Chapter 13
In the centre of the warehouse, the man tremors, watching me slowly pace around him. One eye is swollen shut and the other is a nasty shade of vibrant blue and purple, courtesy of my fists. The sour scent of piss wafts from him, and the front of his jeans reveals a dark spot.
Charming.
“P-please, I-I-I swear I have no idea where he is.”
“I find it extremely difficult to believe that, considering you’re his bookkeeper.”
He turns his head to follow my trajectory. “He took off into the night two years ago and never told me where he was going. Please,” he sobs, “I swear that’s the truth. He kicked me out of his accounts and went into hiding.”
Anastasia meets my gaze from her stance a few feet away. She shares my disbelief and rolls her eyes.
I stop in front of him, crossing my arms. “Is that why my people found your name on recent documentation, signing off on large cash withdrawals? He’s in hiding, and you’re sending him funds from his local accounts to offshore ones, which means, you’re lying. You still have access to his accounts.”
The bookkeeper’s face whitens, going as transparent as his lie. “But I don’t know where he ran off to. Believe me. Please, let me go.” Desperation mingles with the scent of piss and fear, his unswollen eye filling with pointless hope.
After the past hour being filled with tears, sobs, and pleas, I’m starting to believe he is telling the truth. The thin man with lenses in his glasses that are thicker than his arms isn’t a fighter by any means. If he knew where the Minister of Finance disappeared to, I’m semi-sure he would have given the location up an hour ago, to save his own skin. So there’s no point in dragging this on longer.
Besides, this guy’s a weak stand-in for the real thing. For the man I’ve been chasing for two fucking years. He disappeared right after Papa’s death when the news of me being his successor spread throughout Russia. Given our history, he must have assumed I’d be hunting him.
“If you don’t know where he is, tell me about the withdrawals.”
The thin man sucks in a deep breath, nodding rapidly. “Yes, okay. You’re right—I’m on retainer still. He disappeared, cancelled most of his cards, and is living a cash-only life so you can’t track him.”
Well, at least it confirms what I’ve suspected due to the timing of his disappearance. I became Pakhan, and the fucker knew what’d be coming.
“So I continue to withdraw cash here in Moscow so you have no way of knowing where he is. As for what happens with the money, I don’t know.” He blinks large eyes through the thick-rimmed glasses and licks at his parched lips. “Every month, I’m told to take out the pre-determined amount, place it in a cash box, and leave the box on his estate’s front step. Someone comes to collect it. I’ve never stayed around to watch the process.”
I glance at Anastasia, who’s already on her phone, presumably ordering men to his mansion. This is a useful lead. If we stalk the house, we might become one step closer to him .
“Who?”
The man jerks his head. “Not stupid enough to ask.” His throat moves with his harsh swallow. “When you work for those in the government, you learn not to ask questions. I do my job, I get paid. Nothing more I care about.”
That sounds too sincere to be a lie. I stare at the broken, quivering man who’s actually been somewhat useful. If only he would have disclosed all this sooner, he could have saved himself a lot of pain.
He’s given me all he can, so I throw an arm straight out toward Anastasia. “Knife please.”
The man gasps, all previous hope escaping him. His body slumps to the cement floor as though I’ve already stabbed him. His sobs increase again, his bottom lip quivering in a pathetic way that’s almost laughable. “P-please…let me go.”
With the blade Anastasia just handed me, I gesture for him to stand. He manages, staggering awkwardly, his bound hands making the movement challenging, along with the pain I assume he’s dealing with. He glances toward the warehouse door and then back to me, fear expanding with his every breath.
I love this moment. Revel in it. The moment they debate trying to escape me. It’s amusing to watch their minds work.
I pace around him, disappearing out of view.
“I told you everything I know, and still, you’ll kill me?”
I answer his question with one of my own: “Do you know what people say about my captives?”
His shoulders lower, but he maintains some semblance of courage in his rigidity and firm tone. “That they never survive you. You’re called the Merciless Queen.”
“Yes. So if I let you go, how would I look then? Word could spread. Others might assume I’m a changed woman, that I grant mercy, and it’ll be open-season on my temperament. I can’t have that.”
I stop behind him, lifting his bound hands in my own. With the blade, I trace the column of his neck until he shivers. His shoulders shake and his head bows, like someone who’s accepted his fate.
Slice. My arm drops and the knife cuts through the zip tie, freeing his wrists. And him.
The bookkeeper shudders through his relief, his shoulders tensing as I lean closer, pressing my chest to his back, eyes flicking toward Anastasia over his shoulder. Her lips are pursed in consideration, but I can also spot the question clearly etched in her expression: what are you doing?
Ignoring her for now, I drop my lips to the curve of the man’s neck, trying my best to breathe minimally and only through my mouth to avoid taking in his stench. “I told you an hour ago that if you cooperate, you’re free. And while you didn’t for a while, in the end, you have, and I believe that you don’t know more, which means you’re no longer useful. My captives may never survive me, but I see us as partners after tonight, don’t you?” I pause, listening to the way his breathing stops altogether, and I imagine his mind racing to figure out what’s the best response. “Here’s how this will go. You will go home and collect whatever’s important in your pathetic life, and then you will disappear. I don’t care where you go but your affiliation with your boss ends immediately.”
“Miss Volkov?—”
With the grip I still have on his arms, I twist one up, effectively shutting him up with a low gasp of pain. “Don’t interrupt me. This isn’t up for negotiation. You’re only free because you’ve played your role well tonight, so don’t take my gratitude lightly. Go home,” I repeat softer this time, also releasing my hold on him, “and disappear for good. My men will be watching you, so I’ll know if you go against our deal and continue your work for him. I should warn you, I don’t give second chances so I truly hope you’re not stupid.”
This time, he seems to understand my seriousness and jolts away from me, his long limbs taking him across the warehouse instantly. He staggers every couple of steps; the pace of an injured man fighting through the bruising and cramps in order to reach safety.
He reaches the exit, but when anyone else wouldn’t waste time in opening the door and officially disappearing, the bookkeeper hesitates and turns to face me.
“Miss Volkov,” he calls in a shaky voice. “You should know…in my time working with him, I had access to many of his business documentation, and there’s a contract existing, signed between him and your father.”
I know the precise document because Papa had the original draft. Lev and Dimitri found it in his office in the weeks following my takeover, since I refused to go in that blasted room—still haven’t—but it didn’t detail anything useful.
His offer of information is interesting since he owes me nothing. The sneaky bookkeeper has certainly surprised me. Seems he’s playing his own game, offering extra information as gratitude for his life.
“I’m well aware of the deal between my father and the minister.”
Knew it. Lived it. I was the price of that deal but that detail isn’t noted on the contract, so it’s no wonder he’s unaware of the specifics.
His head bobs once in acknowledgement before turning and pushing his way out of the warehouse. If he’s wise, it’ll be the last time I ever see him. For his sake, I truly hope he’s not dumb enough to go against my kindness. As I told him, there will be no second chance.
“Hm.” Anastasia slowly paces forward, her head tipped to the side as she stares at the dried blood drops on the stone ground, the only remaining evidence of the most recent captive. “That was unexpected.”
I shrug and flip her knife back to her. “His death wouldn’t have changed anything. I do believe he told me all he knows because there’s no way he would risk many people knowing his true location.” Especially for reasons similar to what happened here today. “A deal’s a deal, so he lives.”
She knocks her shoulder against mine playfully. “Don’t be getting soft on me.”
“Never.” I nudge her back. “ Posol'stvo in a few hours?”
Anastasia grins. “Hell yeah. I can use a drink after this week.”
It’s been two years since Papa’s death and the feeling of walking through my mansion’s doors as its owner, rather than an occupant, will never grow tiresome. I’m no longer a pretty face to be sold off to the highest bidder.
Instead, I’m the organization’s boss. The one who makes the decisions, the choices, and more importantly, claims control over my own life. There will never be a man with authority over me again.
In my wing, I shut my bedroom door, the same I’d had since birth. Although Papa’s room is larger, and if following tradition, is where I should be sleeping, I want nothing to do with it. Everything of his, office included, has been locked up and forgotten.
Dimitri claims it’s the grief talking, but I say hatred. Sometimes, I reflect on the conversation Dimitri and I had in the cemetery two years ago, marking it being the last time I’d visited my parents’ graves. In his own way, Papa was a great Bratva leader, but he also signifies another time in my life. A past I now avoid any and all thoughts of. A time when I feared approaching his office because it’d end with me getting yelled at. A time when he forced me to look and act a certain way, all to entice a connection he desired. A time when I wasn’t myself.
Regardless, Papa’s death hurt in ways Mama’s never did. Even when claiming to be fine, the heartache was a physical pain; that the man who raised me was no longer in my life. But the ache was also fleeting because as the days, months, and then years passed, I grew into who I was always meant to be. Papa’s death paved the way for my potential, and once understanding that, my grief was manageable. Had he survived the showdown with Erico Rossi, I’d definitely be wed off by now. Likely forced to conceive an heir I have no interest in having.
I wouldn’t be me.
I wouldn’t be Pakhan of the Russian Bratva.
Months after taking over, I realized what the Famiglia truly did. Instead of bringing war to New York as I’d promised Erico Rossi on that fateful day, I called a ceasefire in the form of a gift and a letter.
On the one-year anniversary of Papa’s death, a large bouquet of white and black-dyed roses were delivered to the Rossis’ front step, along with a hand written note and a dress fit for a baby girl. A couple months prior, my spies in the United States reported Erico and Ariella adopted a child, so the dress was a sign of good faith. The letter is where I broke it all down.
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi,
White roses symbolize innocence and new beginnings.
Black roses symbolize death and rebirth.
I promised a war, but instead accept these flowers as my ceasefire. You may have stolen my father from me, but you also cemented a new beginning. A rebirth of myself. And a new direction for Russia.
For that, you have my personal thanks.
I can’t promise our guns won’t cross in the future, but for now, we have no business with the Famiglia. I wish you both prosperity.
Ariella, teach your daughter to slap as hard as you do. Trust me, it’ll benefit her one day.
—Vanessa Volkov, Pakhan of the Bratva
After it was delivered, it took three months before their response came, wrapped around a bouquet of calla lilies.
After that, the Famiglia and I never communicated again, but we hadn’t had a need to. We’re two organizations existing on opposite sides of the world, the same way we did before Papa got it in his mind to blend us. With spies stationed in the U.S., I track what I can of them, ensuring Rossi doesn’t decide to attack, thinking I’d be vulnerable.
With an exhausted sigh, I push off the door and strip my clothing on the way to my ensuite bathroom, heading straight into the shower to wash up from this disappointing evening. The bookkeeper might have given a promising lead, but it’s not enough. Not when I was hoping for so much more after all this time hunting him .
Two years.
Two motherfucking years and there’s no trace of him.
The steamy shower muffles my agonized scream. So many screams I’ve released for that man. Today…and when I was fifteen.
Two of Papa’s soldiers push me into a spare bedroom and immediately position themselves in front as a barrier I know I won’t be able to fight through. And something tells me, I’ll be wanting to soon.
“Oh good, you’re here.” Papa’s smooth voice comes from behind me, and I turn. My heart rate increases, gaze flicking around the guest room, trying to piece together why we’re here out of all the rooms in our home.
Ever since I’d gotten back from boarding school last week, Papa’s been acting weird, making the winter holiday break tense. Well, tens er than normal, because spending time with my father isn’t exactly like what friends describe with their own parents. Which is love and smiles and actually enjoying each other’s company.
“What’s going on?”
He paces toward me slowly, his head ticking to the side. “In business, what’s one of the main rules I’ve taught you?”
My back prickles with a strange awareness, an instinct to take a step back for every three of Papa’s approaching ones. Through dry lips, I force out, “Know your worth and the worth of others.”
He nods, stopping when he’s halfway between me and the bed looming behind him. “Very good, doch’ .” Daughter. “You know, when you were born and the doctors revealed you were a girl, I was ashamed my firstborn wasn’t a male. Your mother was murdered before we could try for a second child, and after her, I lost all desire to wed another. As years passed, I realized your worth.”
My breath stalls as he steps closer, coming within two feet of me. Somehow, I know where this is going. I’d known for a while because he’s never hidden his plans, but at fifteen, I assumed an arranged marriage wouldn’t happen for a few more years.
I scan to my right and left, searching for the stranger who’s presumably about to leap out from the corner, shove a diamond ring on my finger, and drag me to the altar before Papa finds a better offer.
Papa tips my chin up, forcing my eyes back on him, and the man looking at me is a stranger. His smile stating a business proposal has been signed, the gleam in his dark eyes a malicious promise that makes bile fill my throat.
“Papa…”
He ignores my soft plea. “The virginal daughter of the Pakhan surely brings in a suitable connection, but I feel—and will gamble on this guarantee—that the Pakhan’s daughter is enough. You , Vanessa, are a commodity with or without your purity. Which means, it too, has an additional price we can profit from.”
We.
We. He’s spinning this like we’re a partnership. It’s ironic because it’s all I’ve ever wanted—to be treated by Papa in the same manner Uncle Ivan treats Dimitri—but not this . This isn’t a partnership. It’s a convenience. I’m a convenience.
Blood rushes to my ears. My heartbeat feels like the organ will push out from my chest. I comprehend his words fine enough. Being a virgin is viewed as an added benefit to any marriage deal he’ll one day make, but selling my first time brings another profit with it.
Which means…I glance at the bed behind him.
“Papa—”
He snaps his fingers and the two soldiers behind me grasp my arms, dragging me toward the bed. My heels dig into the carpet, doing nothing against the men’s strength as they propel me toward what’s about to become an altar for my self-worth.
“Tie her up,” he commands without looking toward me again. Papa heads for the door, and the fucking coward leaves, shutting the door behind him, locking my yells within.
My nails are buried a half-inch inside the lavender soap bar, a tingling pain running up my arm, and pulling me out of what was the beginning of the end.
Papa did a lot of shit to me prior to that but selling my virginity really showed me his true colours. I screamed a lot that night. First, I was a daughter yelling for her father to change his mind and save her. Then, a girl who got a piece of childhood stolen from her by a corrupt politician.
All from Boris Agapov, the Russian Minister of Finance. A bullshit deal involving a revolving payout from him to Papa for every year following that night and having a government insider with great influence.
I don’t recall when my nails finally unlatch from the soap bar, or when I drop it. Or when the water washes cooler over me, the memory bringing ice to my veins.
Or when the memory consumes my every thought.
The next time the door opens, a stranger strides in. A stranger in a suit, which means he’s a powerful and rich man. Then I nearly scoff at myself for managing to put that together because of course he’s powerful and rich. Those are the only kind of people Papa deals with.
“Well.” A smooth, low voice carries through the dim room and embeds into my nervous system. “Look at you, little Miss Volkov. Merry Christmas to me.”
“Please,” I beg, tipping my head to study the stranger better. The head of dark hair, the dark eyes. He’s pure evil. The devil incarnate. D'yavol.
I beg, though I’m aware it’s useless. I beg, hoping there’s a fragment of goodness within him.
“That’s very cute. I like it when they plead.”
They. A million other horrors are buried within that single word.
He bears down on me.
His hand on my thigh.
His knife slicing my clothes away.
His own clothing landing on top of mine; there’s a symbolism there I despise.
His body weight coming on top of me.
His hands spreading my thighs.
His—
I’ll kill you, I mentally vow. One day, I will pay every thrust, every touch, every hot disgusting breath back tenfold.
He hums in my ear, trying to shatter the smidge of peace my death pact has created for itself. “Mm, I’ll never forget the feel of claiming your unused cunt for myself, Miss Volkov.”
When I took over as the Bratva’s leader, I vowed my promise would come true. For fifteen-year-old me, I will hunt Boris down. He will experience the same pain I did that day, being betrayed by my father, having freedom and choice robbed from me, and being tied to the bed and forced to take him inside me.
He raped me.
For the past two years, he’s evaded me, but Earth is only so large. I’ll find him, even if it takes my entire lifetime to do so.
When I do, he’ll understand what keeping the memory of my unused cunt really entails.