Chapter 28
G regor
He gave them to me on my thirteenth birthday.
I had wanted a BMX bike.
Although perhaps not entirely.
While he used them to instill fear, I used them to inflict the maximum amount of pain with the fewest punches to save my hands.
I may have been a criminal, but I wasn’t a thug.
I took no pride in walking around with bruised and cut knuckles to showcase the violence of my business. I had no need for such a superficial display. If I were handling myself correctly, a man should have been terrified regardless of whether I looked like I could throw and take a punch.
Against my own wishes, I honored my father and the Ivanov name by taking on the mantle of the family business, but I took no pleasure in it.
Probably why I so often sought escape through acquiring art or reading one of Shakespeare’s tragedies.
My soul needed to be reminded there was culture and beauty in the world, even though my daily actions sought to destroy it.
Perhaps that was why I clasped on to Samara so tightly.
There were other marriageable females with family names of equal reputation and standing, but they didn’t compare to her.
Samara had an artist’s creative soul, but with a dark edge.
She knew the only way to truly appreciate beauty was to experience pain and ugliness.
It was clear in her chosen art subjects, in every stroke of her brush.
I knew bringing her into my world would expose her to even deeper levels of darkness and foolishly dispelled any unease by assuring myself it would make her a better artist, and I did truly believe that. Yet, that didn’t mean I ever wanted her to experience that darkness firsthand.
As her husband in all but name, it was my duty to protect her.
I failed her tonight.
Never again.
Haunted by the look of disgust and terror in Samara’s eyes when she saw the blood on my shirt from earlier, I pulled my sweater over my head and tossed it back onto the passenger seat before stepping out of the car.
Slipping the brass knuckles into my back pocket, I slammed the door shut and made my way in the dark to the back storage room where I knew I’d find Vaska and Dimitri.
They were both standing over a crate of guns. Three men—looking worse for the wear—were tied up and gagged with duct tape on the cold, cement floor.
I slapped Vaska on the shoulder in greeting.
“What is this?” I asked with a nod in the direction of the guns.
Dimitri lifted the Russian sniper rifle. “Knock offs those piece of shit Petrov brothers tried to palm off on us.”
Dimitri tossed the useless chunk of metal and plastic back into the crate. We all turned to stare at the tied up men.
Rolling my shoulders in preparation, I offered,“I just want to say—”
Vaska cut me off as he handed me a flask. “No need to thank us, Gregor.”
I took a swig and choked. Swiping the back of my hand across my mouth, I shook my head as I handed the flask back to Vaska. “You’re still drinking that Moskovskaya shit?”
It should have been illegal to call that swill vodka. It tasted like gasoline poured through a dirty sock.
Vaska laughed, then took a swig before replacing it in his coat pocket. “You and Dimitri are too soft with your fancy tastes.”
Ignoring the familiar jibe, I asked, “How did it happen?”
Vaska shrugged. “I was having a steam at Red Square.” He nodded in the captive's direction with the swollen right eye. “That idiot bragged about fucking over the great Gregor Ivanov. I tried calling to warn you…”
“I was busy.” While always being aware that my life choices may have put Samara in danger, it never occurred to me that my obsession for her would put us both in danger.
There was no denying the woman was a distraction…
now a dangerous one. I was so focused on her I had neglected to secure the house as well as I should have by bringing in extra men to patrol the grounds and monitor the security cameras.
If it hadn’t been for Dimitri and Vaska interceding, I may have lost her. “I thank you, my friend.”
Vaska shrugged again. “This was not a problem. Although I am sorry about the damage to your side door… and your dining room table… and your—”
I smirked. “A small price to pay.”
With the pleasantries over, it was time to get down to business. Vaska shrugged out of his coat as Dimitri loosened his already blood-stained tie. Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my brass knuckles and slipped my fingers through the four holes, testing the familiar weight.
The captives attempted to scream past their gags as they shifted and shuffled along the floor.
It would do them no good. They were dead the moment they accepted the job to kidnap my bride.
Flexing my fist, I approached them. I recognized the first man. It was Pavel Rasskovich, a flunky for the Novikoffs. “Your comrade is already dead. How painfully you die and whether your loved ones die as well will depend on you.”
I tore the duct tape off the mouth of the closest perpetrator. “Who sent you? Egor or Boris?”
Before I proceeded, I needed to know if it was her father, Egor Novikoff, or both who set this into motion.
The man sneered. “Fuck you. I’m not telling you—”
Raising my knee, I used the heel of my boot to kick the man in the mouth. His head snapped back, and blood poured from his lips. He choked and retched as several teeth fell onto the cement.
I gave the man another kick, and he fell sideways as he continued to choke to death slowly on his own blood.
Twisting my left hand into the shirt of the second man, I wrenched him to his feet.
Before removing his gag, I drew back my arm, curving it to lessen the jarring impact because of the brass knuckles.
I struck out, breaking his nose with one punch.
Allowing his body to fall as it absorbed the impact of my blow, I leaned over him and watched him struggle for breath as his nostrils filled with blood.
When his eyes rolled back into his head, I finally removed the duct tape. He sucked in a ragged breath.
Leaning down on my haunches, I wiped off the blood on the iron bands around my fingers on my jeans. “Now that I have your attention. I want to know who sent you? Was it Federov or Novikoff?”
Turning his head to the side, the man blew air through his nose, splattering the ground with flecks of crimson before answering. His Russian accent had the thick, unmistakable twang of a newly arrived Muscovite, just like the man who’d held a knife to Samara. “We don’t know who hired us.”
I shook my head. “Wrong answer.”
Rising, I took a few steps back. As soon as I was clear, Dimitri fired a single bullet. Killing him.
The third and final man shook his head furiously as he tried to scurry backwards on his ass away from us.
“Well, this is just sad,” quipped Vaska.
“What do you expect from a Muscovite?” responded Dimitri.
“Aren’t the Petrovs from Moscow?” Vaska asked.
“Exactly.” Dimitri pointed his handgun at the man, who froze in place.
Approaching the man, I leaned down and ripped off the duct tape.
The man immediately began crying and ranting in Russian about how they had just arrived in the United States and heard on the street someone was offering big money to anyone who could capture Samara Federova.
He didn’t know who or how they would have even collected the money once they secured her.
Chances are these three idiots would never have been able to collect and would have wound up killing Samara after doing God knows what to her.
He continued to sob and plead. “Pozhaluysta! Ne ubivay menya! My ne znali, chto ona tvoy zhenikh. My by nikogda ne proyavili neuvazheniye k imeni Ivanov.”
The fact he claimed they had no idea she was my fiancé and that they never would have dared to disrespect me was of little consequence to me.
What was done was done. A man like me didn’t get and keep a reputation like mine by being understanding or forgiving.
Taking the gun from Dimitri, I shot the man in the head, then turned away and forgot him before his body even hit the floor.
“It looks like you have a problem, my friend,” Dimitri remarked.
I nodded. It didn’t make sense. I had both Boris and Egor under surveillance.
Both their offices, phones, and cars were all bugged.
Neither man spoke on the matter of Samara.
Her name had yet to even be mentioned. Admittedly, it had lured me into a false sense of security.
It had me thinking I had a little extra time to convince Samara to marry me willingly.
It had me believing that perhaps in this one instance I didn’t have to live in the shadow of my father’s legacy.
That was obviously over now.
“What are you going to do?” asked Dimitri as I reluctantly accepted the offered flask from Vaska once more and took a swig.
“I’m not going to get any answers here. I need to return to D.C. immediately.” I took out my phone and texted my pilot to get the plane ready, not caring that it was 1:30 in the morning. He was paid very well to be available at all hours. I then texted Damien, letting him know my change of plans.
“And Samara?”
I finished texting a judge in D.C. who I had firmly in my pocket before answering, “If all goes to plan by this time tomorrow, she will be Mrs. Gregor Ivanova… whether she likes it or not.”