My Severe Brother

Ch 1: Your brother

Peter's pov

I woke up in this dingy room, same old one I've been stuck in for three days now. My body's killing me. I'm sore all over, blood everywhere. I look like a wreck – bruises on my face, arms, legs, and stomach, scratches on my back, and my wrist turned this nasty shade of blue from the rope.

" Finally, you are awake. Good you are not dead because I am not done with you."  My torturer's voice echoed in the room

I squinted at him, trying to focus. The guy looked like he stepped out of an action flick. Hair as dark as Achilles, perfectly styled. Eyes crystal clear, like a freaking mountain stream. His face? It's like it was carved by a master sculptor, all in perfect proportion.

Sun-kissed and full of energy, he radiated this confidence. Cheekbones so sharp, they could've been sculpted by a goddamn artist. Eyes like lode stars, sparkling with mischief, enwrought in snow.

Handsome in an understated way, his basalt jaw and spartan shoulders spoke of strength. His body screams rude health. He possessed a latent, leonine power and always walked with purpose and authority.

He wasn't a male model, but damn, he could've been.

No doubt, this guy's a Mafia boss.

Why I am in this mess? Well, I didn't have another choice.

"Well, let's get this show on the road," he grinned smugly.

"Play in another fucking place, bitch," I mumbled

"Here, we play with my rules," He winked at someone in the back of the room

Some guy came in, dumped icy water on me. I'm freezing my ass off, but hey, at least I'm not tied up anymore.

"Sir?" the guy asked, looking for orders.

"Get out," the blue-eyed boss ordered.

The man scurried out without a word ahead.

"Let's see if you're a match for me," he smirked.

"In my current state, you can hardly win," I shot back.

The coward is going to fight with a 16-year-old who is tortured in the last three days.

My reply seemed to wound his ego, his brows knitting together. I stood, fists raised, ready to defend myself. I've picked up a thing or two about fistfighting from an older buddy. He might be older, but he was like a brother to me. Just hope my body holds up.

I lunged at him, catching him off guard. Landed a punch to his jaw, and he winced.

"Nice shot. He who laughs last, laughs best."

"It'd be better if you could fight as well as you talk," I scoffed.

He smirked.

"Your smirk remind me of your father. It was the last look on his face before he got shot."

That got him riled up. So intimidating! 

Enraged, he got up, preparing to retaliate. I attempted to strike him, but he grabbed my arm, twisted it, and brought me down to the ground and kicked me in the stomach. As I struggled to stand, he easily grabbed my hair and delivered a punch to my nose, blood splattering on the ground.

"Oh!" I rolled away, wincing in agony. 

He grabbed my head, lifting me until I dangled on my toes. The pain rippled across my chest, and my breaths grew labored. "Don't you dare talk about my father again, trash. I was so gentle, wasn't I? Well, that'll change now," he seethed in a dead calm tone .