Chapter Forty-One
In which we meet The Six.
Oksana…
Two months later…
"How is Anka?" Caroline asks.
I know she and Anka had a very good time laughing and talking together at my impromptu bachelorette party, and they'd exchanged phone numbers. "She's good. I'm happy that she's coming back to Chicago with us. Her father understood that it would be better for her to be away from Moscow for a while."
"And how are you?" Iris asks gently.
"I'm okay," I say. "And I mean it with my whole heart. Everything is perfect because Vadim survived, and that's all that matters." I can hear clattering in the background as more of the cousins try to get in on the Zoom call.
Ava, ever the medical professional, asks, "How's his recovery going? His PT?"
"Good." I laugh a little. "He's so determined to regain full use of his leg after that…" I can't say it again, and they already know how badly he was injured. "He's gotten to the point where even his physical therapists told him he needed to take a break."
"I'm glad," she says warmly. "If you need any support finding a good PT in Chicago, I can start making inquiries at Northwestern Medicine, they're the best hospital in the Midwest."
"So, what does everyone think about this new tribunal Andrey came up with?" Iris says.
"I find it surprising that so many family heads have already agreed to it," Violet says wryly. "Because shining a light on anything in our world is considered fairly horrifying. Though I'm sure they're all eagerly envisioning passing judgement on someone else."
"Isn't any rat bastard who is abusing his family going to do everything he can to keep them from filing a complaint?" Dasha asks.
"It can be done secretly," I say eagerly.
"Yvette flew into Moscow and met with Andrey and me, and we went through some different options.
It's not going to fix everything. This is a violent world, but I'm beginning to wonder if we're any different than the world at large.
If we can at least establish that abuse is considered disgusting instead of culturally accepted, that would go a long way toward making women's lives better. "
"Hear, hear!" Rose says, tapping her wine glass with Dasha's.
It's 11 PM in New York and they're just getting started, I suspect.
"I'm still pushing the idea of getting the Morozovs to buy a huge apartment high rise here in New York and making it for women residents only.
Every unit would be sold out within the hour. "
"So, I guess you're not dating yet, then?" I ask.
"I hate men," she says decisively.
"Even Russian ones?" I pursue it a little bit, because I'm still wondering about that odd exchange between her and Kirill at my wedding. After a couple of discreet inquiries with the cousins, no one seems to know anything about it.
"Most especially Russian men," she answers sharply.
"No pressure," I say. "If you're not feeling it, no one should be annoying you, including me."
"Thank you," she groans. "That would be nice."
I'm walking along the penthouse terrace as we talk.
It's a (slightly) warmer day than usual and the fresh air this high up feels crisp and free of car exhaust. We talk about babies and kids.
There's a couple of questions about possible vacation plans together, and an invitation from me to have everyone come out and join us in Chicago when it gets warmer.
"I found out that Vadim is a very accomplished sailor," I say. "He has a beautiful sailboat that he keeps on Lake Michigan in the summer. It would be fun to take it out together."
"Oh, I love that idea!" Dasha says. "I would really like us all to get together more. With everyone getting married off and having babies, sometimes, I feel a little lonely."
"Well, then we can't let this go," I say. "I grew up avoiding my family because trying to be around them under the malign influence of our father was too stressful. We should always feel like we have each other."
"Absolutely," Caroline says decisively. She's the list-planner in the group and I know she's already making notes on her phone.
We all agree to talk next week, and I hang up, going in search of my husband.
He's getting dressed, so I settle in a chair in our dressing room and watch him, admiring his gorgeous body.
He's just as beautifully sculpted and nearly as strong as ever, thanks to his exhausted physical therapists.
Several more scars are scattered across his skin though, and the sight of the burn scar on his leg digs knuckles into my heart every time I see it.
But he is recovering faster than any man who endured what he had, should, at least according to his doctor.
He sees me in the reflection of the mirror, watching him. Giving me a sly smile, he pulls on his shirt, noting my disappointment as he buttons it up, hiding his tattoos from me.
"How was your conversation with the Morozovs?" he asks.
"It's nice to check in with everybody. They were eager to hear more from our conversation with Andrey about the tribunal."
"Ah," he says, "he seems very enthusiastic about it. But this is Andrey, it's hard to know what he's actually thinking. I believe getting anyone to accept a tribunal's word as law will be difficult. But if there's enough powerful families involved, nearly everyone will have to bend the knee."
"It may not work," I admit. "But it's the start of something, right?"
"Without question," he says, "And I will support anything you want to do." Knotting his tie, he walks over so I can finish the job.
"So, you're heading out to meet the rest of the Six Heirs?" I ask, straightening his tie and running a finger along the tattoo there, a hawk, with talons extended and half-hidden by his shirt collar.
"Gratitude must be shown for them coming to our aid that day," he says with a kind of grim resignation. "We may not have needed all those men, but the show of force put the fear of God into anyone thinking about fucking with us again."
"Oh, I think you were scary enough for that all on your own, honey.
" I go up on tiptoe to kiss his jaw. "You look very handsome.
When you come home tonight, we will sit in total silence.
We'll have a nice dinner, maybe watch a movie, but I'm pretty sure your social battery will be completely drained by having to deal with those five. "
He sighs, though it comes out as more of a groan. "You know me too well, moya lyubov'."
"No, I just love you," I smile up at him, my thumb stroking his sharp jawline. "So much."
"And I you," he says, with the tenderness no one would expect from the Angel of Death. Giving me another kiss before his expression settles into its usual impassive lines, he says, "Walk me to the door?"
"Which one is it today?" I say, "I'd hate to get shocked." I'm joking, of course. My biometric signature is on every panel on every penthouse door, and he has abandoned his rotating codes. So, I'm free to come and go as I like.
"Hmm…" Vadim pretends to consider his choices. The man loves his games. And I love the look of bleak futility his guards get as they struggle to keep up with him.
My smile wavers slightly. After the attack in Red Square, Lavr, Marlen and Anka's guard Oleg all survived, though my former bodyguards won't be returning to duty any time soon. The Turgenev Bratva will support them for as long as needed.
I went with Vadim and Konstantin to meet the families of the guards who were murdered by the hunters.
I was so worried they'd blame me, because to be honest, I would agree with them.
Knowing those poor men died because of me isn't something I can let go of.
Shockingly, they were all kind, or at least polite.
"I think the security elevator in the pantry," he says.
"Oh good," I say. "I think I spotted some cookies in there that I had hidden from myself."
"You hide cookies from yourself?" he asks, his lips twitching.
"Well, these are the really good ones, the oreshkis the Blossom Bakery makes down the street," I explain. "If I don't hide them, I'll eat all of them in one day."
He pauses, framed by multiple shelves of neatly stacked boxes and cans. "Won’t you just remember where they are? How does this stop you?"
"My sweetheart, it's like you and your rotating codes," I say. "It requires some fancy brain work. Plus, it keeps me busy, and if I forget, instead of getting a shock, there's a reward once I remember."
He shakes his head, and I hear that low, rumbling sound in his chest that I've come to recognize is his chuckle. "I'll go to my meeting, and you enjoy your cookies," he says, kissing me as he presses the hidden panel, opening the elevator doors.
Before the doors close, Vadim looks at me and gives me a sudden smile. A full, open one. It's startling because smiles are so slow to grow on his face. But this one makes me think of the boy he must have been before he was forced into grim adulthood at fourteen. I'm grateful I got to see it.
I hope he'll smile like that for me again.
Looking around the pantry, feeling a little misty, I go through all my standard hiding spots until I find the cookies hiding behind the rack of dried pastas.
Vadim…
"The Turgenev Bratva wishes to show its appreciation for your support that day," I say, "by distributing to you the first five shipments of the ghost guns from our Chicago facility." That's a little painful giving up fifty million dollars’ worth of the weapons, but they deserve them.
"Yes!" Viktor Balabanov erupts, raising his glass to me with a grin. "I've been wanting to get a look at your design. I was merely too polite to ask."
"You? Polite?" Vladimir Bukharov laughs heartily, throwing one of the grapes from the fruit tray at him.
Nikolai, who's acting as host, shakes his head. "Thank you, Vadim, but it's not necessary to give the Vasiliev Bratva anything. We are your allies."
"Oh, I don't know," Kirill drawls. "A token of appreciation is always welcome with the Volkov Bratva."
Lukyan Kuznetsov - who is already Pakhan of his Bratva - watches everyone laugh and talk excitedly about the guns, his finger idly circling the top of his glass.
He's so quiet and observant that he makes me look almost loquacious.
His past is even darker and harsher than mine, in many ways. So, I understand.
"Honest question," Vladimir changes the subject from their oral masturbation about the ghost guns. "Has anyone's father, their Pakhan, been unhappy with our meet ups?"
Kirill shakes his head. "I suspect my father is exhausted, running the Bratva and keeping up with my 28-year-old stepmother."
There are a few snickers, quickly smothered.
"The time for an iron-clad alliance between us is now," he continues, ignoring the snickers, though I know he won't forget who made them. Kirill loves to hold a grudge. "We can move past all the backbiting and endless insults our families have passed down for how many generations?"
"This is the right step," Nikolai says. "After what happened to Vadim, as powerful and terrifying as you are, Angel of Death Junior," he says, with a teasing edge, which quickly dies off after he sees my expression.
"This can happen to any one of us. One of the syndicates next time, or a mafia.
They can never be allowed to doubt that The Six won't intervene on the other's behalf. "
We talk for a while longer, though the conversation turns more towards women and weapons. I check my watch and groan quietly, finishing my drink. Lukyan gives me a sympathetic glance. Finally, as the afternoon sun is sending its last rays over snowy Moscow, we all rise and say our farewells.
"This is good," Lukyan says, shaking my hand. "We have the beginnings of a strong alliance here."
We're standing by the windows while some of the others are making plans to meet up at a sex club owned by the Balabanovs.
"Some might blame me for my wife stepping in to what they claim is the private business of other families," I say.
His lips thin as if he's tasting something sour.
"Chush' like that deserves to be exposed and the men ridiculed for it," he says sharply.
He's a widower with a little girl, and I know he's picturing her as he says it.
"Let's talk soon," he says. Nodding to me, he heads out first, tall and angular in his dark overcoat.
Soon, Nikolai and I are the only ones left, standing in the entryway. "A favor, if you would?" I ask.
"Of course," he nods. "What do you need?"
"To speak to your mother."
***
Chush' - Russian for bullshit