Chapter Seven
In which Alexsey is presented with the most offensive possible choice.
Alexsey…
The nagging pain of my missing left hand never fades, but I've trained myself to ignore it. I’m growing a full beard, though, because I’m not trying that shaving shit again.
No one says a word. It could be jealousy; I look better with a beard than my brothers do.
There are infuriating rounds of dropping things; pans, pens and knives as I get used to using my right hand.
The first prosthetic I'm fitted for stays on a shelf in the living room where I don't have to look at it.
I go to Dmitri's coronation as Pakhan of the Morozov Bratva, my father passing down the mantle after he'd been shot in the restaurant attack. I stand in a corner with a glass of vodka for as long as would be deemed acceptable before I slip away.
After the third therapy session with Choi - who continues to be an asshole - my legs are shaking and the thunderbolts of agony roaring up my left arm are making me crave a vodka like never before, I head over to Dmitri’s place.
It’s closest to the clinic and I know he’s got a bottle of Belugia Epicure vodka that sent him back a couple hundred grand. I deserve it more than he does.
“Oh good, you’re just in time,” Dmitri says as the elevator doors open into the granite entryway of his penthouse.
I look around me. "For what?”
“Have you checked your phone in the last say, seventy-two hours, brother?” he sighs. It's the sigh of a man who has long endured his ungrateful siblings.
Shrugging, I pull my phone out of my hoodie pocket. There are six messages; two from Dimitri, a long rambling text from Roman that I don’t try to decipher, two from Mother, and one from my father.
Shit.
The elevator doors open again and there they are, Mother's still wearing her white doctor’s coat from the clinic and Father is impeccably dressed in his usual charcoal gray suit.
“Did I forget somebody’s birthday again?” I ask.
Ava walks in with a tray of stuffed piroshki, the tiny pies still steaming. "I’m glad you’re here!” she says happily. "I’m trying out this new recipe. Tell me what you think.”
I stifle a groan. If I had to eat my sister-in-law's food, I'd choose Violet.
The woman is a phenomenon in the kitchen.
Ava's efforts are well-intentioned and we praise them like we would a five-year-old for their finger painting.
I take a huge bite of one, swallowing hard.
"Delicious." The crust is almost gelatinous on the bottom and I'm not sure what mystery meat she's used here.
Violet and Roman arrive next and then a flurry of relatives, Aunt Tania with Uncle Yuri, and their sons Nikandr and Andrey.
“If this is an intervention,” I say wearily, "you’re too late."
Uncle Yuri gives me a grin, having the nerve to mess up my blond hair, which is uncomfortably similar to his. Many jokes have been made about my heritage before, but never in the presence of my father.
“No,” he says. "We'd stage an intervention somewhere painfully public." His smile fades a bit. "This is Krasniqi business.”
Once everyone's seated, Dmitri leans forward. "Let’s get right to it," he says. "I’m not in the mood for a small talk and I doubt you are, either. Dritan's capitulation is complete. He’s offered up everything from his organization. Our reports were correct. He’s in stage four cancer. He’s lucky to be still standing upright. "
Roman pours himself another drink. "The old man is on his deathbed, and he's suddenly concerned about his legacy. Putting his shithead son in charge of attacking us wasn’t the right way to go about it, but from all the intelligence I’ve gone through, the little pridurok acted alone.
It's hard to tell if he was trying to prove something to his father or he was just as suicidal and stupid as we’d always known. "
“Back to it," Dmitri says, rubbing his forehead. “Everything’s being signed over and we will absorb his people into our Bratva."
Several people here do not like that plan and make it clear. Dmitri holds up one hand. "Slowly," he stresses. "We'll keep them managing the low-level Krasniqi dealings as we take a look at who we think is worth keeping, and who needs to be terminated.”
By 'terminated,' Dmitri doesn't mean two week's pay and a letter of recommendation.
It's not enough. I don't want these pigs "absorbed" into our empire, an infection that could only weaken us.
They should all be dead. Krasniqi's entire fucking cesspit.
Dmitri's gaze keeps sliding to mine, as does Father's.
They don't know what to expect from me. I don't know, either.
“There is one issue we haven't addressed,” he says. His expression is dark. “Dritan is adamant that his family’s connection be made with ours. He’s obsessed with thinking he’ll live on through grandchildren."
“He is lucky that we haven’t buried every man with Krasniqi blood,” Father says sharply. “He is in no place to be making demands."
“Brother, you know this is how it is often done.” Uncle Yuri takes up the unwanted mantle of trying to convince my father. “It also reduces disobedience and rebellion from the Krasniqi Fare if they marry."
“If who marries?” I ask. Everyone’s eyes turned to me.
“Krasniqi has a daughter,” Dmitri says. He leans back slightly, as if he’s expecting me to fly across the room and choke him out.
I frown. "I don’t remember anything in the intel about a daughter.”
“Dritan dumped her mother when she couldn’t give him a son," Dmitri says. “He went through two more women before he got his precious boy.”
"Though look what a waste that turned out to be," Roman snorts.
A slow, curling fury is rising in my chest. “When you say, marry, who are you expecting to accept the daughter from the family that tried to destroy ours?"
Dmitri heaves out a breath, and I see my father’s knuckles go white as he curls his hand into a fist.
"You." Uncle Yuri steps into the breach with a kind smile that tells me he knows this is going to burn. "The request is for you to marry his daughter. As the only remaining single son of the Morozovs' first family."
Apparently, this is news to some of them. There's a stream of outraged comments.
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
"How dare they think they can just-"
"That’s insane, those arrogant-”
It's Nikandr who raises his hand for silence, looking at me.
He's tall and powerful-looking, like Uncle Yuri, and he stepped into the role as second to Dmitri as flawlessly as I expected him to.
“No one is expecting you to do it,” he says gravely.
"This is profoundly offensive; I can’t imagine that they thought we would agree to it.
" He shrugs. "Given my position in the Morozov Bratva as Sovietnik, I will likely be acceptable.
" His lip curls with distaste before he smooths out his expression. “I can offer to marry her.”
I rub the back of my neck, really wanting another drink. "Who is this woman?"
“She’s been raised here in America for most of her life,” Roman says.
"She’s twenty-four, well educated. Her mother has kept her out of the public eye, and more importantly, kept her away from the scrutiny of the crime world since Dritan divorced her.
" He looks at me with a strained smile. “You don’t have to do it, brother.
You don't have to be that fucking heroic. Not after what you’ve already given. "
I swirl the last of the vodka in my glass, watching the clear liquid splash against the side. It’s possible Dritan would accept Nikandr's offer. While I know this girl had no possible participation in the attack on my family, even though I know she’s not responsible, I feel the hatred blooming.
She doesn’t deserve to be with Nikandr. He's a man whore, like me, though he tends to be very good to his women. He would probably treat her the same way. I’ll never hurt a woman, but why should she get a happy marriage?
The room is dead silent, which never happens with a family as loud and boisterous is ours.
“I’ll marry her,” I say, finishing the last of my drink. “There’s a fitting kind of irony to this, don’t you think?” I chuckle, and nobody laughs with me.
"Son…" Father's tone is gentle, something only my mother ever hears. "You don't have to do this."
My stump accidentally hits the armrest of my chair and I grit my teeth against the sear of pain. "I'm marrying her."
***
Chort voz'mi! - Russian for goddamnit.