Debase Read online Rachel Van Dyken (Elite Bratva Brotherhood #1)

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Dark, New Adult, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Elite Bratva Brotherhood Series by Rachel Van Dyken

Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 108119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Debase (Elite Bratva Brotherhood #1)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Rachel Van Dyken

Book Information:

From #1 New York Times Bestselling Author Rachel Van Dyken, comes the final book in the Eagle Elite Series and the first new book in the Elite Bratva Brotherhood...
With blood on my hands, I held her. With death in my soul, I took from her. With the devil in my heart, I coveted her.
There're many definitions of Hell. My list was exhaustive, my definitions tragic. Tonight I was adding something new to the very top. Girl number six thirty-two.
She arrived on my birthday, the same day, every year, I play Russian Roullete and pull the trigger.She was my omen. My end game. She made it personal. And for the first time in my life, I gave in. A virgin mob boss with no soul.
My name is Andrei Petrov. They call me the devil.All I want is for the pain to end. All she wants is for me to share it.
I am the last remaining heir to a dynasty that should burn in Hell. And my last wish remains for it to die with me.
Books in Series:

Elite Bratva Brotherhood Series by Rachel Van Dyken

Books by Author:

Rachel Van Dyken Books



With blood on my hands, I held her.

With death in my soul, I drank her.

With the devil in my heart, I coveted her.

My name is Andrei Petrov.

My last will and testament is as follows:

Let me finally die.

Let me bring down this empire of filth and destruction into the depths of a fiery Hell.

Let. Me. Go.

Protect Alice De Lange at all costs and tell her I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for referring to her as a number — it was too painful to say her name.

I’m sorry for all the times I shoved her, when I just wanted to shield her from the pain.

I’m sorry for taking her virginity and giving her mine in the process.

I’m sorry that she’s left to clean up a mess she’s not ready for.

I’m not sorry for loving her.

I’m not sorry for doing what was best.

I’m not sorry for killing them all.

I’d do it again.

For her I’d do anything.

Sincerely, Andrei Petrov, last boss to the Petrov Dynasty.

PS. I will not rest in peace.

One month into the future…

Blood and dirt caked her face.

And still I grabbed the whip.

I clenched it between my bloodied hands while they watched.

It came down hard on her snowy white skin, it ripped into her flesh and pulled it from her body — and I could smell their arousal. Their need to see violence in order to live in those disgusting bodies, surrounded by the most expensive women in the world.

Women I gave them.

Women I sold.

Souls I stole.

Hell was waiting for me.

I knew it as much as I knew my next breath would be the hardest I would take in my short life.

Because her eyes begged me for life.

Even when she knew, even when I told her again and again — all I had to offer was death.

They needed it, lived for it.

And she’d committed the ultimate sin.

Trusting me.

I slammed the whip down on her right thigh.

She cried out my name.

And I remembered.

I remembered then.

There was once a time where my name fell from her lips in ecstasy, in wonder — in love.

But she didn’t know — I wasn’t capable of it.

This was my legacy.

This was my destiny.

A tear slid down her cheek falling onto the rivers of blood streaming down the concrete.

Soon the blood would be gone.

The concrete clean.

And her life would be sacrificed.

Not by my hand.

But hers.

Because that was the deal, wasn’t it?

“Kill me,” she’d whispered between kisses.

“Yes,” I agreed as I tasted her sweet sin for the last time. “I will kill you.”

Her thank you fell on deaf ears.

So, I raised the whip again while she smiled.




“You know what you have to do, son.” Alexander Petrov was many things to many people.

What he wasn’t, was a father.

I despised that the only time he ever referenced me as his son was when he needed me to do something dark, something that would alter me, something that would take the tiny, minuscule pieces of the soul that I had left, and damn them to Hell.

Son, son, son, son.

I ached to hear it more than I would ever admit.


I was of his blood.

I was damned.


“They are nothing, simply scared girls who need to be shown to their rooms. Can you do that, Andrei? Can you get them to their rooms?” He always made it sound so simple.

It never was.


I almost laughed. A room meant they had comfort, a room typically conjured up good feelings of rest, windows, bright colors, and teddy bears.

I wasn’t escorting them to their rooms.

I was taking them to their deaths.

We didn’t call the path Red Row for nothing.

Because they would paint the cement red with their blood, with their screams, before ever seeing death, calling it Red Row, we figured, would be a kindness.

“Son.” There it was again. I squeezed the tears in. After all, I’d learned my lesson on my sixth birthday when I let myself shed them over my dead dog, when my father and stepmother made me shoot it in the face because I hadn’t cleaned up my dinner plate… and then laughed when I burst into tears over the warm blood splatters of my best friend all over my skin. Blood splatters I still felt to this day, laughter that still echoed in my head.

Fourteen. Fourteen years old, and I was already a monster.

I felt it shift within me.

Yes, I would remember this day for the rest of my life. I just didn’t know why. So, when I nodded my head to my father, when he gave me the approval he knew I would kill to gain.

I felt the monster smile.

I sighed in relief. “Yah, Dad, I got this.”

“Good job, Son.” He put his hand on my shoulder then. It was covered in the ever-present leather glove; no fingerprints, no skin on skin contact, not even for his own son.

I didn’t blame him.

Skin made me flinch.

It was too personal.