46. Laszlo
“The people in this room, we are survivors! When the evil Bolsheviks put bullets in the head of the innocent Tzars, the whole family, they wanted to take our history. Our past!”
I had never been so fucking grateful to be wearing a mask because I couldn’t hide my sneer.
No one in this room would have thrived under the Tzars. Russia back then was a backwoods nation, relying on starving serfs while the nobles lived in gilded gold palaces.
And then the men in this room looked at the riches that were amassed in the seventy years after the revolution, and they pillaged.
That was how the Bratva was truly born.
I know, because my parents benefited from the fall of the Soviet Union, as much as any truly wicked person did.
They looked at what the people had, and they took, and took, and took.
I grew up in a castle, for fuck’s sake. Kicked all the workers off the farmland.
Grew a grass lawn instead to show off our wealth.
“We are here to honour those sacrifices. The losses over a century ago.”
A hush took the crowd’s voices, solemn, as if they believed it. As if they believed in anything. My skin itched, bugs crawling under my flesh, burrowing in. I hated being in that room.
No, hate was such a small word, compared to what I felt. Apoplectic rage. Resentment.
Terror.
I swore I could feel my tattoos moving on me. The ones they gave me. The ones they marked on my tender skin when I was a boy, ink made of blood and ash. I did everything I could to cover them up, but they were close, crawling along my tendons, trying to find purchase into my blood stream.
“We live up to their ideals, honour what they wanted. For the chosen among us to experience the richness of life, of family! But we are more than just blood. We recognize the worthy, of those brave enough to look at the life they were given, and say this is not enough! I deserve more!”
Glasses raised in the air. Mine followed, of its own volition. I was a puppet on a string, and the sooner I could get out of there, the better.
“What we do here tonight will pay dividends greater than any we’ve known before. The sacrifices made here will not be in vain!”
The speech was the ideal opportunity to slip away, and I found the southern wall, followed it.
“Our experiments will breed success. How do I know this?”
The words stopped me in my tracks.
No. No. Fucking no.
“Because one of our experiments, from eighteen years ago, is in this very room! Most of you do not know his name or his face, but he has made us all very wealthy.”
All my blood drained, pooling at my feet, and my back crashed against the wall as it set me off balance.
I knew the Pakhan would remember me. My father worked for him in the Bratva, offered two of his children up for heinous experiments we weren’t meant to survive, but I was the sole survivor.
And I came back into his fold. Proved myself worthy.
I didn’t expect he would publicly laud me.
In his warped perspective, I supposed I exemplified his ideals. I wasn’t a threat, but instead, the perfect vor. I didn’t ask for handouts, didn’t use my father’s connections for clout. My trust fund gave me a head start, but he wouldn’t begrudge anyone a little cheating.
He believed that what I achieved was proof of his success.
That meant that I was the reason why there was another party here.
I was the reason they renovated this place.
I was the reason those kids were kidnapped.
There could be no mistakes tonight.
Around me, people clapped. Whooped.
“Tonight’s offering will plant seeds, and perhaps you and I will not be around to see them bear fruit, but our bloodline will be solidified. Everyone in this room, I promise you. Your lineage, your heritage, will persevere! Will thrive!”
I couldn’t take anymore. I pushed through the door, took a left, found the staff stairwell.
Other than the few caterers, all staff had left for the night.
The caterers would leave soon. The eclipse was in less than two hours.
They would need to get into the tunnels, prepare for the ritual, and when that happened, the only people in the building would be Bratva, connected members of the public, and the child sacrifices.
I had to get to the security system before that.
It was all air-gaped, inaccessible without direct access to the physical device. Wi-Fi was dismantled, most signals scrambled, except for the fake Wi-Fi I’d set up earlier in the day.
Lyn was still talking to Urvan, trying to make professional conversation.
Footsteps echoed down the hall behind me and I slipped into the shadows, waiting, hoping my heavy breathing wasn’t as loud as it felt.
The steps faded into the distance, and I moved up the stairs.
They were narrow, short, and I had to crouch, awkward as I continued up over the landing, then another.
Third floor. The main bedroom, an interrogation room, the security room.
I could see all three from the stairwell, and the two men guarding them. They spoke lowly, and I recognized the Moscow accent. Their backs were to me. I gripped the ruby hilt on my sword. It would take me three seconds to be within range.
Since marrying Lyn, I promised her I would be better about my diet. The elaborate meals she made, all carefully prepared using local ingredients, helped. I’d put on some weight, some muscle, but I was still slender. Light on my feet.
Stealthy.
The floorboards didn’t creak as I snuck up behind them. My blade glinted in the overhead lighting as it sliced through pants, socks, skin, tendons.
The guard didn’t know what caused him to stumble forward, losing his balance. The cut was smooth, pain coming in the wake of it.
“What are you—”
The sharp point of my sword pierced between the second man’s shoulder blades and down, avoiding the bullet-proof vest. A strange hiss of air was expelled.
I’d stabbed him in the lung, stealing his words.
I brought the sword down, raking it through his guts, before I kicked him over, watching him buckle.
The first guard tried to stand up, pain shooting through his features. He didn’t call for help. I never gave him the chance to gather his senses. With one simple motion, his throat wept crimson, spilling down onto his black suit as he crumpled down.
I didn’t have to try the security door to know it was locked. Sheathing my sword, I grabbed my lock-picking kit and my magnet. I found the deadbolt, pulling it across with a practiced ease. Then I went to work on the lock itself. It was modern, top of the line, but that was my speciality.
Two minutes and I was in, staring at dozens of screens.
No one sat in the chair. I glanced to my right in time to catch the knife aimed for my throat. In a raw contest of brawn, I would never win against most of the men in the mansion. The man trying to kill me was no different. I pushed against his forearm, but it didn’t budge.
I couldn’t out match him.
Lyn’s voice was in my ear, talking to Urvan about different gemstones. She had no idea I was about to die. My muscles pulled taut, strained, at risk of giving out.
I had to use all the force he was putting into it, and turn it.
He gripped me in a bearhug, bringing that blade closer and closer to my throat.
I turned my head, released my grip, and ducked at the same time. All that momentum he’d built up brought his blade forward, right into his chest where my throat had been.
His eyes were wide with shock.
I grabbed his knife, bringing it into his throat again and again and again. Blood spray soaked my white attire, stained my porcelain mask, but I didn’t stop, couldn’t, not until his head was dangling from his masseter muscle, eyes gaping at me through death.