57. Octavia
Chipped paint peels off the railing below my hand, flaking to the metal below.
Each footstep is echoed by Alex’s boots behind me as we climb in silence.
We didn’t have the resources to successfully rescue Kirill back in Chicago.
We both know that.
Still, the knowing does nothing to negate the feeling of wrongness.
When I finally reach the top of the steps, I’m expecting the weathered door to be locked up and plastered with eviction notices. Perhaps a few trash bags of belongings scattered across the premises.
But the door looks completely normal, and the halls are clean enough.
I guess Mr. Sandavar already found a new occupant.
Alex steps forward, sliding a sharp, thin object from his pocket. I raise a brow as he navigates one end into the keyhole and shifts it back and forth.
“Still got a few tricks up my sleeve,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
I laugh weakly. “Don’t try too hard. I doubt the new occupant bothered to keep any of my stuff, anyway. I was hoping some would be left behind outside—”
“What occupant?” he interrupts, just as the lock releases with a soft click. “Vasiliy reached out to your landlord months ago. Paid through the next year, just in case you had left something important behind.”
My heart dissolves into a gooey mess.
The feeling infects my bloodstream, swarming my entire body in comforting warmth as he pushes the door open. There’s something distinctly dreamlike about walking back into the space that belonged to another life.
Leotards are strewn about every surface in the studio apartment. Dirty dishes still sit in the sink, no doubt growing layers of mold. Needles and thread lie scattered across the scratched, wooden table I found on the curb three years ago, ready to sew up any torn ribbons on my pointe shoes.
“I can’t believe you lived here all alone, malysh,” Alex mutters behind me.
“It wasn’t so bad.”
I walk over to the bed, squished into the corner of the room. It’s smaller than I remember. Vasiliy would never fit on the tiny twin. The thought summons a smile as I drop to my knees and fish out the cardboard box tucked beneath the bedframe.
“Still. Your father would’ve had an aneurysm if he knew his daughter was living in a neighborhood like this with no one looking out for her.”
Pain lances my forehead.
I push the grief down. I can’t let it seep out from the neat package I’ve wrapped it in.
“I’m sorry,” I say, twisting to look up at him. “I know this is the last place you want to be right now.”
“It’s okay,” he says, sitting down at my shitty table.
“I know we’re making progress, being here.
What you’ve managed to do, allying us with Solokov and Morozov, was beyond my wildest dreams. Getting him back—it’s not a suicide mission anymore.
I just…” he sighs, gazing off somewhere far away.
“I can’t stop imagining my son in pain. Or worse. ”
“Me neither,” I admit, rising to my feet and walking over. “I’m going to get him back, Alex. Even if I have to wring out every last connection we have to make it happen. I’ll sell whatever’s left of my soul to make this family whole again.”
The promise feels like a mockery, given that our family will never be whole ever again.
Still, his eyes shift up to mine, watering with emotion.
Then his arms extend. For the first time since his death, I’m wrapped in a tight hug.
I don’t let myself sink into the embrace, worried I’d never find a way to stack myself back together.
“You ready to head out?”
I sigh, pulling back. “Just about.”
I walk over to the box peeking out beneath my stale bedding.
I dig through old photos and random notebooks, finding the satin ribbons lying beneath.
The old pair of pointe shoes looks worse for wear.
Scuffs from the stage coat the soft pink hue, and a crimson stain splatters along the side from an old blister that bled through the fabric.
I grasp the object like a childish memento, the way a kid pulls a teddy bear to their chest.
A lifeline to someone I used to be.
This time, when I walk into the Solokov Industries building with Uncle Alex by my side, Mikhail Solokov’s security doesn’t try to stop me.
The Pakhan put us up in his luxury hotel for the duration of our stay, which is conveniently just a few blocks away from his offices.
Alex was hesitant to accept the offer, but I insisted, seeing it for what it was.
A gesture of trust between allies.
Mikhail is a shrewd man. Not accepting it would’ve been a message in itself, and I’m not in any position to find new allies.
When the elevator doors close, Alex angles his head my way. “Nik reached out. Says he has something new for us.”
I hear the unspoken question. How much information are we sharing with the Solokov Syndicate?
My head tilts as I consider. Our deal hinges on the Solokov Bratva believing our syndicate is functional. Unfortunately, half of our remaining men are one breath from mutiny against my leadership, and the other half are only coming around in the wake of my new bargain.
“We’ll have the call in the office,” I answer under my breath. “He will vocally defer to my judgment.”
“Got it,” Alex says, texting away.
When the doors open with a piercing ding, a crowded room buzzes to life around us, complete with a squealing child tugging on the pants leg of their head of security.
Cass walks by, scooping her giggling kid into her arms and offering me a friendly wave.
Mikhail’s inner circle fills the room in various discussions, with the Pakhan himself sitting tall behind his desk.
Alex looks up from his phone beside me, taking in the chaotic scene.
“Not what you expected?” I murmur.
“Not at all.”
“Ms. Siderov. Thank you for joining us. We were about to discuss travel arrangements for the hit teams,” Solokov says. The room settles at his voice.
“Excellent,” I reply. “This is Alex Siderov, our head of operations. I assume you two know of each other?”
“Indeed,” the Pakhan says, giving him a once-over. “The Butcher. It’s an honor.”
I raise my brows towards the man beside me. “Been holding out on me, Uncle Alex?”
He waves passively. “A title from my youth.”
Alex’s phone rings, severing the rather interesting round of introductions. He hands the device to me. Even mid-conversation, Solokov watches from the corner of his eye.
“Yes?” I say, answering the call.
“Cousin.” Nik’s relief is evident through the phone, taking me back to all those gentle lessons and lively breakfasts. “It’s good to hear your voice. Is the alliance real?”
“It’s progressing,” I say. “I heard you have something new for me. Can I put you on speaker?”
“Sure.” Even with that small word, his tone hardens from concerned older brother into brutal soldier.
I bring the device down and flick the speaker button. “Go ahead.”
“Maksim and Ben have been following Popov’s guys all week, and they managed to obtain a higher-ranking member last night. The only problem is, he won’t speak. He’s also refusing food and water, and Maksim caught him trying to bludgeon himself to death against the cell walls.”
“You think he has information on their security rotations?”
Alex tasked him and Maksim with studying the Popov compound and finding our way in. We may outnumber them with the new forces, but I want a better advantage.
“Definitely. And he might even know if they’re keeping Kirill at the main house or if he’s at a secondary location.”
If we know his exact location, we can localize our resources, giving us a better shot at acquiring the compound.
“Where are you holding him?” My low voice grinds into the speaker. Mikhail and his men hold a quiet conversation, but I can feel the heat of their attention tinging my cheeks.
“The usual.”
The cellar, he means. Dad showed it to me once. The first time I saw the refurbished room outfitted for all kinds of horrifying torture methods, I was borderline traumatized. Now, I’m just happy for the resources.
“Chain him to a chair in the center of the room. Keep two guards on him at all times. I don’t care if he eats, but if he starts to dehydrate, call Doctor Reynolds to come put in an IV. He doesn’t move an inch until I get there, got it?”
“Understood. But he’s still not speaking. What do we do if you can’t break him?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I say with a cruel smile, picking at my knuckles until the hot blood drips. “I won’t be the one working him. I’ll be bringing an expert.”
Alex shakes his head, chuckling softly beside me. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, malysh.”