54. Vasiliy
Blood sprays through the air in crimson drops as my fist crashes into the pummeled face again and again.
A soft crunch.
His nose gives way below my flesh.
“Please! I-I’ll give the money back! All of it!”
My knuckles split on the next impact.
“I-I’ll pay! I’ll pay i-interest!”
I hit harder.
My vision blurs into shades of red. Everything I touch bleeds.
Eventually, the man loses consciousness below me. I finally pull back, flexing my cramping fingers. A bizarre wave of jealousy spawns at the sight of the unconscious body below me.
I haven’t been sleeping well.
Partially because I can’t help but imagine Octavia in trouble somewhere, all alone on the other side of the world. It also hasn’t helped that my uncle has been keeping me impossibly busy with his petty enforcement tasks, day and night.
I know it’s a punishment.
He hasn’t let me see my sister yet, either.
The only reason I haven’t lost my mind and stormed into my own residence is that Anya’s nanny has been sending me daily updates, assuring me she’s healthy and happy.
My mother has been off vacationing with her latest escapade for the last year, so at least I don’t have to worry about that.
I haven’t dared to reach out to the Siderovs yet, in fear that Uncle will see it as another act of treachery and throw Octavia’s ransom back online. I’m in the doghouse until he decides I’m a loyal mutt once more.
Shoving the man’s limp body onto his kitchen floor, I step over to the nearby sink and twist the rusty nozzle. The cold water runs red over my knuckles before rushing down the drain.
I’m so fucking exhausted.
I have no idea how long I stand at the sink.
Eventually, my cuts clot, and the water runs clear into the basin.
I immediately miss the dark red hue, so similar to the soft strands of hair I long to run my fingers through.
One of my nails presses into the largest cut, reopening the skin and allowing a steady ooze to resume into the sink.
Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me?
I sway on my legs. Am I even awake right now?
A ring distracts me from the question.
My damp hands fumble into my pockets, cuts stinging against the rough fabric. Uncle’s name flashes across my phone screen.
Great. Another task.
Maybe this one isn’t immediate. I could probably use a few hours of shut-eye.
“Hello—?”
“Get your ass to my office. Now!”
The call drops.
“You fool. I should’ve ended your pathetic life years ago, but because you were family, I gave you unlimited chances—”
I can barely keep up with the torrent of insults thrown my way when I step into my uncle’s office, flanked by eight of his best soldiers.
I might not be at my sharpest right now, but I can tell that something’s off. The seldom-used conference room down the hall is being set up as the Morozov Pakhan weaves a manic track into the expensive carpet lining his office, cursing as he goes.
“What’s going on?” I ask carefully.
His head snaps up. Thick, white snowflakes fall outside the large windows behind him, casting the room in a frigid light.
“Solokov called a meeting,” he says coolly. “And he has demanded your presence on the call. At the threat of dissolving our alliance if you do not show.”
What?
He storms past me, clothed in one of his signature Armani suits, armed to the brim. A wave of cigar smoke follows his movement. Why would Solokov be calling?
And why would he care if I show up?
Does he want me to come back to his syndicate?
I trail behind, following my uncle into the conference room. I don’t remember the last time I saw him in here. He prefers to do business in person.
Easier to determine loyalties that way.
“You will sit. You will speak only when spoken to, and you will defer to me if asked a question outside your jurisdiction. Understand?”
I dip my head.
Like I don’t know my place in this world.
Like I don’t understand what’s at stake.
I haven’t seen the man this unhinged in years. It’s a fascinating sight to behold. It might even be a touch cathartic, if it didn’t fill me with a sickening sense of dread.
Uncle takes the seat at the head of the long conference table. I drop into the empty one beside him as the large monitor flickers to life.
Our conference room is furnished with tacky Greek statues and angular chairs that probably haven’t been used in years.
It’s the kind of place that Octavia and I would make fun of in low whispers in front of its owner.
Uncle doesn’t really take meetings where he doesn’t at least have the option to slice off appendages if the vibes sour, so this place sits vacant all year long.
The monitor shifts, and his soldiers fall quiet. Another conference room appears, thousands of miles away in a building I’ve only ever set foot in once.
Absolutely nothing could’ve prepared me for the combination of figures sitting at the table on screen.
I dig my nails into my flesh, convinced I’ve passed out.
But that’s when the first words flutter through the speaker, shocking me to my fucking bones.
“Hello, husband.”