Chapter Twenty-Two
In which, “Sorry, it’s not personal, it’s just business” is complete bullshit. It’s very personal.
Oksana…
"Sorry, it's not personal, it's just business."
Lana says it with a casual smile, a steady grip on the gun aimed at me.
"Personal?" I hiss. "The Don is going to sell his fourteen and fifteen-year-old daughters into child marriages!
Is the extra cut he's offering you worth it?
Look at them!" I put my arm around a sobbing Gulia, the rain's flattening her little updo from the salon, makeup dripping off her face.
She looks even younger than fourteen. "Lana, you can't do this!
I'll-" I grit my teeth in fury; this move is a weak one.
"I'll pay you double whatever that pig paid you to betray us. "
"Ah, ah," she tutted. "Going back on an agreement is bad business."
"You went back on your agreement with us first," I say bitterly.
"Yeah, but you don't have the firepower Don Rossi has," she says cheekily.
I swear I'm going to cut her throat and watch her bleed out at my feet.
It's time to play my last card. The rain's coming down in sheets now, lightning crackling across the sky like it wants to tear it apart.
"There's far worse people to cross than Don Rossi," I say. I've successfully hidden my identity for so long, even from the women we rescue. It's all about to collapse.
"Really," she chuckles.
"My husband, for instance," I say, taking my arm from Giulia's skinny shoulders and taking one step closer to Lana. "Vadim Turgenev. The Angel of Death."
She looks uncertainly at the other three women, then bursts into laughter. "You're Turgenev's new bride?" She laughs even harder, but the others are falling silent, one by one.
The downpour is doing a number on my makeup, too.
I peel off the nose and chin prosthetic and remove my wig.
"I'm Oksana Vasilieva Turgeneva," I say.
This opens me up to every possible demand for retribution from the crime families who'd raged when their women and children disappeared without a trace.
But I will not let Luciana and the kids go back to that evil prick.
The three other women are shifting now, looking at us uncertainly. Tooka deftly pulls out her phone one-handed while keeping her gun trained on us with the other.
The kids are crying, it's soft, like they've been trained to keep it quiet. I'm sure Don Rossi is from the "I'll give you something to cry about," school of garbage parenting.
"I'm so sorry," Luciana says. "I never should have involved you." She steps up behind me, hovering by my left shoulder and I feel it, something hard pressed against the small of my back. She deftly lifts my soaking shirt just enough to slip the gun in the waistband of my jeans. "Maybe you can run."
Tooka is showing Lana her phone, whispering urgently.
"This is bullshit," she says, stepping back from the circle. "I came for a quick cash deal. I'm not fucking with Turgenev. He's skinned people alive before."
"Do not lower your gun!" Lana shouts. "Don Rossi's close, I just got his text. We'll be out of here in minutes. He'll take Oksana here and make her disappear."
Now, I laugh. Vadim may not understand love, but he understands duty, and honor.
"He'll chase you to the ends of the earth.
" I take another step closer to Lana, and then one more.
She doesn't seem to notice, glancing down at her phone, no doubt looking for a text from Rossi.
"Take the easy way. I'll honor my offer to double your fee.
You get rich, but far more importantly, you live. "
"Look, take her deal." It's Marie this time. "Her husband is the Angel of Death, I mean, fuck!" She starts to lower her gun and Lana fires a round at her feet. Maria stumbles back and lifts her gun again. Her hand is shaking.
"No one fucking moves," Lana says, her voice rising.
"If Turgenev gave a shit about her, do you think he'd let her do this?
He's not here." She's turned her head, shouting at the others and I have just enough time for two more giant steps as I pull the gun from my waistband and shove it against her temple.
"Drop your guns," I shout. My arm's wrapped tight around Lana's throat.
She's almost as tall as I am and the angle is awkward, but I can hang on.
The others look at me and the terrified girls and then at Lana.
I pull the gun away enough to shoot her in the leg, struggling to keep my arm around her neck as she screams, piercing in my ear, nearly collapsing.
Her blood sprays hot on my arm before the rain washes it away.
The girls are shrieking, clinging to each other.
"Drop your guns or I swear you're next!" I grit out, stumbling, forcing Lana to her knees.
There's a boisterous round of applause behind us and I feel it, a combination of malice and hatred so strong it could be stench.
"Very good, very good!" It's Don Rossi, looking ridiculous in his expensive suit, dress shoes soaked.
One of his men is holding an umbrella over his head.
"I wasn't expecting a show! Such emotion!
Such drama!" He makes a negligent gesture with one hand and the man next to him shoots Lana in the head.
Pieces of bone and blood hit my face as she drops to the ground, eyes staring sightlessly up at the rain.
One of his men rips the gun from my hand before I can aim it at his boss.
"Now, the other three," Rossi says. All the false good humor is gone. His bulldog face settles back into its usual cruel lines as three more shots ring out.
The man next to him could be his brother, same sharp black eyes, his face isn't as distorted yet by too much food and excess, like Rossi's. He's staring at me.
Luciana and the girls huddle behind me. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. "Gio and his nanny, they were with Yvette. I'm sure they got away."
"That's good," she says. Her face is wet. Not from tears, only from the relentless downpour. Her eyes are empty, arms tight around the girls. She knows she's going to die.
Rossi's fist comes so fast I don't catch the motion until the pain explodes across my cheekbone. My head snaps back and I stumble, but I stay on my feet.
"Brutta stronza! You fucking bitch!" he shouts. "I don't care if you are Oksana Turgeneva. I'm going to gut you for intervening in my personal affairs."
The second man hurries over, boots squelching in the mud. "Brother. You can't kill her yet," he says. "The others. They need to see her so she can face group punishment. She'll tell us who else is involved."
I give a wet chuckle as more blood slides down my chin. "You look like the moderately intelligent one," I say. "Pity that you want to make it worse. The Turgenev Bratva will go to war with you over this."
The thought makes me ill. I never wanted anyone to die for me. All because this loathsome piece of human garbage was upset that he couldn't beat up his wife anymore and sell off his daughters.
The brother is eyeing me with a frown while I'm mentally sorting through my crime family directory. Marco? "You should reason with your brother, Marco. Is this worth a fight you can't win with the Moscow Six Families?"
That's it. That's all my cards, out on the table. I'm not sure it's enough.
Marco doesn't seem quelled by my threats.
He pinches my chin between his fingers, squeezing cruelly as I try to slap his hand away.
"In our world you do not interfere with a man's family.
Mafia, Bratva, mob, or syndicate. Do you think your mighty Bratva will defend you when they find out how many families you've dishonored? "
"Dishonored?" I half shriek the word. "Dishonor is a man beating up the mother of his children because his dick is so tiny that he has to do something to feel more like a man! Dishonor is a Don who'd sell off his own children for some pathetic alliance."
I wrench my chin loose, looking at Don Rossi. "You're weak, and everyone knows it. The other families laugh at men like you, so fragile that they have to beat on their own families. You're a gutless, dickless coward."
Rossi roars, his fist raised and ready to pummel me into the mud. "I'll fucking cut you into pieces, you -"
The hand he's raised to punch me disappears in an explosion of bone and blood.
A circle of black-suited figures materializes around us, guns trained on Rossi's men. The tallest one separates from the others and strides over to me, smoke still seeping from the barrel of his Smith & Wesson.
I know it's Vadim before he pulls down his balaclava, his glacier blue eyes staring into mine.
Another earth-shaking round of thunder and a searing crackle of lightning streaks across the field highlighting every inch of him like its high noon.
It feels like a bolt of lightning goes through my brain, too.
I remember this.
Water streaming down my face.
Icy blue eyes in a pale face. Hair like a raven's wing.
"It's you," I whisper. "You saved me again, didn't you?"