68. Kirill Volkov - Chicago
Kirill Volkov - Chicago
Chicago’s harsh winter keeps its claws dug into this city. The March blizzard rages outside my window. The Volkov family mansion sits in the heart of the Gold Coast. Not hidden. The Bratva doesn’t hide.
I stand behind my desk, hands braced on the dark wood edge, looking down at the map spread across the worn surface. New York has fallen. Boston, too. More brotherhoods will follow.
They thought legacy would protect them. Because their blood spilled to raise their skyscrapers, they thought they owned those cities forever.
Nothing lasts forever. I learned that the hard way.
Chicago will soon stand as the new center of the American Bratva. All the pieces to take my power are exactly where they need to be.
Except for one damn thing. And that’s about to change.
The map is curled on the edges now. Territories. Routes. Names that still need to be erased. By the time my father dies, there will be no one left to challenge me.
A muscle in my jaw ticks. But none of that can happen until I get Sandrine back.
I push away from the desk, the maps, the plans for the night. Satisfied. Until I turn my attention to the one thing in this office that gives me angst. Unsettles me.
The painting.
It hangs alone on the far wall, lit from above the same way artwork is displayed at a museum or gallery. Where it belonged. Now it’s here. As a reminder of what I fucking lost.
I stand in front of it with a glass of vodka in one hand. With the other, I finger the strokes of color layered over one another, movement trapped in stillness.
Violet.
Always that color. Her personal blend. Bold, saturated, impossible to ignore. Impossible not to recognize. I trace just above the surface, the texture familiar. I’ve touched this artwork before. I watched her build it. Watched her lose herself in it and then come alive.
I was so proud of her.
Her father didn’t see it. Didn’t see the value in being an artist. Typical fucking accountant.
“You’re going to be famous for this one,” I told her that night, holding her from behind, my hands wrapped around her belly. “Dealers will fight over you.”
She shook her head. She didn’t need my praise. “I don’t want to be fought over.”
“When I’m your husband, there will be a war, baby,” I said. “No way around it.”
That got her attention. She swallowed and kept painting. It eased her anxiety. She was becoming something. Someone. And then she vanished.
I trusted her. That was my mistake. She betrayed me.
A set of footsteps sounds down the hall, measured, confident. I don’t turn away from the painting until I wipe away the lone tear in the corner of my eye.
I would never let anyone see my emotions. I made that mistake once.
A sharp knock breaks the silence I’ve enjoyed for the last hour.
“Come in,” I rasp and watch my sister Ksenia and her husband, my enforcer Drago, step inside.
“Papa asked for you.” My sister looks ragged from the visit.
I run a hand down the back of my neck. “I was there earlier. He doesn’t remember shit.”
“He didn’t recognize me at first,” she adds quietly.
“Nor me,” Drago adds.
Silence stretches between us as they look at me. The two people I’m closest to now. The only ones I trust. They’re searching for something beneath the surface I don’t let anyone see. They’re wondering if I’ll be just like my father.
I plan to be worse.
“Your payment to Bedell Auctions cleared through three accounts,” Drago reports. “Laundered well. But not well enough.”
I turn around and see Ksenia is gone.
“What did you find?” I ask Drago. “Who got the money for the painting?”
He holds my gaze. “A lawyer. Here in Chicago.”
“A lawyer?” My heart goes cold. “Name?”
“Lew Jagger.”
“I know that scumbag.” I make a fist. “He worked for De la Vega.”
Five years.
Five fucking years.
I glance back at the painting. It disappeared the night she did. They all did. All her artwork. I’m slowly getting it all back. For her.
For when she comes back home. Then, I will destroy every piece as she watches. A punishment for leaving me.
“Ares Zervas almost figured it out,” I say. “Almost. What is the location of the God of War?”
We tried calling Lourdes directly, but she never picked up the phone.
“He and his wife are in Santorini.”
Frowning, I set down my empty glass of vodka. “Again? She’s going to make him soft.”
Like Sandrine almost made me soft. That’s all washed away. This is business now. I’m owed what is mine. All that she left me with. It’s time she faces it.
I cross the room toward the wall of built-ins, my hand already reaching for the concealed panel. It clicks open under my touch. Knives. Rope. Brass knuckles. Lots and lots of firearms.
I grab the Glock and a few knives. I need fucking answers.
Behind me, Drago checks his parabellum. “Want me to bring more men?” he asks.
“Yes,” I scoff. “Your best bratoks. That is the strength we project. The message we send. No one fucks with us and gets away with it.”
I shut the panel, sealing everything back into place.
“The car is ready, Pakhan,” Drago says, pride in his voice.
He’s been calling me that since Papa’s stroke two months ago. I grab my jacket, sliding it on as I move past him toward the door.
He falls into step beside me.
“Let’s go talk to this lawyer,” I say, my voice calm. “And see if he knows where the fuck my wife is.”