Chapter 3
The hallway is empty when Dimitri drags me from my room and through our castle-like home. Papa had a weird decorating style, meaning I’m pretty sure he hadn’t changed anything since it was initially built, which would explain the old-style woven tapestries draped on the walls, the random statues in every hall, and the frosty air that no heater seems quite good enough to combat.
I don’t ask where he’s leading me to because I already know. Papa always used a specific meeting room when the Bratva heads were here. When we approach the heavy, wooden door, voices are already yelling from inside.
Dimitri turns to face me. “Ready?”
I nod, wondering if I am at all. What he’s suggesting I do—go in there and fight for a position that should be mine by name alone, but isn’t due to gender—I’ll be shattering centuries of customs. Of how it just is .
Dimitri opens the door, the shouting coming to a near-halt as the dozen of men, Brigadiers and their sons-in-training, all vicious killers and criminals, immediately go silent when spotting me in the entrance. Ivan’s sharp, questioning gaze darts from me to his son, flickering in clear rage that his tone does little to mask.
“This isn’t your place, Vanessa. Leave.”
Breathe in and out. One, two, three. I stare straight, finding a spot on the wall right above my uncle’s balding head as I step toward the long, cracked table running down the centre of the room. Everyone’s standing behind the chairs that are tucked into the table, the electrified energy keeping them all tense and on their feet.
“This is my place, dyadya .” Uncle. “Considering this organization is my father’s legacy.” Oh thank fuck, my voice didn’t shake.
Despite everyone but two staring me down with hostility, my breaths become easier and less painful with the realization of what’s occurring. A week ago, I was prancing through a party, forced to taunt Ariella Rossi while my father tried to convince Erico I was a better option to be his Famiglia queen, and now, I’m here. Doing what Dimitri asked me to trust him about, but managing just fine on my own too. As though my nerves are slowly waning with the feeling of aptness, that I’m rightfully claiming what I was born to be.
Across the room, a singular guy winks. Another show of support, and the only one I expected outside Dimitri.
Lev is the son of one of the Brigadiers—the very man standing to his right with his mouth gaped open. Although he and his family were stationed in various parts of Russia for his father’s work, Lev and his twin sister, Anastasia, were often dragged to our mansion when my father had business to discuss with their own. Dimitri and I grew close to both of them, much to Papa’s dismay. Despite the Brigadier status of their father, Papa felt I could “do better” in choosing my social circle.
Lev leans against the wall behind him and crosses his arms. The shadows of the room, cast by the numerous candles lined against the walls, suck him up. Like Dimitri, he’s a force to be reckoned with. Only, while Dimitri is walking death, Lev would have someone’s name, identification number, address, and personal schedule all before the computer’s even finished firing up. Computer hacking genius is too simple a title for him.
A scoff from one of the other Brigadiers across the room takes my attention away from Lev. “You are unmarried, girl. You lost your chance.”
The urge to meet Lev’s gaze again, or to turn and find Dimitri’s support, is so tempting, but all that’ll do is give the men more power in thinking I need a man’s “help” to run the Bratva. So I instead stare the Brigadier down, telling him with my expression how little his opinion truly matters.
And to the room, I say, “Papa once told me ispol'zuyte svoy razum, telo i smekalku, chtoby dobit'sya uspekha . To use my mind, body, and my wits to get ahead. My father wanted me to run the Bratva. Getting married would provide you all with a man to be leader, while I produced the heir.” No thanks. “But either way, the Bratva’s future fell on my shoulders. I am my father’s heir. His grandson was meant to be the eventual Pakhan. Leadership is to remain within our direct bloodline, and no one else’s. That is what he wanted. Not,” I pin my uncle with a desolate stare, “this.”
Ivan pushes to the front, glaring at Dimitri instead of me. “What is this? Get her out of here.”
Dimitri doesn’t even comment. Just watches me with a tip of his head.
“You know I’m correct,” I utter to my uncle. “Brother or not, he didn’t want you running the organization.”
“It doesn’t matter what he wants.” Lev’s father’s deep voice speaks from down the room. “He’s no longer around, so his requests do not matter. We need strong leadership. Someone who’ll not only bring the Bratva into the future, but the Famiglia to their knees. The Rossis must pay for what they’ve done. That is something you must agree with, no?” His tone ends on a high plea, as though believing I’ll step aside all so someone more worthy in their eyes can kill Erico Rossi. That the concept of avenging my father is enough for me to drop my argument.
It's not.
“They will. By my hand.”
Ivan laughs, as do a few others. Some in loud chortles and others as nervous chuckles. A few remain silent, glancing uncertainly at one another. Then Ivan moves to nudge me toward the door, despite my heels digging firmly into the uneven stone flooring.
“What you’re doing is adorable, but it’s not the best way. You’re a lovely woman, Vanessa, and I promise to fulfill your father’s wishes in finding a suitable husband to take care of you. Until then, we are still family and you may remain in your home.” He gestures to the ceiling, to indicate the entire mansion that I’ve grown up in. “Your shopping trips can continue. Spa days with your friends will be funded by the Bratva’s bank, same as always. Whatever you want, it’s yours. But not this little show.”
The assumption sickens me. Papa forced me to fill my days with shopping and beautifying myself, but they’re hobbies I don’t enjoy. They give me no purpose. They simply kept him quiet and looking the other way, so when Dimitri trained me in the evenings, he wasn’t the wiser.
I shoulder my uncle away and stride back to the head of the long table, resting my hands over top, right in the same spot I imagine Papa often laid his own.
“This is mine,” I tell them all with finality.
After a beat of silence, of wary glances from the men, Ivan concedes with, “You’re right,” in a low, condescending tone. “But I’m not claiming the Bratva for myself, so that’s where you’re wrong. This is Dimitri’s line. Given my age, I will remain in my current role, but it’s my son who’ll lead the Bratva.”
What?
I glance at Dimitri, searching for a sign of betrayal. Out of anyone here, he’s the last who’d pull something like this. To bring me here, build me up, and watch me fall apart with all the heads of the organization as witnesses. But he’s not meeting my gaze. He’s staring at his father, expression blank, eyes pinching in the corner.
I find Lev across the way. He too looks confused but subtly shakes his head, like he’s trying to tell me something I can’t quite comprehend.
“I accept.”
What?
Betrayal has me ready to puke. I knew this was a bad idea. Knew Dimitri’s urge to get me to this room would end in failure, even if this isn’t how I imagined it happening. A fresh wave of grief hits me, not for Papa, but for the relationship long strengthened between Dimitri and me. With this act, he’s killed us…even if I still can’t believe it. Don’t want to believe it. This isn’t Dimitri. He’s said time and time again he prefers being in the field and wouldn’t want to be the indoor leader Papa was. This doesn’t make sense…
Dimitri scans the table of men, nodding slowly as everyone begins clapping. Cheering for their new leader. For someone they trust and want to follow.
Not me. Never me. I was a fucking fool for believing I could do this.
Ivan tucks his arm around my back, his cruel whisper ticking the fine hairs on the back of my neck. “See? I’m sorry, Vanessa, but a woman will never be a part of the Bratva in the way you’re speaking of.”
Dimitri lifts his hand, silencing the entire group in an instant. They listen to him so easily, so naturally, and I hate my cousin for that alone. “I accept the position of Pakhan. Thank you. I’d like to mark my ascension with one rule enactment right now. Women can and will run the Bratva without a man by their side. Therefore, as I accept your honour, I’m stepping aside, and naming Vanessa as my successor. She is your Pakhan.”
Silence.
Complete and utter silence from both me and the others.
Dimitri pushes his father out of the way to make room for himself when he drops to one knee in front of me. His right hand makes a fist and covers his heart, and his head lowers into a bow of submission. One I’ve seen the others give Papa so many times.
“My fealty is owned by you, Vanessa Volkov. As a vor v zakone ,” thief in law, “my gun is yours. My loyalty is yours. YA klanyayus' tebe .”
I swear to you.
The Bratva’s agreement.
When sworn in, when pledging oneself to a new leader, for agreeing to be a thief in law, the Bratva’s description of this organization, the final words spoken are YA klanyayus' tebe. With this, everyone gets Dimitri is true to his word. With this, Dimitri is my soldier. Mine to control, to lead, and to command.
His vow might be the first said to me, but I promise myself, it won’t be my last. Not for Papa, but for me. I will make history as the first female Bratva ruler. I will be more than a pretty face on Erico Rossi’s arm, or any other man’s.
“K chertu eto!” The thick accent of an elder Brigadier as he yells fuck this and stalks around the table, coming closer. Dimitri stands from his bow, poised by my side, but he doesn’t stand in front of me, and I immediately know why.
The Brigadier slams to a stop in front of him, his finger jabbing into Dimitri’s chest. “No, I refuse to accept a whore as my leader. A woman will not run the Bratva. This is an embarrassment to centuries of strong men.”
Hell no. I step into the small space between him and Dimitri, making it known that he should be talking to me and not my cousin. As I move, though, my hand brushes the side of Dimitri’s gun, which is slid into a holster, strapped to his thigh. Dimitri and I haven’t gotten to this point in my training yet. I’ve held one to determine its weight and practice the ideal stances, but haven’t shot one.
Yesterday, Erico held one to my head when he threatened Papa, urging to trade me for his wife under the threat of death. If I was Papa, I would have made the trade to protect my own, but my dick of a father was so deep in his own plan to rid Rossi of his wife, that he was willing to give up his ace card—me. When Erico released me to fight my father and his men, I vowed then that the next time a weapon would be held against my head, I’d know how to properly protect myself.
It’s with that thought I slide Dimitri’s gun from his holster. He must feel me stealing it as the weight transfers from his leg to my hand, but shows no sign of caring. Even backs up a step to give me the space needed to lift the heavy metal weapon, lining the barrel with the Brigadier’s forehead.
He only laughs, enticing some of the others to as well. Ivan glances between us, his brows lowering as though finally comprehending this isn’t some game. This isn’t me playing dress-up.
“You will learn to respect me.”
The Brigadier barks another laugh. “Little girl, you’ve never shot a gun, and you’ve certainly never killed anyone. Let alone done any other crime for that matter.” He studies my bare, tattoo-less arms. I’m the only person in this room without a mark on them. Tattoos in the Bratva mean shit. I know for a fact, Dimitri’s covered in them, as was my father.
But there’ve been enough instances where I’ve seen guns used that I can fake my way through this. I think—hope. With my left hand, I pull back the top of the gun— I really should learn what the parts are —until the room fills with a deadly, warning click.
Finally, the Brigadier gets it, and with a gulp, he glances from me to Ivan to Dimitri and again. His hands lift, palms toward me in what I’d assume is a conceding action, except for his next words lessening the effect.
“So you’ve cocked a gun. There’s more to it, Volkov. Murdering a man takes guts we both know you don’t have. And to lead the Bratva, it’ll require more than one kill. Do you really want human lives on your conscience, when your cousin’s already sold his soul and can do the job well? You’re still savable.” His voice lowers, patronizing, the same way Papa would speak to me when he ushered me away from important meetings: like I wasn’t good enough to be nearby. “Running the Bratva means getting dirty. Means adopting a criminal’s lifestyle. The drugs, the weapons, the deals, the girls. Punishing traitors. You’re still a bright light in this world, as women are and should only ever be. To do this will darken your soul in a way you’ll never heal from.”
Of course, I’d already considered this. When Papa eventually got his way and married me off, I was prepared to battle my husband until he recognized I could be a force by his side, not a decoration on his arm. Have I killed anyone yet? No. But I’ll start somewhere.
My hold on the heavy-ass gun falters slightly, but thankfully, still remains upright. Dimitri’s been having me exercise as well to build strength, and without the dumbbells he’s often pushing my way, I doubt the gun would still be straight.
How many times have I overheard the screams of Papa’s victims? Or the blood he’d come home covered in?
I am a Volkov, which means damage, destruction, and death is in my blood. I might be a female, might be expected to contribute to the organization through other means, but it doesn’t indicate I’m less. With a little spark, the Volkov shadows will emerge. An executioner will be born.
I’m okay with that. Hell, I’m ready for it.
“Then I darken my soul and bathe in our enemies’ blood.”
He rolls his eyes. “Words. They’re only big words. Do you think anyone here would follow a woman, all for you to destroy centuries of power and influence?”
No. Truly, based on the way no one but Dimitri and Lev meets my eyes, no I don’t think they’ll follow me. But at this point, I’m too deep to back down. To close to my potential.
“I think they’ll follow me into the next chapter of greatness that we can bring Russia to, or they’ll step aside.”
Feet shuffle in the background. No one wants to give up their job, but if they were willing to swear fealty, they’d have done it by now. Their hesitation says everything.
“So that’s it then? We’re supposed to fall in line or retire?”
“Da.”
The Brigadier leans uncomfortably close, but it seems to be only for intimidation purposes. He presses his forehead against the gun barrel and declares, “Use me as an example then. You kill me, and perhaps the others will take you seriously. You don’t, you walk away now.”
Then he grins and falls back a step, even turning to face the table of mixed expressions. There’s a common thread in them all though: hatred. It’s okay because I’ll call his bluff, even if he believes I won’t. Even as he backs up two more steps.
I don’t really know these men, none of them besides Ivan, Dimitri, and Lev. Father kept me away from them and the business they conduct, so they’re all strangers. They’re nothing to me. Disposable.
Especially if they refuse to fall in line. The moment Papa dropped dead, it signalled a shift in the Bratva. After decades of the same structure, the same people controlling things, it ended with a single bullet from Rossi’s gun.
This is me continuing the tradition. Therefore, while staring at the back of his head, which is covered with greying hair, I think how everyone here besides Dimitri and Lev is aging out of their prime. With Papa’s death, it’s time for them to all move on.
My impending first kill takes another step. The muscle in my upper arm shakes, but pure willpower keeps my arm steady under the gaze of everyone who’d love to see me fail. Knowing the basics of how guns work, and the kickback they have when shot, I wrap my other hand around the handle and spread my feet apart, gaining stability.
Bang!
The weapon throws me back into Dimitri, who immediately rights me with a reassuring squeeze to the shoulder, so I can witness the outcome of my trigger pull. The Brigadier drops dead, a clean shot to the back of the head. A couple inches away from where I was aiming, but it does the job.
My breaths feel stale, like I’m not really present. I assume it’s shock mingled with a bit of relief over what I just did. What I was capable of doing. Any moment, guilt should anguish me. At least, that’s what Dimitri always warned me of happening. He also suggested making my first kill meaningful because it sparks an inevitable change. He’s said there’s a power that comes with killing and the realization that a single bullet can rob someone’s soul from them. End a life and become the reaper to decide when a person is no longer allowed to walk on Earth.
I didn’t believe I’d have my first kill at this point, but it’s not shame and guilt rolling through me, despite the fact that a family out there, one loyal to my own for decades, just lost someone they love. It's relief, if not a bit of pride and apprehension. Change must happen. Change within this organization, and more importantly, change within me. I can’t be the girl all these Brigadiers think I am. The girl I had to be beneath my father’s reign. While I feel for the man’s family, I can’t be sorry over wiping out a cocky asshole who taunted me. The apprehension tightening my nerves is from the crowd’s pending reaction as they all stare, mouths gaping.
The Brigadier nearest to the body bends down, rolling his head to the side, before wide eyes scan the room, and finally landing on me to state, “Mertvyy.”
Dead. A word that’s never sounded better than this instance. If I was anyone else—a different gender specifically—it’d be expected that I remove any threat. And that’s exactly what I’ve done.
Chaos breaks out, yelling and shouting, and Ivan slams into me, stealing the gun from my grip before I can stop him. A heavy hand shoves me into the nearest wall, and beyond his shoulder, Dimitri moves to intercept, but I stop him with a shake of my head.
“What the fuck did you do?” Ivan growls, leaning in closer.
I thrust him off. “Let me go.”
His grip falters enough, I jerk away, throwing him back as the others move closer. Over all their heads, Dimitri leans against a wall, supporting me with a simple head nod and smirk because he knows what’s about to happen.
I reach for the gun my uncle stole, using speed to my advantage, and bring it up to eye level, scanning the room with it. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I announce, “A new era is on the rise. You join or you die. You swore yourself to the Bratva once, to my father. Now, I am the Bratva. I understand what’s necessary for the job, and take that,” I angle the weapon toward the deceased man, “as proof.”
This asshole isn’t who I always dreamed of my first kill being. This was necessary but not ideal, when the man who deserves it is still alive, touting it up in high society circles in downtown Moscow. So close to my physical location and yet so far from being vulnerable. His was a death I’d been dreaming of since I was fifteen and his hot and heavy breath covered my face right before his body took the rest of me.
I blink, forcing my mind away from that train wreck and to a better time, and focus on the dead man at my feet. I wonder if his death will hit me later on. Maybe I’m still numb over the loss of my father. Maybe this will hit in days, weeks, or perhaps months from now.
My uncle backs down, shaking his head. With his free hand, he gestures for the men to leave. They cluster by the door, murmuring to themselves.
“This proves nothing, Vanessa. You will fail as a leader.”
My chin lifts a fraction, meeting his disappointment head-on. “Give me six months to prove myself then. If I don’t meet expectations in that amount of time, I will step aside for Dimitri.”
Ivan blinks, and for a second, I think I spot respect. That’s a start. “Three months,” he counters. “We will reconvene here in three months and decide if you’re suitable for this role. By then, everything you fuck up can still be fixed.”
“Three months,” I agree. They’ll find every way for me to fail, which means I can’t mess a single tiny thing up or they’ll use it against me. But in that time, I’ll train, I’ll fight, I’ll kill. I’ll claim control.
I won’t be Vanessa Volkov any longer. Weak pawn. Pretty decoration. Future wife and heir maker.
No. I’ll become someone new. Someone they won’t recognize, but will respect. Someone they’ll fear . I have to do this. Hell, I want to prove myself to them because then all of Russia will understand. When news eventually spreads across the world that Papa is dead, they’ll follow up with naming me as his successor. If I prove myself to the assholes in this room, it also means establishing to the world that while the Bratva might be under new leadership, we’re stronger than ever.
Ivan throws me a final glare and trails the others out with a loud huff. The door slams shut behind him, leaving only Dimitri and Lev still in the meeting room with me. The moment we’re alone, my shoulders lower with my long drawn-out, exhausted sigh.
“Fuck,” I breathe, meeting my cousin’s amused gaze. “Fuck, Dimitri, what the hell just happened?” Now that the men have left, my fa?ade is able to drop with the heavy realization I just did what I’ve always dreamed of making happen. But even so, it’s surreal.
Dimitri lowers his arms back to his side. “You just became a fucking leader, Vanessa.” He throws a glance toward the dead body. “You killed but you’re not a killer yet. You realize that’s what we’ll need to make you into though, right?”
“We?”
“ Da, we. Those assholes will find every loophole in three months to ensure you don’t remain our leader, which means we’re going to ensure you’re the best fucking one ever. I know what they’ll look for. I’ll help you.”
He glances toward Lev, who’s now wandering closer. He nods his agreement and grins. “Count me in, obviously. Also, that took five minutes and fifty-three seconds. Impressive.”
Lev has…quirks. Ones I don’t quite understand, but I’ve come to get used to. He has an obsession with numbers, which I assume stems from his love of technology. He once told me his hobby is quite simple when thought of in only zeros and ones—an explanation I still haven’t deciphered. So the fact that he counted the time it took since I walked into this room to when Papa’s men left isn’t surprising.
I smile gratefully at our friend before asking Dimitri, “Why didn’t you want it? You almost had the Bratva for yourself.”
He glances toward the door, his lip curling. “Being Pakhan isn’t my future. None of this was what I even initially wanted.”
His words seem final. A hint toward whatever happened in his past that he always refuses to give up. So I drop it for now.
“Besides,” Dimitri continues, “being a leader is in your blood, not mine. When I swore fealty, I meant it, Vanessa. You own my undying loyalty until my death.”
“You are death,” I tease the common description others refer to him as. “Death will never come for you.”
“No matter. We have three months, and if this is truly the life you’re chasing, we need to get to work.”
I go to hand the gun back to him, but he shakes his head and pushes it away. “Keep it. I’ve killed many with it, but that was used for your first. It’s special now. It’s yours.”
He steps aside for me to exit first, his final word ringing through the room .
“Pakhan.”