Chapter 1
Kazimir
Three years later…
“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.”
Oscar Wilde
In Russia, I was called D’yavol. In Italy, Il Diavolo. And in America, where my reputation had recently grown, the devil.
Even the family’s name in Slavic meant the same. It was as if I was born to be a monster, a bloodthirsty creature with no regard to decency or humanity. If anyone believed the name troubled me, they were wasting both time and energy within their feeble minds.
To the caged animal inside, the moniker was a boost in reputation, adding to the fears and trepidations of all those who opposed our family’s power. And even with others who had the common sense to stay far out of our reach.
With no conscience, I couldn’t care less about impressions or feelings, and rarely did I feel or express a single emotion.
Except for today.
Today, my family and the people of Moscow had lost a great man, a powerful man. A man who’d spent his entire life serving the people. I smirked from the thought. At least that’s what the priest had said in part in his lengthy eulogy.
Now, standing in the ruthless, unforgiving man’s office on a wintery day, staring at the flakes of snow littering the ground, instead of embracing despair, all I could feel was rage.
If the situation were different, his death caused by betrayal or violence, the pure white snow would already be blanketed in a wash of crimson.
But that wasn’t the case, his life-ending heart attack a product of a lifetime of excess, gluttonous behavior he’d been warned about for years. My father had never taken advice from anyone, especially not his doctors.
How appropriate that the day of my father being buried in the ground snow had fallen, April’s warm weather giving way to ice crystallizing the surface.
“Chashche vsego gromche vsekh govoryat mertvyye.”
The dead often speak the loudest.
My cousin Dimitri chuckled. His father, my uncle, had used the phrase as much as my father.
We’d both been told the saying was an old Russian proverb, but as kids with more time on our hands than common sense, we’d tried to test it and failed.
That didn’t take away from the vitality of the statement.
Even with dying by natural causes, there were still stories to tell.
If my uncle were alive, he’d be painting the streets in gallons of blood to find the cigar dealer. That’s how close they’d been.
My cousin was studying the various photographs in sterling silver frames on the mantel.
The two dozen pictures were a perfect representation of a family’s legacy.
Baby pictures. Graduation pictures. When I’d become a soldier in my father’s army.
Every celebration was commemorated with smiles and laughter.
Behind a cloak of evil and lies.
Dimitri shook his head while picking up one centered in the middle. I knew it well, a photograph that was difficult for me to look at, impossible for Mikhail, and just another jab in Stash’s side since he’d only recently joined the family. One big happy family.
At twenty-one, I’d finished college, graduating in two and a half years from Cambridge, had racked up several brutal and necessary slayings, and had enjoyed my share of virgin beauties.
Stash rarely drank, was a straight-A student and I’d yet to hear him swear, but he’d asked me directly before the funeral if he could become part of the regime. Why not have him jump into the fire?
“That was our first and last vacation as one big happy family,” Dimitri said with both sadness and guilt in his voice. “Do you remember when Pops tried to use the outdoor grill at the villa and caught the house on fire?”
I laughed, although the sound was terse. “Yeah, and our fathers had to play fireman. They argued for the remainder of the trip about whose fault it was.”
“Almost the entire trip,” my cousin said, gingerly returning the frame.
When the entire room remained quiet, he lifted his head, studying me.
We both blamed ourselves for the events that had cut the vacation short and forever altered our family.
That’s one reason Uncle Boris had split the family in two, moving his half to the United States, an expansion my father had wanted no part of.
Now, my cousin was Pakhan in New York while I was about to take the helm in Moscow.
Behind me stood several of my father’s men as well as a few of my own, my brothers off to the side.
This moment and my reaction less than an hour after the funeral would shape the future.
That’s why their silence was out of respect and reverence.
As the new Pakhan, it was my birthright and my responsibility to keep the regime moving forward no matter the circumstances.
That didn’t mean the fury hadn’t festered into the utter dark requirement to console my beast. There were only two ways that was possible.
Bloodshed or sex.
And at this point, succumbing to either one would be dangerous, a weakness and nothing more. My needs would wait. I had an empire to run. The idea wasn’t new to me or anyone else. As firstborn, my entire life had revolved around the training required to take over as Pakhan. Only not so soon.
“Pust’ vash otets pokoitsya s mirom.”
Hearing Kirill’s sentiment brought the first sensation of amusement since learning the news of my father’s demise.
I allowed a low, husky chuckle while turning to face them.
“You know as does everyone else in this room my father won’t be resting in peace.
He is currently sharing cognac with my uncle and the devil himself while being seasoned and roasted on a spit over a roaring fire. ”
Kirill Aristov was my commander, a man who shared the same temperament as I did. He’d been the person responsible for sharing the news of my father’s untimely death.
Nervous laughter ensued. The words weren’t born of disrespect and nothing my father wouldn’t have said.
Vladimir Chertov valued his multitude of sins, coveting every act of violence as if placing notches on a leather belt.
He’d once told me the best men committed the worst offenses.
If his actions were any indication, he had been a king among kings.
“To a great man,” Dimitri said as he raised his glass.
“Who are you kidding,” I teased. “He was a pain in the ass.”
We all laughed, yet the tension remained high.
“You should be careful, cousin,” Dimitri added. “You’re well aware your father’s enemies are already prepared to try and erase your father’s good name.”
“Then they have no understanding what I’m capable of. And you just worry about New York, cousin. Let me handle Russia.”
His booming laughter could fill a room. Even Mikhail laughed, a sound easily identifiable as well as rare. My brother’s return visit to a dark place was evident by the circles under his eyes. Life had been difficult for him.
There were nerves to squelch, and a billion-dollar business that required moving forward without adequate time to mourn. That was the way of the Bratva.
“We do need to worry about how we move forward. No disrespect,” Kirill offered.
“Understood.” And I did. There was too much on the table.
I glanced at Mikhail and Stash, making note of their grim expressions.
While our father hadn’t been the kindest or the warmest of men, they’d both taken his death hard, Stash especially.
As a half-brother to Mikhail and me, he’d only recently become a permanent part of our family, our father marrying the woman he’d had a long-term affair with.
While Mikhail had taken the discovery of the secret harshly, Stash had never been to blame. But he’d yet to prove himself within the organization.
“Now they’re together,” Mikhail said absently.
When his comment registered, I narrowed my eyes as I looked at him. “They?” I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about an uncle he’d barely spent any time with. He’d barely been a teenager when the life-altering incident had occurred.
“Our mother and father. No offense, Stash, but our mother was the love of our father’s life.”
Another ugliness. My father’s enjoyment of brothels had allowed him to fall in love with a beautiful Russian girl that had led to his illegitimate child, Stash unaware until only a couple of years before who his father was. Mikhail hadn’t taken the news of our father’s remarriage kindly.
Stash bristled. “At least my mother cares about you.”
“Are you trying to tell me my mother didn’t care about me? She was an angel.”
Mikhail’s exclamation was out of character. He was typically stoic with all aspects of his life. “Enough. Our father cared for Stash’s mother Marta very much. You will respect her position within this family.”
In the world of the Bratva, death was an everyday occurrence.
Life expectancies usually maxed out at age sixty.
While our father’s untimely death was a hiccup, Mikhail had taken our mother’s death very hard.
He’d become almost inconsolable after the accident.
Accident. Who the fuck was I kidding? She’d been murdered, but the bomb planted under the rental car had no doubt been meant for our father.
On the very vacation where the entire family had been together for the first and only time.
The same vacation that had nearly torn everyone apart.
Dimitri lifted his gaze, finding mine. We didn’t need to continue commiserating over our own levels of guilt. That past had been laid to rest.
Sadly, the horrific time was difficult to shove aside on a day like today.
Our father had just swept our world clean of several dozen enemies from various crime syndicates and after the massive undertaking, he’d rewarded our family with taking us on a vacation to Sardinia.
I’d been far too old to join them, but our father had insisted.
Same with Dimitri.