Chapter 13 Julian
THIRTEEN
JULIAN
THE PAST
Three months after Igor is taken
“When are we storming Moscow?” I ask Lana as I burst into her office at the Moretti Mansion.
Her and Lisandru are bent over documents, computer screens above their heads showing CCTV of streets of the city I hate so viscerally it almost makes me puke just to see it in grainy grey images.
The atmosphere in the room that’s always been welcoming is suffocating.
The books lining the walls were an invitation and a haven for Igor and I, the thick Persian carpet under the Chesterfield sofa giving a luxurious edge to a room that, for all intent and purposes, was where Moretti-Bartoli business was conducted.
In truth, it’s never been much of an office, and more of a sanctuary for whoever needed it that day.
When Lana took over, it became the heart of our empire. And the walls have only seen us look for the man taken from us for three months.
“We’re not storming, Moscow,” Lana answers, tone grave.
“We know his fucked up brother has him and is keeping him there, we should go now, use surprise and—”
“And what? What then, Jules? Misha Petrov owns the city. He knows every street, every corner. Every shop works for him or knows of him. Do you even think we’d be able to land a fucking plane, let alone a military one full of elite soldiers?”
I shake my head, refusing her annoying logic. We can’t lose more time.
“We arrive by land. Land the plane in a neighbouring country.”
“There’s no way we’d be stealthy and fast enough to get into Moscow without alerting Misha,” my brother counters.
“He built an army, Jules. A fucking army. And we don’t even know where in the city he hides.
We could spend days, weeks or months combing through the city to find Igor. And we wouldn’t find him.”
“We have to be smart about this. We can’t make rash decisions,” Lisandru chimes in.
“Any minute we wait is a minute when he gets tortured, Lana.”
She whirls around, turning her back to me. Her shoulders are bunched high and her fists are clenched at her sides. I’m sure when she’ll let go, there’ll be moon shapes on her palms, left by her long nails.
“I understand why you want to wait, but we can’t.”
Still turned, I watch as she straightens and releases her hold on her fists.
Then she turns back and her green eyes sparkle with determination. My friend is not here in the room. I’m faced with Alana Moretti, our fierce leader of the Kalliste mafia, ruling with her head on straight.
“I’m sorry. I’m not sending anyone to their death unless we are sure we can win. And right now, we won’t. We’ll all fucking die, and Igor as well. We’ll build an army. Alliances are already formed all across Europe, I’ll leverage that, and—”
“When?”
“Jules…”
“Stop placating me,” I yell, uncaring if my brother is a breath away from decking me right there on the floor of the home I grew up in.
“When we’re strong enough. When we have the numbers and the intelligence. Right now, we have neither.”
My lips tremble with rage. Words want to come out. I rein them in.
It’s not her fault.
It’s not her fault.
It’s not her fault.
I stomp out of the office, through the corridor and out, slamming the door behind me.
At the window of the living room, Colomba, Lana’s mother, sticks out her head and yells at me across the lawn.
“Slam my door again, Julian Bartoli, and I’ll spank your ass like when you were a naughty child. Don’t make me call your mother.”
This fucking family.
Always in each other’s business.
If Lana doesn’t want to go to Moscow, that's fine.
I’ll fucking go.
I will never let Igor go. He’s my husband. The man I love. The man I will walk through fire and back to get to. Misha Petrov is just one man. A very powerful man but a man nonetheless. And I have my own set of skills.
Over the next few days, I manage to create a whole new identity for myself and board a commercial flight to Moscow.
The flight is five hours. Too short to sleep. And even if I wanted to, I couldn't anyway. I’m one step closer to getting my husband back. My thoughts swirl and twirl in my head. Of how I will remain inconspicuous. In a city of millions of people, it shouldn’t be that hard. I can blend in.
At customs, the men in uniform watch passengers with sharp, keen eyes. It’s like they can see right through me. I observe the men and women around me and force myself to act casual. I queue in order at the customs office.
The man in uniform takes one look at me. Then down at my passport.
He shakes his head and two hands take hold of me, one on each side.
The officers pull me away from the door behind the custom officer, who’s already moved on to the next person. The other passengers give us wary looks. I’m a threat to national security, I guess. Their sneer embolden me to fight.
A third officer joins the fray. I get dragged and punched in the gut, thrown into a room that looks like a prison cell.
I yell. I beg. No one comes.
Until three new officers take me to another plane, in handcuffs and ship me back to where I come from.
The whole way back, the only thing I can think about is that I shouldn't have taken a direct flight. That was a fucking rookie mistake. One I will not make anymore.
I try again two weeks later, from Stockholm after a flight through Paris.
The exact same thing happened.
I try to drive to the border between Russia and Estonia. Same ritual.
I try two other neighbouring countries, Latvia and China.
The same. Fucking thing. Happens.
When I get home after my—fuck, how many has it been now?—latest attempt, I’m exhausted. It’s not only my body taking the toll of spending days in airports and airports prison cells—would not recommend—it’s this unwavering feeling that I have failed him.
We promised each other a future. And I’m failing.
Sprawled on my grey sofa under the living room window of my flat, I lean towards the armrest and over to where my alcohol cart stands. I swing one of the bottle off of it and take a swig.
Of course, I fucking picked vodka by chance.
Of. Fucking. Course.