature, and though he knew better, he crossed the hall, walking closer until he could just peek through the crack in the door, and what he saw there made his stomach turn over.

  His pants pooled at his ankles, Bastian was thrusting into a girl—different from the first Valon had seen, but around the same age—whose face was turned in his direction. At first, he’d thought he had been caught from the way she stared, but soon he realized she wasn’t truly seeing him, or anything at all, since her eyes seemed to lack focus. No matter how Bastian shoved into her or palmed the back of her head as he yanked on the dark strands of hair that looked nearly matted, she didn’t react. With his weight on top of her, Valon didn’t even know if she was alive, and that thought made him lurch back, slipping on the smooth wood outside the door. He slammed back into the wall, making enough noise that Bastian heard him.

  Valon knew better than to try to run, but the idea of Bastian catching him made fear sink into his heart. He scrambled to his feet, trying to reach the door before Bastian came out, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  “Stop!”

  Valon was already apologizing before Bastian had even stormed over to him, his pants still unbuttoned, not seemingly to care that his junk was still on display. Now holding a revolver that made Valon’s breath quicken, his fury was evident.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Spying on me?” His eyes narrowed on Valon. Either he didn’t care about the blanket he held or he just didn’t notice because he asked, “Or do you want to take that bitch’s place?”

  “No, sir!” Valon vehemently denied, but Bastian ignored his words as he grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him into the room.

  The girl was slumped over on the floor, her eyes at half-mast now, but she still didn’t move at their entry.

  Valon was still a lanky boy and had yet to grow to the size his father was. Despite this, he refused to just stand there and let Bastian do to him what he’d done to the girl.

  So, he did the one thing his father had always wanted from him.

  He fought back.

  When Bastian made to grab him again, Valon shoved away, trying to dart around him, but what Bastian lacked in speed, he made up for in size. With one swift grab, he had Valon by the neck, his meaty paw squeezing tightly. He shoved him onto the desk, and no matter how he fought, he couldn’t get free.

  An age-old promise to himself flared to life in his mind, that so long as he lived, he would never beg another person for anything again. Valon often remembered the look of smug satisfaction in Ahmeti’s eyes whenever Valon begged for his mother. He didn’t want to give anyone else that kind of power over him. He never wanted to be brought that low, but as he was faced with what was about to happen, the plea was at the tip of his tongue.

  “Shh,” Bastian said from above him, his breath reeking of stale alcohol. “It’s won’t hurt for long.” With one hand, he still held Valon in place, and with the other, he was trying to get Valon’s shorts down. “If it makes it any easier, then I’ll go slow.”

  Tears sprang to life in Valon’s eyes, and just as he was about to break the promise he’d made to himself when the door was flung open, and Gjarper stood on the other side of it. Bastian released him, jerking his pants up in a hurry. He had never seemed to care about his blatant displays with the girls, but now that it was Valon, he face looked like he was caught doing something wrong.

  Gjarper’s gaze went to Valon then to Bastian, and for just a second, his disgust was clear for anyone to see, but he masked it quick enough.

  Bastian, who was quickly turning red in the face, fired off a quick explanation. “I caught this little shit trying to steal from me! After everything I’ve done for him when his pathetic excuse for a father killed himself. From now on, I want him in the Pit.”

  Valon’s face blanched as those words hung in the air. If he feared one place, then it was that ring of despair. He’d seen men die there from just a single punch. Having never truly been in a fight, he didn’t think he would survive a night. Gjarper, who didn’t look moved in the slightest by the fear now in Valon’s face, gave a single nod, gesturing for Valon to walk ahead of him as they both left.

  The entire way back to the barn, Valon was shaking but still didn’t cry. His blanket, the one he’d felt he’d needed was left forgotten, still on the floor back in that office.

  As Gjarper readied to leave, he faced Valon, gaze solemn. “Learn to survive, boy. Or at least die trying.”

  -

  5

  ______

  Spectators stood around the gate, spittle raining from their mouths as they cheered on the bloody battle on the other side, two fighters trying their best to survive the night. Even when blood sprayed, the smell of copper scenting the air, no one minded. They thrived on the gore.

  And yet, Valon couldn’t hear any of it, the blood rushing in his ears too loud. Fear had taken hold of him since he’d returned to the barn, and after a fitful night of sleep, spent mostly imagining the horrors he would face in the Pit, he was exhausted. But with the adrenaline coursing through him, at this moment, he couldn’t sleep even if he tried.

  With a hand on his shoulder, Gjarper led him through the crowds, his hulking presence giving them easy passage. He hadn’t spoken a word to him since his ominous warning the night before, but from his expression, Valon didn’t think that he was any happier about this than he was.

  But that could have just been wishful thinking on his part.

  They stopped next to a line of boys, both older and younger than Valon, who were all waiting their turn in the Pit. None looked eager to face their opponent, and judging from the bruises already present, this wouldn’t be their first time.

  Valon, shaking with fear, watched the end of the current fight, momentarily frozen—or transfixed—by the sheer amount of blood present. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, coupled with sweat and anticipation.

  There were only two in the center of the dirt floor—Valon had heard of there being more once—and only one was left standing, dark blood dripping from his mouth and at least a couple of his teeth missing. As the crowd cheered, he stumbled on his feet, almost seemed drunk as he stared down at the boy who lay in a heap, unmoving. He didn’t cheer his victory, but a dark gleam in his eyes burned itself into Valon’s mind.

  Six more fights, each bloodier than the last, went on before Valon found himself at the front of the line. He was trembling so badly that he garnered the attention of the handler at the front who was waiting for his cue. Noticing Valon’s fear, he smirked, revealing two rows of silver capped teeth. Though he didn’t mean to, Valon shrank back, wishing there was a way out of this for him.

  A bell sounded from a distance, but he could hardly hear it with the blood rushing in his ears. He could just see Bastian sitting high above the crowd, a glass of expensive liquor no doubt clutched in his right hand. His gaze shot to Valon, and when they locked, he smiled cruelly, moving to his feet.

  “Fresh meat,” he called to the crowd, riling them up further. “And his opponent…”

  A boy, at least six years older than Valon, stepped into the Pit, shirtless, and unlike the rest of the boys who had been brought forward
before him, he looked eager for this. The handler, who’d still been smiling at Valon, gave him a shove, forcing him forward before he was ready.

  Not expecting it, he pitched forward, landing on his hands and knees in the dirt and sand. He didn’t know much about fighting, having only been on the receiving end of his father’s fists and witnessing the abuse his mother suffered, but if there was one thing he knew, it was to stay on his feet.

  On the ground he was more vulnerable, more likely to be kicked in the head, or worse.

  He had no chance of winning this, Valon knew, but at least he would do this on his feet.

  Pushing himself up off the ground, he eyed his opponent, trying to see what he was up against. The boy was a few inches taller and had at least fifty pounds on Valon’s smaller frame.

  Despite having lived in this place for years now, he had never seen him, nor could he recall actually crossing paths with any of the boys here. He doubted they stayed in the old house, but since he had yet to leave the property, he had no idea whether Bastian had another house somewhere that housed them.

  There was only one thing he was completely sure of as he balled his fists, lifting them in front of him. By the time this was over, he was going to hurt. Bad.

  One second he was trying not to pass out from the adrenaline, the next a bell was ringing and the cheers of the crowd grew deafening, and before he could blink, the boy was on him, landing a hit to his face that made him see stars.

  Valon didn’t have a chance to move away, not even enough time to lift his fists again. Blow after blow landed, pain exploding throughout his face, and after a particularly brutal punch forced the sensitive inside of his cheek against his teeth, blood poured into his mouth.