FIFTEEN
MARISA
Breaking into the office of The Pakhan of The Solentsevskaya Brotherhood is absolutely the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Like, this takes the cake for epically bad ideas.
If the leader of the Bratva doesn’t kill me himself, it’ll be a damn miracle.
“I’ll go find The Pakhan and distract him,” Mikhael reminds me for the twentieth time, completely undisturbed by the fact that we haven’t even seen the man in question tonight.
“You break in, steal the ring, find Aleksander and plant it on him. I’ll drop subtle hints that The Falcon is up to no good while I talk to The Pakhan. ”
This is truly a terrible plan. I can think of nine thousand ways this could—probably will, go wrong. But I’m at the mercy of Mikhael and his word as a mafia enforcer to get me through this. So that’s….reassuring.
“And then I get the painting?” I confirm from the millionth time.
“You and this painting.” Mikhael rolls his eyes in annoyance, but I can tell he’s not truly annoyed, just nervous about tonight. “What’s so important about this painting?”
“I have a bet with a very annoying pyro,” I gripe as I carefully peek around the corner.
We’re in a desolate hallway which is tastefully decorated in charcoal, black, and white.
Expensive looking paintings are hung in matte frames along the walls and emphasized with display lights shining on the glass.
It’s like walking through a very fancy art museum.
If I wasn’t so nervous about being murdered, I’d be loving this place.
I stare down the perpendicular hallway—all clear.
The glossy black double doors with an intricate design inlaid are completely unguarded.
Seems strange, but I guess if the boss is mingling, no need for guards down here.
“You pull this off and I’ll gladly hand over the painting,” Mikhael confirms yet again.
“Fine,” I state as my butterflies begin to whip around my core. Nerves and anticipation course through me as I try to take a few deep breaths and remain calm. “I’ll meet you back in the ballroom.”
“Little Rabbit,” Mikhael says as he grabs my wrist gently. “Be safe.”
I offer him a small smile and nod. I’m not sure it’s a promise I’ll be able to keep, but I can certainly try.
“Udachi,” Mikhael calls as he turns on his heel and leaves back down the way we came.
“Spaciba,” I mumble under my breath as I try to relax and calm my racing heart.
Creeping down the hallway, my heels click against the marble floor.
Each step echoes off the walls of the empty hallway.
But I move with speed and confidence, as if I belong.
The key to being a good thief is confidence.
If anyone asked, The Pakhan sent me to wait for him.
Although, hopefully, the Pakhan himself doesn’t ask, since I don’t even know what the man looks like.
The brass knob is cold beneath my shaking fingers as I reach out and test it. Unlocked. This dude seriously needs to up his security.
“Knock, knock,” I call out as I push the door on slightly. Knock, knock? Who says that? I cringe internally at my nervous awkwardness.
The hinges squeak slightly as the large wooden door swings inward to reveal a dimly lit room. It appears empty enough; so, with a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m truly alone, I step inside and close the door behind me.
The Pakhan’s office is not at all what I was expecting.
It’s surprisingly comfortable. The walls are painted a warm off-white which goes well with the warm brown leather and dark wooden furniture.
A large painting of a golden bird, wings lit with fire, sits on the wall behind the desk in an ornate frame.
It’s a beautiful painting. I stare at it for a moment, admiring the way the artist used alternating brush strokes to create the illusion of movement on the fiery feathers.
Something about the painting feels comforting to me.
“Okay,” I say to myself as my eyes swing over the surface of the large, masculine desk. “If I was the head of the Bratva, where would I keep my mafia boss ring?”
The desk is neatly organized. Piles of papers are stacked in small stacks, a golden pen lays haphazardly across one of the pages, as if he left in a hurry.
“Maybe a drawer?” I ponder aloud as I round the desk and collapse into the soft leather chair behind the desk.
Sliding open the long drawer in the center, I find a dangerous looking letter opener shaped like a dagger, a collection of golden pens, a matchbox stamped with SO in gold foiling, and a paperclip.
Opening the top left drawer, I find pads of legal paper.
Boring. The bottom left drawer is more exciting.
Inside is a collection of various objects.
There’s a golden pocket watch, a hand-carved smoking pipe that I can’t imagine anyone in this century using, cufflinks that seem to be made of real diamonds, which mysteriously end up in my clutch, and a golden feather.
It’s the feather that truly holds my attention.
It pulls at the string of something buried deep in my mind—a memory I’m struggling to uncover.
The feathers are soft and silky, the tiny hairs reactive beneath the pad of my thumb.
“Does the Pakhan have a bird?” I ask out loud.
“He does not,” a sly voice slithers from the dark shadows across the room.
I jump in my seat, my knee hitting the wooden surface of the desk with a bang. Pain radiates through the bend of my leg and I hiss in annoyance.
“The fuck?” I grit out as I rub my throbbing knee.
“Naughty little birdie,” the voice sing-songs from the darkness. I squint my eyes but I can’t see past the shadows.
“Who’s there?” I ask as fear begins to wrap around me. If it’s The Pakhan, I’ll surely be killed… maybe worse.
A man slinks out from the darkness, his slender form almost serpentine in his movements. He is tall with pale blond hair, tanned skin, a hooked nose, and the worst goatee I’ve ever seen.
“You follow me, Falcon?” I ask, not even attempting any type of lie.
“It was obvious Mikhael was up to something,” Aleksander Kaschei says with a shrug, but the way his icy blue eyes hone in on me tells a different story. “I wanted to know what it was.”
“He knows you’ve been peddling more than weapons,” I tell him. It’s bold to show my cards but like a cornered animal, I’d rather fight my way out than roll over to his horrible little man. “He intends to tell the Pakhan that you’ve dipped into the skin trade.”
Icy anger flares in the Falcon’s eyes as he slowly moves closer and closer.
The hairs on my arms stand up in fear. I slowly slide the middle drawer of the desk open, trying not to alert him to my movement.
If I can get the letter opener, at least I’ll have a weapon—a shitty weapon, but a weapon all the same.
“The Pakhan is a fool,” Aleksander seethes. “A true leader does not pass up opportunities when they present themselves. He is unfit to lead the Organizatsiya anymore. His reign is coming to an end.”
The way he looks at me makes acid rise in my esophagus. Like, I know they’re all bad guys here, but Aleksander seems truly evil, like some wicked trickster from an old-school fairytale. But with a spray tan.
“You think you should be in charge?” I balk. “A rapist and pedophile who takes from women and children for his own gain? You’re not even worthy of the air you breathe.”
His blue eyes narrow and his nostrils flare in fury. “Do you know who you’re speaking to, you insolent—” He storms across the room, straight for me. My body recoils and my fingers wrap around the handle of the dagger letter opener. “Fucking whore.”
When he’s right across the desk from me, his hand slides behind his back. In one smooth movement, he pulls his pistol from behind his back and points it straight at me. I stare down the barrel of his gun and hold my head high.
“I promised myself that I’d never let another man take my voice, my power from me. Not ever again,” I tell him, praying my voice doesn’t crack and betray the fear that’s wracking through me. “You can threaten me all you want. I will not bend and I will not falter.”
Aleksander scoffs at me, his thin little lip curling up into a sneer. “Only a fool does not fear power.”
“No, Falcon,” a deep voice calls from the doorway.
I hadn’t even heard the door swing open, but standing there, leaning casually against the black frame, is the man I never imagined I’d see here.
“A true fool is blinded by power,” Phoenix says casually as he flicks his characteristic matchstick between his teeth.
Clad in an all black suit with a black shirt and matching dress shoes, Phoenix looks like sin incarnate. My core clenches as I drink him in. This fucking man.
“Phoenix?” I finally ask as I find my voice.
“Hello, moya p?těn?c?,” Phoenix says, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he looks at me. “I see you found your way to my office.”