Chapter 37
Nika
I don’t even have enough time to scream as the vines brush over my cheek.
I’m expecting piercing pain, blood to flow freely, or sudden darkness. That’s what happens in movies like this, right?
Terror floods through me, my broken hand pounding in time with my racing heart. Instead, I catch a quiet electronic beep. Blinking as my eyes adjust, I spot the small black disk on the side of the stone door.
An eye scanner.
The same kind dedushka showed me when I was a child. Programing my eye pattern into it? To code this door?
Blood key.
Dimitri needs my retinal pattern.
A low, deep rumble starts. Stone grinds against stone, followed by the rhythmic clack of heavy chains as the door drags open, disappearing into the vine-covered cliff face.
“We’ve done it. Pavel, Anton, come with us. The rest of you, wait out here while we take inventory.” Dimitri sounds like a kid on Christmas morning as he yanks himself free of my hair. “Ladies first.” His boot connects with my calf, knocking me through the threshold.
Laughter follows as I stumble into the cave. I skid to my knee, my muscles giving out. The sudden jolt sends pain through my hand, blinding me, and for a moment, I think I might faint.
What I’d give for a sip of water.
“You owe me fifty bucks, Anton.” Pavel peeks his head in, chuckles, and then takes a few tentative steps. “There’s no hidden traps in the vault.”
Anton grumbles but pulls some bills from his wallet and jams them in Pavel’s hand.
Good to know they had one more use for me. I’m a guinea pig to check for booby traps.
Fuckers.
Dimitri enters last, his eyes bouncing around the room as his lips curve upward.
“The Kozlov treasure. Legendary among even the most wealthy of Bratvas. Hidden on a tropical island and used as cache dating back to the founding of America. Where they’d hide smuggled goods and stash stockpiles of currency that couldn’t be housed in reputable banks. ”
That’s not a story I’ve ever heard. Lifting my head, I peer around, surprised to find lights clicking on, one after the other, rather than darkness.
A half-natural, half-chiseled cave comes into the light around us. The ceiling soars at least fifteen feet overhead. Stalactites extend toward the ground, a few of the longer ones broken off and lying haphazardly on the dirt.
Along the walls, a few stalagmites grow from the surface, distorting where the cave starts and stops.
The floor has a mix of rock, sand, and small pockets of dirt where plants try to break through, proof this cache hasn’t been opened in many years. A network of runnels shows where boots wore the rock smooth over decades, maybe centuries.
How old is this place? Older than dedushka for sure. Maybe it really has been a cache for as long as Dimitri claims.
Curiosity piquing despite my exhaustion, I push upright, twisting around slowly.
Old wooden shelves line the walls, filled with frames, boxes, rolls of moth-eaten cloths, and cases of empty bottles. A few shelves lie split on the floor, collapsed beneath their own weight.
Just left of the door, a Cyrillic phrase is written at waist height on the wall.
Пётр Козло?в.
Five lines come up from that, connecting to new words. Paths and text spread up and across the stone wall. I track them as Dimitri and his men scour the cave behind me. On and on it goes until I find words I recognize.
Lada. Boris. Vesna. Ratibor.
Names.
This is a family tree, growing wider and taller with every generation, the names eventually changing to Latin.
Pivoting, I follow each branch, searching for names I know.
Then I find them.
Peter, branching to Mikhail and Roman. Roman joins Lilia, branching to Anika.
Anika Kozlov. Daughter of Roman. Granddaughter of Peter. Descendant of Пётр Козло?в. My history carved in stone.
I look at the other names level with my branch of the family tree. Mikhail Junior. Alexei.
It ends there, but I know Mikhail Senior had two more children with his second wife. Cousins I’ve never met.
But with the loss of the key, no one has been able to get in here to update the names. To mark their place in our lineage. A line of people loving, supporting, and protecting each other, ensuring the next generation’s place in the world.
Until that night when the two keys were separated. The story missed a generation of Pakhan, because I didn’t trust Roman. I turned my back on him and all these people I never even knew.
A memory flickers through my mind.
I blow out the candles at my birthday party.
Dad stands next to a man he called brother.
Mikhail. Two young men with curly brown hair and bright blue eyes stand watching, clapping, handing me presents wrapped in bright paper with ribbons and bows.
One calls me mishka, only to have the other one laugh and call him mishka as well.
Mishka, a pet name for Mikhail, and sometimes for any small children in the family.
I’d looked that up as a kid while trying to make sense of my memories. Dimitri insisted these were the fantasies of an abused and abandoned child who grew up in a loveless home.
But the names of my cousins are carved in stone next to mine.
Proof of our shared history.
I close my eyes and breathe in the musty cave air. My chest expands, full of cold longing and regret.
Oh, Dad, what have I done?
“What the hell is this shit?” Dimitri throws an object against the wall.
I whirl just in time to see thick pages of sepia photographs flutter to the ground.
A photo album?
The weathered leather cover has pages hanging out, filled with families staring at the camera in Victorian clothing.
He moves to the next shelf, grabbing boxes and tossing them aside. I catalogue them as they hit the wall. More albums. A box of film reels. VHS. Old family videos, probably.
The kind you would store in a cool, dark place devoted to family legacy.
“No.” His good hand sweeps across a shelf, sending everything crashing. “Fuck!”
Pavel and Anton huddle near the door as Dimitri spins, taking in the contents of the cave.
I understand now.
This isn’t the kind of treasure you leave in a bank.
On one shelf, I spy dozens of leather-bound journals. Mixed among them, my mother’s handwriting shines on one of the spines.
Another shelf holds blueprints rolled and secured with ribbon. I catch a glimpse of one title. “Alibi Club—Final Plans.” The structure my grandfather designed. Architectural drawings. Specifications.
More shelves. More archives. Birth certificates. Marriage licenses. Deeds. Contracts. The paper trail of Kozlov existence. The data of lives lived, families grown, and an empire built.
All of it’s absolutely worthless to someone desperate for money, power, and resources.
In the center of the cave, evidence of the happy family life he never got to enjoy surrounds an increasingly angry Dimitri, who’s grown intent on wealth and revenge. Instead, he’s forced to confront a family tree he has no branch on.
His face contorts with rage. “Get out.”
No one obeys.
I’m certainly not going to. I know what’s next for me. If I can get close to one of the tables, I might be able to break these zip ties. I can fight one-handed if necessary.
Standing in the heart of my family legacy, I feel my strength returning.
Chaos Island changed me once. Now, with every slow, controlled breath I take, I’m changing again. It’s time to take ownership of my life’s path, for good or ill.
Max and my family may not be here, but I’m still Anika Kozlov, and I’m not going down without a fight.
“I said get out!” Dimitri hurls a photo album at Anton.
It’s not heavy enough to be a real threat, but Anton and Pavel still duck and bolt for the door while Dimitri throws a temper tantrum that would rival a toddler’s.
I slide sideways on silent feet, searching for something I can use to get free or improvise a weapon. My stomach clenches.
I’m stuck in a cave with a mad man, with six armed men outside who will ensure I do whatever he wants. Every move I make is life or death now.
“I guess we’re done here.” Dimitri’s voice flattens as he runs his hand through his hair, smoothing it back. “No extra money. That’s fine. I have everything I need to breed my own Bratva.”
My entire body nearly convulses with revulsion.
He’s talking about breeding me.
I’ve banked my energy for this. One last fight, winner takes all.
Like he can hear my thoughts, Dimitri turns to face me. “And there’s no time like the present to start. Your sweet ass will be my consolation prize.”
“No. You were right the first time.”
We both freeze when a shadow breaks free from the doorway.
With a swollen jaw, gore-streaked hair hanging over one ice cold eye, and blood splattered over his torn shirt, Max Belov prowls into the Kozlov vault.
My heart leaps into my throat.
He came.
Max waves a knife at Dimitri, thick bits of flesh flinging from the blade. “You’re done here.”
Surging hope beats back every dark emotion and infuses me with renewed purpose.
Even after I wrote him off as dead, he came for me.
Max survived the impossible, tracked us across however many miles, and showed up ready to slaughter those who threaten the Kozlov family.
Of course he did.
After all, he’s Mad Max, the Kozlovs’ bloody berserker.