Chapter 7
One Month Later
Dimitri tosses two limp bodies my way and they land with a thud and oof at my feet. One immediately rolls onto his back, seemingly more coherent than his partner, whose drugged-out gaze remains pinned on the ceiling above, hardly blinking at the harsh fluorescent lighting shining in his face.
Anastasia stands somewhere behind me, to my right, recording on her cell phone, while Lev watches on. Across from me, Dimitri’s studying my expression, looking for the sympathy I might have once had. That’s long gone though. The assholes at my feet stole profits from the Bratva; therefore, their deaths will be quick and easy so I can get on with my day.
Somewhere in the corner of the room, Ivan is also hovering. He’s been around more and more lately, as now an entire month has passed since my father’s death, meaning only two left until the heads reconvene to judge me.
He’s here to see me fail, but will leave disappointed since failure isn’t happening today.
I seize the large blade strapped to my thigh holster and toss it into my hand as I step toward the two thieves. It twirls playfully in the air, before I catch it by the handle when it comes back down. Again, this time, clamping it still by the sharp tip. Knife training’s been more interesting and fun than shooting. Easier to handle, more me, and offers much more creative uses than a traditional, ol’ gun. Add in the silent efficiency they have over the loud bang of a gun, and it's been a natural partnership between me and it.
The semi-coherent man watches me pace around him, his body trembling as he draws his knees closer to his chest and bows his head. So pathetic. Not even a plea for mercy because they know.
This isn’t my first execution and it certainly won’t be my last. Thievery has increased since Papa was killed; something Ivan is sure to bring up often, explaining that the men don’t respect me so they’re more likely to test my boundaries. To which I’ve been replying: “Let them. They’ll learn.”
When my heeled boot makes a purposeful scrape over the cracked cement with my single, slow pace, the drugged-out one finally manages to drag his gaze away from the blinding lights above. “V-Volkov—” he gasps, stretching a weak arm my way.
I swat his limb with the knife, blade down, so it slices his skin, making the first mark on him and he squeals, yanking his hand back.
“Don’t touch me. You both signed your death warrants the second you stole from me.”
The coherent, shaking one snorts. “We stole from you because you will always be a fraction of the leader your father was, and it’s time you realized that.”
Lev makes a noise, which sounds like a cross between a laugh and a cough.
“Hm,” I muse. “And here I thought, change doesn’t necessarily mean less. Regardless of your reasons, you made your decision.”
I stop behind them, erecting my boots at their back. The fact that neither even attempts to fight is disappointing. I could benefit from the practice. I crouch by the impertinent one, placing my mouth by his ear.
“Any last words?”
“No matter how many people you kill, no one will follow you, Vanessa. You’re a shadow of a great man.”
A month ago, those words would have wounded me, but now, I don’t even dignify him with a response. Instead, I lift the knife into his view, catching his reflection in the blade. There’s no apparent fear, only boredom. So many still believe I don’t have what it takes to be Pakhan.
But Rome wasn’t built in a day.
Turning the knife, I slide the blade along his throat. He gurgles as his airways are carved into, his hands coming up to grasp for life before I move away, standing to watch his quick death. He falls to his side, still wheezing and then…one, two, three seconds pass, and he’s done.
His friend gasps from beside him, but still, his eyes are glazed. With him, I repeat the action and soon two dead bodies are leaking blood on the floor, a slim trail heading toward me.
I allow the blood to coat my shoes’ soles before I tread away, bloody footsteps evidence of the path taken.
Across the warehouse, my uncle turns and walks out.
After finishing at the warehouse, I take my beloved motorbike—a Ducati Streetfighter V4 SP2—a purchase Papa always despised and never let me ride off Bratva property—to the cemetery, parking it right by the gate leading to the private section owned by the Bratva for the last century. I haven’t been here in quite some time, preferring to avoid the eerie place. Eerie, mainly due to the bodies of past organization members lying underground all around me. Powerful men and equally powerful wives long buried, all part of Bratva history come and gone.
In the farthest back corner of the cemetery, by the black fence, is a stone visibly newer than all the rest. White marble that stands nearly as tall as I am. I argued against something so grand, but Ivan insisted, claiming the “great Ursin Volkov” deserved this one. That was right after reminding me that showing a previous Pakhan disrespect is setting a bad example of what the soldiers could expect from me. With the guilt trip he laid on me, I gritted my teeth and signed the paper, granting permission for the hired funeral home to agree to whatever Ivan ordered. I reminded myself that Papa’s death means so little to me that I shouldn’t use any energy to care about his burial procedure.
Especially since it was purely symbolic. His body isn’t beneath the ground because the Famiglia never returned it, despite Ivan’s constant attempts at communication. They’ve all gone unanswered, and I simply don’t care enough to reach out to Rossi myself. Papa’s gone, one way or the other, and whether they burned his body, buried him, or dumped him somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean—the body of water connected to New York—it changes nothing.
I stand in front of the large, white marble stone. The sun reflects off it and straight into my eyes, irritating me almost as much as the inscription does.
Ursin Volkov
Great Pakhan of the Bratva
Beloved Father, Honoured Husband, an empire the Rossis and Volkovs would build together, but you never saw how pointless your planning was, long before we even landed in New York. Your life was the price paid to finally make you comprehend that Erico Rossi wouldn’t give up his wife. Still, I wonder why you were so determined for that union.”
A gentle rustle of leaves. Wind blowing across my face like a tender, apologetic kiss. Doubtful he’d apologize, even after death, but I like to believe it.
“Thank you, but you have much more to apologize for. Getting yourself killed in New York is a fraction of what you’ve done to me.” I pause, the list whirling through my mind. To say them all is to give a voice to every single horror. To not, buries the past, and that’s what I want…all except one. “I was fifteen, Papa. Christmastime at fucking that…” My voice drops to a whisper. “I will find him, that I promise you, and when I do?—”
The wind blows again, a cool breeze flashing over my cheek, bringing awareness to the single tear dripping down my face.
At the same time, an arm wraps around my shoulders and a familiar scent washes over me. Dimitri, the silent killer he’s worked so hard at becoming, managed to conceal his steps as he approached.
“You’re allowed to cry. He was your father, after all.”
“How’d you know where I was?”
“Lev.” He doesn’t add further details, but knowing Lev, he probably tracked my phone, or my bike, or the damn satellite somewhere in space above my head, to pinpoint my exact location.
I acknowledge his answer with a slight grunt before shrugging his touch off. With a jerk of my chin, I ask, “Is it fucked up to be unsure if I’m happy or not about his death?”
Dimitri’s silent for a moment, his gaze studying the surrounding cemetery. Always on guard, never not checking for enemies. When he’s done his scan, he replies, “What do you think? Is it fucked up?”
I don’t know. “There’s some part of me that loved him, I guess. That wished he was still around. But he caused a lot of pain, and I don’t miss it. I was on my way to a life of captivity because of his actions. If not Rossi, I would have been sold off to some other powerful man and forgotten about the moment the ring was on my finger and I’d no longer be his concern.” Anger flashes heat through my body. So hot, even the cool breeze doesn’t quell it. “Wouldn’t be the first time. So yeah, I’m pleased to have control over my own life.”
Dimitri nods. “It’s natural to feel confused over a complicated parental connection.”
There’s a familiarity in his tone that has me bluntly stating, “Like your own.”
“Mine’s not complicated.” Skin around his eyes tighten, masking the truth. The only thing my cousin’s ever hid from me. “Please drop it, Vanessa.”
“Dropped.” His expression smooths out in relief. It makes me want to inquire about his travels again—or the lack of. Since Papa’s death, he hasn’t made his out-of-country trips, but I’m secretly grateful to have his support in this time instead of whatever—or whoever—has him flying to Canada all the time.
“What you were saying when I approached…” Dimitri shuffles his feet and stuffs his hands in his front pockets. “You want to open that wound?”
A slap of hands.
The exchange of money.
A malicious grin.
The door slams shut.
He bores down on me, unperturbed to see a fifteen-year-old girl with her wrists and ankles tied to the bed frame.
After all…he paid for this experience.
I blink, yanking myself away from the nightmare that haunts me all the fucking time. The day I realized what a monster Papa truly was, and how his own gains ruled over everything else, including me.
“Wound was never closed. Maybe this will be the balm.”
His hand comes up to my shoulder. “I’ll get Lev on it. We’ll find him.”
“Thank you.”
We’re silent for a few more minutes. Dimitri, wherever in his head he’s gone off to, while I reflect on my entire life with Papa. When he was around, anyway. Seems like once I graduated secondary education at eighteen and came home from boarding school, he was gone so often, sometimes weeks at a time. Not that I ever minded. In fact, I relished the times he went. Before then, I spent so much time away at school, I couldn’t say for certain if he remained around Moscow the entire time, but when we were both home together, our time wasn’t exactly picture-perfect.
Once, when I was seven and being taught to ride a bike by my childhood nanny, I tumbled off it in my rush to get to Papa’s side when his driver brought him up the driveway, and scraped my knee on the surrounding rocks. He immediately exited the car and dropped to a crouch and wiped the blood with one of his silk handkerchiefs before helping me up and recommending no more practicing for the day. I knew he cared a lot about me then.
When I was ten and Papa’s business partner arrived to our house with his daughter, no younger than me, in tow, Papa had said, “Go play with her. Be friends.” I tried, but despised how bossy she was. When I told Papa that later in the evening, he brushed me aside and demanded I get to know her better because it was “best.” For him—I now see.
When I was twelve and helping him host a party, I would have preferred instead to hide away in my bedroom and watch movies with Anastasia, he dragged me from group to group, parading me around. I didn’t understand then. Not until I was older.
Until I was fifteen and more understanding what years and years of being shown off was for.
I stopped being a child to him when puberty hit. After that, I was a convenience. A bank balance to increase. A trade. A business opportunity.
Never again. I refuse to be used like that again. To be played by any man.
“Thank you, Dimitri, for all you’re doing now, and all you did then.”
“Don’t thank me until you’re officially Pakhan.”