Chapter Ten
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO
OYMYAKON, RUSSIA
The little worm was finally going to die.
It only took three years.
And, well…yes, fine, slipping poison into his formula bottle and, later, food every now and again.
Igor couldn’t put a bullet in his head. Killing a baby in cold blood felt like shedding the last layer of civilization separating him from being a demon.
It was a mistake to take the twins. This fact he willingly admitted, but only to himself.
He should’ve let them die in the bitch’s womb.
But the temptation had been too strong, the sorrow too raw, the pain too fresh.
Tyrone Callaghan had taken the one thing Igor couldn’t replace—his heart.
“You should come see him, sir.” Olga nudged her swinelike face between his office door and its frame. “His fever hasn’t broken in five days. The closest hospital is a two days’ journey away. I doubt he’ll make it.”
Igor set his pen down and plucked his shuba from the back of his chair. The turndown fur collar tickled at his whiskers as he trudged out of the wooden cabin. He picked up his rifle on his way out. Mercy killing, he told himself. Luba would not be mad at me for that.
A thick sheet of white covered the roofs and what few vehicles were parked outside the encampment.
Barren roads encircled the former gulag camp Igor had purchased from the Politburo shortly before the union had collapsed. He turned it into a training camp for his future Bratva soldiers and a prison for his adversaries.
He made good use of the work camp facilities. The barbwire gates kept his prisoners from escaping. The punishment cell block was the classroom in which valuable lessons were learned. He forged warriors, not little pansies.
They trudged the length from his firelit office cabin to the living quarters, snow crunching under their boots.
Olga—heavy, short, unbearably pink—pulled the door open, fighting the force of the swirling winds.
The stench of sickness and rotten teeth hung in the crisp air.
The children slept in their coats and working boots on long planks of wood stretched on either side of the wooden cabin.
They were too exhausted to wake up to the sound of Igor stomping across the rotting floorboards, his hand lantern rocking from side to side like a ship caught in a storm.
Igor stopped at the foot of the plank.
Tiernan—ridiculous name, he marveled for the millionth time—was sandwiched between his sister and Alexei Rasputin. Igor’s own son hugged his friend close to his chest, his shuba flung across the little worm. A rare mink sable worth a fortune. And he put it on that Irish scum.
Igor wanted to welt Alex from head all the way down to his little toes, but knew Luba—had she been alive—would disapprove of it.
He’d already found himself another wife, Natalia. Twice as young and thrice as pretty. She was pregnant now. But she was no Luba. Nobody was his Luba. And so, he did not strike the boy, though he richly deserved it.
Tyrone said he killed Luba by accident. Igor didn’t believe him.
At any rate, his Alex, his Lyosha, was the only piece of her he had left. And he intended to keep him unsullied.
Igor toed his son’s hand from Tiernan and pointed his rifle at the sick boy.
“Oh, but look, Igor.” Olga sent a pudgy hand to the worm’s forehead, running her fingers over the damp bloodred locks.
“His fever is finally breaking. He was convulsing so horribly earlier, I thought he would die. His sister and little Lyosha kept him warm. Forced milk into his mouth. Looks like he’ll pull through, after all. ”
Igor curled his mouth in dissatisfaction and lowered the rifle slowly.
“What was he doing when he fell ill?”
“Just peeling potatoes, Mr. Igor. He is only three. Too young for lumber work. I let the young ones peel potatoes out in the cold. It is good for them to get used to the temperature. But I can allow him to work inside until he gets stronger.”
“No,” Igor said decisively. “Keep him outside, and make sure he works tomorrow. Full day. He needs to earn his keep.”
Igor wanted to tell Olga to keep Alex and Tiernan far away from each other, but it was futile.
The only way to keep his son from the little worm was to pull him out of the camp and let him live with him and Natalia.
And he was far too selfish to let a toddler interfere with all the joys the young, reckless woman brought to his bed every night.