Chapter 15
Everything changed when I became Pakhan.
Exactly like how walking through the front doors of my mansion became a new experience, a better one, so did visiting old haunts. When I was simply the daughter of Ursin Volkov, no door was closed to me. No public door anyway; Papa certainly shut a lot in my face over the years.
Places like Posol'stvo once catered to me through other means. As a rich woman, staff fell over themselves to ensure everything in the VIP areas were what I enjoyed because they feared pissing off my father. But now, it’s even more thrilling because they fear me . They fear the role I filled, the power I control, and the ease it’d be for me to shut down their entire operation.
Would it be simpler for Anastasia and me to spend our Friday nights at a Bratva-ran club? Sure. Two years ago, I avoided anything my father owned partly to annoy him, and partly to grow some distance from the organization’s restrictive binds I was shackled with as a female—all to his chagrin. Now, it’s a routine I’d rather not break. It’d be cheap to buy Posol'stvo and claim it as our property, but there’s a thrill in getting away. From immersing myself in public rather than being the boss who is checking out all my assets.
The club’s bouncer steps aside from the propped-open door, a wall of black behind him, making it appear like the door isn’t even open. He nods first at me, and then at Anastasia who comes up close behind.
“Evening, Miss Volkov. Miss Petrov.”
I throw him an acknowledging smile right before immersing myself into the pure chaotic peace. Chaotic because once through the doors and down the short hallway, the floor’s vibrating, the wall’s thumping with energy I can’t wait to fall into. It’s self-care at its finest, but more importantly, it’s also my freedom. My playtime.
The coat-check staff hover by the counter, two outright ignoring the line of guests practically throwing their outdoor items toward them, to watch Anastasia and me pass. Neither of us of have anything to hand over, and once by, they return to work.
At the edge of the main room, the stairs to the VIP lounge are to our immediate right, so I take them. The bouncer standing guard, ensuring only those on the list are granted entry, steps aside without checking his paperwork. We’re on the list. The permanent list.
At the top, I’m able to see down to the main floor, where people are packed tightly into one another on the dance floor. To the right, a crowd is surged around the bar, harassing the three busy bartenders rushing to appease everyone’s orders.
Behind us, there’s a much smaller bar, catering to the VIP section, so there will never be a crowd. Papa once advised to avoid large groups, since someone could take the quick and easy chance to rid him of his daughter. Useful advice, but now, for another reason.
Anastasia waves her hand at the crowd below, shouting in my ear, so I can hear over the music. Up here, we’re closer to the speakers so everything seems much louder. “You on the prowl tonight, or taking a day off?”
I laugh. “You say that like I’m some creep.” Playfully, I flick my hair over my shoulder. “No man’s ever mentioned being unsatisfied.”
“You’re too pretty to be a creep. Well, while you stand here and pick your next victim, I’ll get drinks.” She steps around me and heads to the bar.
While she’s gone, I lean on the railing, scanning below. After a drink, we’ll head down for a few dances. Some people will recognize, as they often do, the mobsters among them, but others have no idea the symbolism behind the tattoos both Anastasia and I flaunt.
I didn’t always look like this. Tattoos are like the Bratva’s secret language, each one indicative of the kind of criminal life the person they’re granted to leads. Over the years, I’ve garnered a few, which finally shut any judgemental asshole up. Ones that represent my leadership and authority, others stating I’ve done the crimes and murdered.
Papa would have had a heart attack if I marred my skin when he was still alive. Would have blamed me for “sullying” myself before marriage or some shit. He often touted my femininity as being a feature men would covet, sticking to the beliefs drilled into him by his father, and passed from every male generation prior.
After my first, the soldiers began recognizing my seriousness. At that point, many already sworn fealty, but some were still uncertain about following me. Lev pushed for me to make a point—one of the bloody kind—but I gave it time. Days. Weeks. Of course, things were changing and I respected that. Once getting involved with the day-to-day operations, the men realized I wasn’t the princess Papa made me out to be. Their confidence in me grew, and most of the soldiers swore themselves to me, which helped ease my ongoing panic attacks that had become a nearly nightly ritual back then when I questioned every action I took, every command I gave, and every choice I decided.
If anything, I appreciated their hesitancy because it showed they wouldn’t blindly follow the Volkov name. They wanted a true leader, and finally came to see me as one.
I became that for them. I became them .
Criminal. Murderer. Thief.
Anastasia returns then, snapping me from my bubble of silence. Silence, because in my thoughts everything is muted. A distraction I push away in favour of the light blue drink she hands me.
“You look like you’re thinking hard,” she muses, dropping her arms to rest beside me as I take a large sip of my drink, the chilled liquid heading straight to my nerves and unwinding them from the tight cords they’ve become this week.
After lowering my glass over the railing’s edge, fingering the thin stem with the possibility of dropping it on the contented and mindless clubgoers below, I shrug. “Reflecting, I suppose.”
She throws me a knowing stare. “You do that way too much. Still in doubt after all these years?”
“No,” I answer immediately, proud it’s the truth and not a projection of what she wants to hear. I know I’ve done well. I’m also not a moron who’ll claim there’s things that can’t be done better.
Since announcing my takeover, my father’s inner circle has taken to retirement quite well. Some negative comments have come my way, but most remain silent and have either disappeared into the background or disappeared altogether by moving out of the country. Makes no difference to me, as long as they remember their lane.
My uncle, on the other hand, has been less quiet. Even so, he’s seemed to accept it enough to stop stalking the mansion sometime in the past year and bitching over the “lost income.”
He wouldn’t know about our numbers since he no longer has access to the books, but the Bratva’s income has boomed over the past two years and much of it is due to Anastasia and her hard efforts in opening the numerous brothels.
The number of trafficking rings Papa had his hands in or controlled outright were abundant. More than I initially thought. More that were buried within paperwork, only discovered when my Elite and I began combing through everything . There’s some worldwide, not owned by the Bratva, but one’s we still funded, until I cut that off.
The rings Anastasia and I have managed to shut down was a gruelling process, but one that’s been successful. All children in our custody have since been returned home; they were my priority to release. The Bratva’s hands remain clean to prevent federal and international police forces from knocking on our doors, thanks to the silent and secret process we undertook to get them home without evidence as to where they’ve been. My small team of two consisting of a very well-paid female medical doctor and psychologist provided the best treatment they could in the short time they had.
The tourists made it back to their home countries after being given as much support as we could give, and a sizable donation for their ongoing wellbeing.
Guilt was a nasty monster at first, when witnessing precisely what Papa and his team of chlenososy —an insult not worth translating—caused. The lifelong traumas now attached to the captives, and even that my organization would go unpunished in all the ways worldwide lawmakers would so love. But releasing the women and children and seeing for myself the positive difference eased the guilt quickly. Then, my focus became finishing what we started.
Anastasia’s idea for the brothels have been so successful, in two years, the income supersedes that made in the skin trade within the same timeframe. Half of the locals released from the rings chose to return to their families, while the other half opted to remain, explaining the paid, clean, and consensual benefits of my job offer were better than the streets and prostitution they were doing before getting taken.
But there’s still so much work to be done.
Fingers snapping takes me out of my daze again, and I straighten, bringing my drink over the railing for a large sip.
“Lost you again. What’s with you?” Anastasia asks. “Usually, you’re into our Friday night outings.”
“I don’t know, but you’re right. From now on, no more thinking. Like, at all. Only drunken oblivion.” I down the rest of my drink right as a server is about to pass, so I rest the glass on her tray.
Anastasia lets out a low whoop, chugs the rest of hers, and also hands over the glass. “Shot before heading down?”
“Sure.”
She heads for the VIP bar and I watch her go, scanning over the dozen people up here. A business partner’s wife greets me with a nod from the farthest corner before returning to the guy she’s pressed against—one who isn’t her husband. He’s probably off counting every grain of cocaine we buy from him, ensuring the grammage is precise. Fuck me over once, and you’re done, which he’s well aware of.
A tingling heat flashes over my neck, and I shrug it away. Probably the room’s warmth, or maybe it’s the liquor easing into my veins. It happens again, this time an instinctual awareness urging me to scan the crowd below.
People are still dancing, pressed tightly to one another. The bar’s even more crowded than earlier, as now more people have arrived. The prickling continues, and I scan over the room, searching for someone or something elevating the sensation.
No one on the dance floor’s looking my way. The bar is too chaotic for anyone to pay me attention. So I scan the edges, where the dim lighting is the darkest, searching for?—
Him.
At the back of the room, I see him.
He’s leaning on a cement pillar, hands shoved into his front pockets, completely encased within the room’s dusky haze. He’s unmoving in a place full of movement. Like the rest of the room is blurred while he remains a lack of motion.
Anastasia’s steps come up on my left and she slides a shot of vodka into my hand, humming when following the trajectory of my gaze. “And so she strikes again.”
Holding onto the stranger’s dark gaze, I tap my shot glass against hers and down mine, the burn familiar and welcoming, and I manage it without a blink or a cough. I rest the empty glass along the railing, knowing it’ll be collected by staff once I leave.
“Coming?” I tip my head toward the stairs that’ll take us to the main floor, finally dragging my gaze away from the stranger.
Anastasia smirks. “You know I always enjoy witnessing a man completely lose his mind when around you. It’s funny as fuck. Lead the way.”
Before leaving my place by the railing, I glance in the same direction, checking that the stranger is still there. He is, his gaze heavy, wanting, and a delicious craving I anticipate sating.