Love is Rage

Chapter 2 Viking

CHAPTER 2

VIKING

The basement floor was coated in blood. Corpses on the left, the right, some stacked against the wall. It was the prettiest picture Viking had seen in a long time. It had taken him sixteen years, but one by one, he had obliterated what was left of his enemies’ crew. The Morelli Family was no longer led by Lorenzo. If only he’d had the chance to kill the man himself.

Probably should’ve thought of that before you blew up his house with him still in it.

He cracked his knuckles and relished in the pain his bloodied hands provided him with.

It was an all-consuming, living beast inside him. It was why he worked out, lifted weights, anything to keep the rage at bay. Exhaustion and pain were good. Without them, rage would take over, level everything in his vicinity. Even as a child, he had never been the calm one, having to fend for himself and his little brother after their father had died. Back-alley street fights had put food on the table through his teens. Especially when his mother had fallen in with the wrong crowd, bringing home men who liked to put a needle in the arm.

Erika Skarsgard was the first woman who had betrayed him. Looking around the bodies littering the basement floor, it reminded him of the second one: Elena Morelli. The one he had vowed never to speak of. The one to whom he’d handed over his soul, just to have it ripped into shreds.

“You done? There’s no one left.”

Kristoff sounded cool and collected, as always, with perhaps a hint of irritation in his voice. The Bratva leader, who was the biggest arms dealer on the West Coast, had always been a steady force in his life. Rock-solid when the foundation beneath his feet had crumbled. Loyal, when he was betrayed by the ones closest to him. His f*****g guardian devil, keeping his ass out of jail the time his own mother had almost sent him off to the can. But, most of all, Kristoff was his brother by the blood vow they had taken.

“There’s still one.”

“Then take her. Kill her, if that's what you need to do, or let her go, but get yourself under control.”

Tempting. Maybe he should finally do what he neglected to do sixteen years ago—take out the Morelli queen. Maybe then he could let this building pressure inside of him go. Sometimes it felt like a dormant volcano; asleep on the surface, but ready to erupt any moment. No matter how many fights he got into, or how many women he f****d to get the edge off, it was like a living current on his skin, electrifying him.

He knew what Kristoff was telling him. Rage was bad for business. Get that s**t under control. He knew he was volatile on a good day. But lately, it had gotten worse.

Two factions trying to off them was just another week for the Bratva. They had taken out the Irish newcomers, and decimated Morelli’s army. The last one, surprisingly, with the help of Morelli’s backstabbing brother, Pedro. Everything in his life was good again. So why was he still feeling so damn restless? Usually, after a big op, he would unwind between the thighs of one of his side chicks, but that was no longer working. There was this little voice in the back of his mind screaming for blood and retribution. Yelling at him that there was one more thing left to do before he could close the chapter on Morelli: destroy the grieving widow by making her life a living hell.

Then why haven’t you already pounced on her ass, made her tremble at your feet, beg you for mercy?

It was the funeral, he told himself. Raiding Elena’s house before her husband’s corpse was in the ground was a line even he wouldn’t cross. Or maybe it was because he would hit forty in a few years and he was getting older and wiser. He snorted. Fat chance of that.

Sixteen years had passed, and she was still messing with his head. And in his line of work, that was deadly. He needed to put an end to it. Just like he’d put an end to Lorenzo Morelli.

Then it hit him. He would banish her. Not just from San Fran, but from the f*****g continent. For, so help him God, if he had to breathe in the same air with her any longer, one of them was not going to make it.

“We have a meeting with Sokolov tomorrow,” Kristoff reminded him, pulling his thoughts back to the here and now.

Kristoff’s old mentor, the Pakhan from St. Petersburg, wanted to expand his pipeline to the West Coast. The man was a Russian oligarch during the day and ruled the underworld during the night. He was the last patriarch of his family, and famous for holding on to the old ways.

Dark green eyes scrutinized him. “I need your head in the game.”

“I’ll be there.”

“In control,” Kristoff stipulated.

The man was big on being in control. “I’ll be as cool and collected as a Vor before hitting thirteen bottles of vodka.”

***

Viking returned to his place above Club Flux. He was ready to wash the grime off and call it a day. Baran and Yuri were standing at his door.

He was met with hardwood floors, trendy furniture in black and white, like a picture from a home décor magazine. Kristoff had insisted on the location, claiming the underboss couldn’t keep living in a squat house. No matter how big your street crew, or how notorious your rep, at the end of the day, it was also about keeping up appearances. People liked to look up at someone or something. Even more so if you were a made man.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a half-naked girl in thigh-high stockings jumped into his arms.

“Daddy!”

Judging by her martini breath, it was a wonder she was still standing.

He barely kept in a sigh as he held her in his arms. He had tortured and killed numerous men, he was feared on the streets, but there was one thing he couldn’t figure out—how to keep away coeds with daddy issues looking for a hard f**k.

“What are you doing here?”

She gave him a pout which looked ridiculous on a grown woman with so much collagen in her lips.

“It’s spring break and Mandy missed her daddy.” For some reason, this one spoke of herself in the third person.

She licked his neck, dotting it with kisses, working him up.

Maybe this was what he needed to clear his mind. Just f**k this girl’s brains out and forget about the other one. The hazel-eyed witch who still haunted his dreams and had ruined him.

He grabbed Mandy by the ass and pushed her toward the bedroom.

A growl sounded beneath his feet, and golden paws landed on his legs. Seventy pounds of fluff was demanding attention from his master. Though, sometimes the line between master and pet faded.

“Is he still here?” Mandy sounded petulant.

His dog didn’t like strangers around him. Especially not women.

‘Cause my dog is smarter than most men.

He didn’t answer Mandy, just took her to his bedroom and dropped her onto the bed.

“Strip. Hands and knees.”

Just as she took off her bra, Loki jumped on the bed.

Mandy yelped, suddenly looking sharper. “He looks like he’s going to bite me.”

“He won’t.” Loki only did that on command.

Her fingers fiddled with her top. Then she said the words that sealed her fate.

“Can’t you just lock him up somewhere?”

He grabbed her elbow, and in one smooth move, he pulled her up from the bed.

“Nobody puts Loki in a corner.”

“What?” She looked dazed as he ushered outside.

When he looked in the hallway, Baran snapped his fingers and held out his hand to Yuri. And Viking knew, just knew, the smug motherfucker had predicted this outcome. Probably put money on it too. He always f*****g did. That’s why no one ever played poker with him. Yuri, who’d never met a p***y he didn’t want to make purr, looked surprised, then cursed. Yeah, he owed Baran now.

“You’re kicking me out?” Mandy finally got the memo. “Over a stupid dog?”

He pushed her up against the wall. Her eyes grew large, and a flicker of worry showed in them. Yeah, she was getting the picture.

Loki was a moody bastard, grouchy on a bad day, annoyingly chipper on a good one, but it was his f*****g dog. Viking wasn’t locking him up anywhere, ever.

“You call him stupid again and I’ll smash your pretty face. Apologize.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What—?”

He mushed her lips together, giving her the duck-face expression she so obviously had paid for.

“Not ‘what.’ Apologize. To my dog.”

As always, Loki was right there when he needed him. Standing at his master’s feet, barking at the woman who had invaded his territory.

Mandy looked down and swallowed. “I’m sorry that I have offended you…dog.”

He let her go and cut his men a look. “Get her out. And don’t let her back in. I’m sick of this shit.”

A little voice in the back of his mind, in the dark vortex that sucked up all light, told him the actual reason he was so pissed. The stupid girl had reminded him of a certain dog lover.

They claimed revenge was a dish best served cold; it was a lie. Viking had waited sixteen years to kill his long-time rival and archenemy. It had done nothing to quench the simmering rage inside him. Worse, it seemed to still grow inside him every day, like a roaring beast, ready to pounce on anyone who even gave him a side glance.

He went back inside to his lonely apartment and turned on an LP. Immediately, AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” blasted through the speakers, the lyrics perfectly matching his mood. The record player looked ancient, but nothing sounded as good as vinyl. He’d barely gotten his Monster energy drink out of the freezer when a knock sounded on his door.

It was Baran with an odd expression on his face.

“What is it now?”

Baran stepped aside and revealed a young girl standing behind him in the shadowy hallway. She was tall, had curly hair, and looked barely legal.

Viking held back a curse. They always seemed to find him. Women with daddy issues, who loved to have a one-night stand with a “silver fox.” If one more of them purred out that ridiculous name for him, he was going into spank mode, and not in a good way.

“She’s been looking for Mr. Skarsgard,” Baran explained, watching him for a reaction with those eyes that never missed a thing.

What the hell was up with him tonight?

“Didn’t I just tell you I’m done with this s**t? What part of it didn’t you understand? The done or the s**t?”

“I think you’ll want to deal with this…shit.” Then the bastard just turned away and left him alone with the coed.

This one was even younger than most who visited him and seemed out of place in more than one way. She looked sophisticated, in her designer jeans and shirt that didn’t show any cleavage. Also, her fingers were white from clutching her bag, indicating she felt far from comfortable.

He shook his head. “Whatever it is you think you’re looking for, little girl, I ain’t it. Now, go off to your real dad before some asshole does takes you up on your offer.”

The girl bit her lip. “I can’t do that, sir.”

Sir? Well, look at that. He found himself in the presence of an uptown girl. One that grew up knowing how to suffer through a seven-course meal without using a wrong fork. Daddy’s sweet baby girl who was ever so polite on the outside, but wanted to do filthy things once in the bedroom. Some girls were messed up like that. Loved being degraded, called nasty words. Others were just looking for a dangerous fling to tell their girlfriends about later.

This one he couldn’t quite place. There was something oddly familiar about her, yet there was no way they had met before since they didn’t hang out in the same circle. Not to mention the faint European accent. He would have remembered this one, as he was apt in accents, having to deal with crazy Russians every day.

“Yeah? And why exactly can’t you just leave?”

She cleared her throat. “Because I’m already with my dad. My real dad, I mean.” Her eyes locked on to him. “You.”

“What the f**k are you—” His breath stilled when she stepped forward and stood in the full light. Long, white-blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders.

He didn’t need a DNA test to know she was his. The girl was his spitting image. How the f**k had this happened? He never wanted to have any kids, so he was always careful. With his f****d-up childhood, he would be a terrible parent.

Pale blue eyes seized him up in wonder and curiosity.

The girl awkwardly waved a hand. “Hi, Dad.”

For probably the first time in his life, he didn’t have a comeback.