Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Katya
My pants feel a little tight around the hips, and I can’t help but feel awkward standing behind the bar in this multimillion-dollar house—a house bought with blood money from crime and drugs.
This is the first time I’ve seen the brothers not in their usual attire. Dimitri and his brother always wear perfectly tailored suits, typically in black or navy blue. Uri wears them too, but he always appears slightly leveled up. Tonight, they’re dressed differently, and it’s a bit disconcerting. The brothers are wearing crisp white button-down shirts, Damien in jeans and Dimitri in khakis, both exuding that effortless, cool vibe that makes you forget for a second that they’re murderers.
I glance over and catch Uri’s eye. He flashes me a smile from across the room, a smile that feels warm but holds a trace of something darker beneath. He’s in a light blue button- down shirt, not his typical overcompensating “I’m a bad boy and I hate my dad” all black.
The door opens, and Sveti walks in, high-waisted pleated pants swishing as she steps inside. Her navy blue shirt hugs her figure, and the heels she wears scream “I don’t plan on walking on cobblestones anytime soon.” A plush fur is draped around her neck, as always—like she can’t be happy or fashionable without draping a dead animal across her shoulders.
I’m invisible to her, or at least she does her best to ignore my presence, as she walks past the bar to join her entourage. She flicks her hair and I catch an odd whiff of woody decay. It’s oud, like Damien wears, but his has tones of warmth. This is just…ick. Did she see the gray haired, wrinkly balled, new fuck buddy before she came?
She’s greeted with polite smiles and a quick peck on the cheek from Dimitri. She grins at him, but turns away just as quickly as she arrives, her chest pushed out in an exaggerated strut as she makes her way to Damien. His eyes linger on her, hungry like a wolf.
Dimitri’s gaze darts between them, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. Oh shit, does he know Sveti is cheating on him with his brother? And is he okay with it? I can’t tell, but it doesn’t look good.
The party guests are off-duty criminals, though mostly family. Music thumps through the speakers, a steady beat that seems to pulse with the energy of the crowd. Small groups of people cluster together, laughing and talking in hushed voices. I’m content to stay behind the bar. It’s the perfect excuse for people-watching and, let’s be honest, gathering intel. It’s the only reason my boss didn’t balk at me being here instead of at the delivery.
This morning, I got a call that the Smirnovs were on the move again. Something’s happening, and it’s hard to ignore the growing sense of tension. Maybe it has to do with the shipment coming in tonight.
There’s movement through the crowd as people adjust and shift positions. A cry of delight rises above the noise. “Uncle Dimitri!”
Dimitri’s face lights up, and he immediately bends to scoop his nephew into the air. He groans melodramatically, though I can see the affection in his eyes. “You’re getting too big for this,” he says, lifting the boy effortlessly.
The child, Ian, has sandy blond hair, wide eyes that seem to take in everything, and an ever-present smile. At six years old, he’s full of energy, bouncing around like he can’t contain it. He’s the only kid here, which feels out of place in this adult world. If he were enrolled in school, he’d probably be in a room with friends, monitored by a nanny with games and pizza rolls. But his father hired private tutors, keeping him isolated from normal childhood experiences.
Poor kid, he’ll probably spend his thirties reliving every awkward interaction from his teenage years on an endless loop that will keep him company at night. But the kid stands to inherit a metric butt ton of money, so people will put up with his weirdness as long as he pays the bill. God, I don’t know what’s worse.
Dimitri sets Ian down and gives him a quick hug. From where I stand, I can’t quite hear their conversation, but whatever they’re talking about, Ian is excited.
Ian’s mother, Nadia, steps into the room behind him. Her movements are slow and careful. Damien greets her with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, wrapping his arm around her waist and guiding her gently to a nearby chair.
She stopped chemo a few weeks ago. The cancer is devouring her faster than the radiation could ever hope to fight it. Her flawless makeup and a wig styled to perfection create an illusion of health, but the toll is clear—the gaunt hollows of her cheeks, the slight tremor in her hands. If you didn’t know, you might think she was simply tired. But I know better. She’s dying.
Dimitri clasps his nephew’s hand and strides toward the bar. “Hello, Katya,” he greets me, his grin wide and dazzling.
Ignore the swell of excitement, or the way my back feels like it’s on fire. I don’t get to have him. I picked the world and Amanda Chase.
I return the smile but shift my attention to Ian. “Well, hello there. What can I get you fine gentlemen?”
“Juice, please,” Ian says, his voice soft but polite.
I made sure to stock apple juice—it’s Ian’s favorite, according to his dad—and it's perfectly chilled. I lean over the bar and whisper at him, “Want it in something fancy?”
Ian twists his whole body back and forth like moving his head wasn't clear enough. “No, those break too easily.”
I pull out the green plastic Ninja Turtle cup I bought on the way over. “Oh well, I guess I’ll have to give this cool color-changing cup to someone else. Do you think Uri would like it?”
Ian lights up. I’m already pouring the juice, when he squeals, “Ohhh, yes! Can I have it please?”
Dimitri inspects me, his expression unreadable. Maybe annoyed, maybe happy. It’s hard to tell. He nods and whispers, “Thank you.”
Uri comes over and I open a beer for him. “You just missed out,” I motion to Ian who’s watching the cup change from all green to reveal each turtle with correct color headbands and weapons. The kid takes a sip and heads toward the buffet table.
“I always miss out on the good stuff.” He flashes his goofiest smile. “Oh good, you’re both here. And Mikhail isn’t around for Katya to do bodily harm to.” After taking a quick sip from the bottle, he turns a bit more serious. “So, remember when you almost died and I saved your life?” he asks.
“Yes, I am well aware of that night.”
“Cool. So, I lost my watch.” He frowns and lifts the beer bottle. “I really hope it didn’t get tangled with Viktor’s body when I was dumping it.”
Dimitri and I exchange oh shit looks. “I swear to God almighty,” Dimitri growls, “you better not have left any evidence.”
But Uri seems unfazed. “What are the Politsiya going to do? We bought them off years ago. And I hope the Smirnovs know it was me. Fucking human hemorrhoid Viktor is dead. They’ll probably send me a fruit basket or something.” He waves the idea away with his hand.
“Maybe it's still in the alley?” I suggest, ever the helper.
Uri winks at me. “Damn, Katya, you're the best. And sexy as hell.”
I laugh, but out of the corner of my eye, Dimitri bristles as he grabs his cousin and pulls him away from the bar.
The room is lined with buffet tables filled with meats, cheeses, and other delights I’m not allowed to eat. Floor to ceiling windows light the space, but it also makes everything louder. Conversations and laughter bounce off the walls, creating a swell of sound.
Amid the noise, a small, sharp wheeze cuts through, faint but urgent. Maybe it’s because it sounds so different I can hear it. My eyes dart to Ian, whose tiny shoulders are hunched forward. His back tenses, and his chest heaves in uneven, desperate movements. Panic flashes across his face, his lips already tinged with blue. Anaphylaxis. But how?
He stumbles backward into the buffet table, his little body colliding with the stemware. The table rattles violently before the glasses come crashing down, raining shards of crystal onto the floor.
I grab the medical kit from under the bar and sprint toward him. Time seems to stretch and slow, the sound of my own breathing deafening in my ears. Ian’s on the floor, crying, his sobs choked by his struggle to breathe. Glass glitters in the light, embedded in his skin like jagged stars, blood already staining his pale arm.
“It’s going to be okay, Ian,” I say, more to steady myself than him. My hands move quickly, searching for the chloropyramine shot in the med kit. His tiny body writhes against me as I push the needle through his pants and into his thigh.
“Call one-one-two!” I yell to no one in particular.
Ian’s high-pitched wheezing begins to subside, his breaths coming slower, less ragged. Relief rushes through me, but it’s short-lived. Blood is pouring from the deep cuts on his right arm—far too fast.
The rest of the guests stare in voyeuristic horror, no one steps forward to help. Maybe they don’t want to stain their clothes. After all, most of the people here aren’t Bratva but crime adjacent. They live off the money and never question how it was earned.
“Okay, Ian, we’re not done yet,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. The coppery smell of blood fills the air, sharp and sickening. I lift him onto my lap, his small body trembling against mine. “You’re doing great. We’re going to sit here for a few minutes while help comes, okay? But first, I need to take out a few pieces of the glass from your arm. It might sting a little, but you’re a brave kid. I know you can handle it.”
Tears spill from his wide, terrified eyes. “It will hurt,” he whimpers on the edge of a whine.
“I know, buddy,” I whisper, “I know. But I’m right here, and we’re going to get through this together. You can pinch me for as long as it hurts, okay?”
I instantly regret saying that because his left hand digs deep into my thigh. As I pull the first piece of glass out, he cries, and my thigh throbs in pain. With each shard I pull free, his cries grow softer, exhaustion overtaking his fear as warm stickiness pools in my hand, reminding me what’s at stake.
Dimitri rushes with a cloth and wraps it around Ian’s wound while I squeeze his arm to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. “We’re going to sit here together for a little while. We’re just going to talk.”
The critical eyes of deadly criminals fall on us. I point to Uri. “Did you call emergency services?”
He points to his chest, “Me?”
“Do it now.” My voice stays light and friendly for Ian’s benefit while my eyes narrow, sending Uri a clear warning not to fuck this up.
Pressing Ian’s back to my chest I change the subject. “What superpower would you want to have?”
“Flight,” he says between gasps, the pain in his arm overtaking his terror from the allergic reaction.
“That’s a good one. But you need to make sure you have a really warm suit because it gets cold, especially if you go fast.”
Ian is quiet for a second. “I didn’t know that.” His breathing slows, though it’s still a struggle. “What about you, Uncle Dimitri?”
“Teleportation,” Dimitri responds right on cue. “All the benefits of flight, but you don’t need a sweater.”
Ian makes a choking sound—his body’s best attempt at a laugh. “What about you, Ms. Katya?”
“Telepathy,” I say softly. “So I can use it to make people feel better.”
He nuzzles against me. “You already have that power.”
“Did you know your family has superpowers?” I ask in a melodramatic whisper.
He tries to twist around in my arms, but I squeeze him to keep him still. “What?”
At this point, more people are watching us, their morbid curiosity silencing them. “Yeah,” I continue, “your grandfather has the power to make even the bravest man afraid.”
His grandfather steps out of the crowd and smiles at him. It’s the softest expression I’ve ever seen from him.
“But you have a power too,” I whisper in Ian’s ear.
“Yeah?” His breathing sounds less strained as the antihistamine and exhaustion do their job.
“You are the only one who can stop an entire party of superheroes and make them scared.” I squeeze him gently. “And that’s pretty amazing.”
The napkin is saturated with blood, but Dimitri is already on it. He swaps out one napkin for another.
“Who’s the best Ninja Turtle?” I ask. Ian is about to answer when I add, “Look, there’s a right and wrong answer here. Choose carefully.”
“Um, red. Orange. Purple. Blue,” he answers, breathing deeply between words.
I squeeze his tiny body. “Excellent choice. The blue one is super lame.”
His mother pushes through the crowd, her terror evident. She swoops in and kneels in front of Ian. “What happened?”
“I ate something, my throat got really itchy, and I couldn’t breathe.”
Dimitri fills her in on the rest. “He fell into the glasses, got cut up a little bit.”
She wrings her fingers together, her fear spreading to Ian. I can feel his tiny heart pounding against my arm as I hold him close. His mother moves to reach for him, but Dimitri stops her. “He’s safe here. Don’t try to move him.”
“Why was there food he was allergic to? Who let that happen?”
I understand why his mother is concerned but she needs to be reminded, “None of that is as important as making sure the most powerful kid in the world feels safe.”
Ian lifts his chin and beams. “That’s me.”
She pulls back and forces a fake smile—one of those mom smiles meant to reassure everyone that everything is okay, even when it’s not. Ian is losing too much blood, and we all know it. Dimitri switches the napkin for a third time, the crimson stains spreading faster.
Uri pushes his way through the crowd. “The ambulance is here.”
A silent conversation passes between the family members. Finally, his mother says, “I’ll come with you while your father and uncles figure out what happened.”
Dimitri lifts Ian out of my arms and carries him toward the door. Ian doesn’t say goodbye, which is probably a good thing because I’m completely covered in blood. We’ve done a pretty good job of keeping him distracted. He doesn’t need to see this.
The crowd’s attention shifts back to the family, murmurs filling the air. I take a deep breath and rise, brushing shards of glass off me. Standing there, unsure of what to do, I glance out the window. Dimitri carefully places Ian on the gurney as the medical team works with precision. In a matter of minutes, Ian and his mother are gone.