6. The Dark Side of Boston
6
THE DARK SIDE OF BOSTON
RORY
A distraction is the last thing I need.
I didn’t sleep last night. I just kept going over and over the situation in my mind, fortifying my exit strategy. So far, I’ve squirreled away a couple thousand in cash from my job at the Chill Zone.
It’s not enough.
Not nearly enough.
If I’m going to run, I need money. Documents . I won’t only have to hide from the entirety of the Russian Bratva, but now let’s throw in the Italian Mafia for shits and giggles; an organization arguably more connected than us by far. My head starts to feel spinny.
My father has already taken it upon himself to appoint me extra guards, needing to protect his investment. To keep me from running. There were two armed men waiting for me outside this morning when I walked out for practice.
Alexei, noticeably missing.
My frown deepens at the sight of Petr waiting by the SUV doors, puffing on a cigarette. One of my father’s most loyal men. Of course my father would appoint Petr to the job.
It reminds me that, not only do I require the means to escape, I also require opportunity . It would be no small task to ditch the hardened Russian soldiers whose entire job was specifically not to lose me.
About an hour and a half into a particularly rough practice, those men my father sent to follow me around everywhere appear at the rink door, banging loudly on the glass to get our attention. Alexei was still nowhere to be seen. I’ve asked, but all they’ve told me he was needed elsewhere today. Petr now stands in the doorway of the hockey bench, beckoning me over to him.
Karina skates by my side. “You better go girl, that one right there is not one you want to cross.” She shoots me a wry look and I make a face before skating slowly in Petr’s direction, not in a hurry to find out what he wants.
Petr shouts something at Karina in Russian over my shoulder.
I whip my head back to my coach, expecting an argument, but her back is to me. She’s already skating off. What the fuck?
Gritting my teeth, I take my time skating to the bench, where I stashed my skate guards, along with my bag containing my water bottle and phone. Petr scowls at me the whole way. A look I return, irritated when he doesn’t translate what he’d just shouted at Karina in Russian. Only barking at me to hurry my ass up in English .
Not that I really need him to. I understand and speak fluent Russian, as well as perfected my Italian and Spanish. A skill my mother insisted I learn and keep secret.
It used to grate on me to keep the secret, and I’d thought about revealing it. My father would be over the moon to know his daughter had learned Russian. Back then, all I craved was his approval. But on my brief visits back home to Boston over the years, I quickly realized there was often a discrepancy between what the men said aloud and what was subsequently translated to me. Keeping the secret had proved an advantage for precisely this reason.
Petr had just told Karina, There was a situation, and that he needed me off the streets now, by order of the Pakhan.
It doesn’t happen often, but it’s not the first time. They’ll drag me back to the mansion and put me under extra guard. And we’d wait for however long it takes for the men to come home. Usually bloody.
Something was going down in the darker side of Boston.
I’ve only just slipped the second guard over my blade when Petr reaches across the hockey bench, yanking me roughly off the ice.
Surprised by the rough treatment, I shout out, pulling back. I try to twist out of his grasp, but he holds firm. At nearly twice the size of me, there’s little more I can do to push the Russian brute off of me.
He drags me past the locker rooms, moving toward the arena’s emergency back exit.
“I have to change!” I protest, pointing to the women’s locker rooms as we pass, trying to dig my heels in to stop him.
“No time, Printsessa. ” He mockingly mutters the second part, loud enough so I can hear him, but softly enough that he can still deny it if I decide to press the issue. “Move!” He barks out, losing his patience and practically shoving me through the rink’s emergency door and out into the side alley.
I stop fighting, mostly because I’m still in my skates and teetering unbalanced on the uneven concrete underfoot. A black SUV waits for us, its windows tinted dark enough you can’t see in.
“Get in.” Petr growls at me like I’m an idiot baby whose hand he has to hold to cross the street, and I bristle at the tone.
It’s considered a great honor, watching over the Bratva Pakhan’s daughter, but Petr despises guard duty. He certainly had other ideas on how he’d rather be spending his days, and babysitting me is not one of them.
When I don’t move, Petr opens the door to the backseat and begrudgingly, I hop inside, still in my skating dress, tights, and leg warmers that come up past my knees. He tosses the small duffle and backpack he swiped off the bench in after me and slams the door shut, causing the vehicle to shake. He immediately opened the passenger door and slid in. I don’t even think the car door fully closes behind him before the car is in motion.
Spotting Van at the wheel is a breath of relief. He’s good man, or as close as you can get to it by Bratva standards. I was friendly with his daughter Kaia before she was married off to a lower-ranking Bratva soldier out of state last year. There’s no smile for me today, though. Van’s expression is tense as he blows a thick cloud of cigarette smoke out the crack in his window before effortlessly swinging the SUV out of the alley and onto Main Street.
My ass slides across the smooth leather seats as he takes another particularly sharp turn down a side street.
Petr’s distracted, looking out of the windows in all directions - forward, back, and to the side. And repeat.
I watch through my own window as we pass the turn leading back to the Kostalov mansion.
Not home —that house—would never be my home .
“Where are we going?” I finally get up the nerve to ask once we stop taking hard turns, accelerating onto the highway. The men are familiar, but I didn’t grow up in the Bratva. And I’d be lying if I said my father’s men don’t intimidate the shit out of me.
With their lingering gazes and leering stares, Alexei is the only one of the lot I trust… somewhat.
“Your father wants you at the club,” Petr clips out as if it’s against his will to provide me any information before his phone rings. I grimace at the mention of Elements, the newest in a long list of nightclubs my father owns. Elements—his current passion project—perfect for laundering the money the Bratva brings in from its e xtracurricular activities, in addition to its legitimate businesses. He’s really been expanding over the past year.
My attention shifts back to the duffle that has since fallen onto the floor of the SUV with Van’s chaotic driving.I snatch it up, instantly disappointed to discover it’s the bag I left on the bench, not the one from the locker room—the one with my clothes .
Sighing, I dig through the contents of the duffle, relieved to find my favorite old Vancouver Wolves hoodie I must have stuffed inside it at one point, along with a pair of warm sheepskin boots. I dig a little more, but alas, I turn up no pants.
Great.
Van has the air blasting despite the cool fall weather outside, so I take advantage of the straightaway of the highway to unhook my seat belt. I make quick work of unlacing my skates, switching over to the soft sheepskin boots. Pulling the hoodie over my head, I’m mildly reassured by the fact it’s oversized and covers most of my skating dress. With the sweatshirt on, only several inches of my black velvet skirt is visible. The tights I’m wearing are thick, but offer little in the way of friction. I slide from left to right as Van weaves in and out of Boston rush hour traffic.
Petr’s phone is in a constant state of ringing. He answers, each time only saying one or two words before hanging up again, only to answer another incoming call seconds later the same way. His jaw grows more and more tense and he spends longer each time looking out the rearview window. It’s obvious he’s making sure we aren’t being followed, but by who?
The soldiers assigned to protect me are over protective for sure. My father would likely castrate them, forcing them to eat their own balls if they let anything happen to me, but this isn’t normal .
I look from Petr’s tense expression to Van’s and chew my bottom lip.Turning in my seat, I crane my neck to look both behind and ahead of us, keeping up my own vigilant watch as Van speeds forward.
“What’s going on?” I ask the next time Petr turns around to check the road behind us.
His eyes flicker toward me. They are such a light blue they are nearly white, unnerving when he settles them on you. “Don’t worry about it,” he gruffs out, looking back over the road.
I narrow my eyes at the response. When I open my mouth to argue, once again Petr’s phone rings out, cutting me off. “Da?” Petr growls into it. His eyes widen at whatever comes through on the other end, and he whips back around in his seat. I can hear shouts in Russian on the other end, but not clearly enough to make out what they’re saying. Petr’s shouting now too, all manner of Russian expletives and swears streaming out of him. The SUV lurches forward as Van pushes down harder on the gas pedal and I look between the two of them again nervously.
Whatever’s happening, it is not going in our favor.
The only useful thing I can discern from Petr’s colorful conversation is we weren’t followed .
That’s something... I reassure myself nervously.
Petr slams his older model flip phone shut with a curse and reaches for his piece. The sight of the gun makes my palms sweaty. He flicks the safety off and turns to stare right at me. The SUV brakes to a stop and I realize we’ve reached our destination. The neon green light from the club’s name, Elements, lights up both of our faces.
Those silvery blue eyes focus in on me now. “You don’t look at anyone, you don’t talk to anyone, and you do what you’re fucking told,” Petr instructs roughly.
I’m only half listening—distracted by the sight of two men materializing from the shadows of the building to stand by the car door. Both are openly armed and scanning the street for any incoming threats.
“Aurora.” Petr shouts to bring my attention back to him.
“Okay!” I huff out, rolling my eyes. “It would be a lot easier if you just told me what was going on,” I mutter bitterly, already scooting my ass over to the car door closest to the sidewalk.
Petr gets out of the car, while Van remains at the wheel. Petr has his gun in hand before he opens my door for me, half pulling me out.
“Do what you’re told,” he growls. “Пойдём.” Let’s go.