48. Octavia
Red.
Everything is red.
My palms stick and slide through the folds of an expensive button-down shirt, desperate to find the source of the leak.
I think someone calls out my name. I don’t turn.
My father’s tanned skin has paled to a horrifying ashy color, and his green eyes flare as they struggle to remain open.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, gripping the gap between two buttons and tearing the shirt open.
“Are…are we…clear?” he chokes out.
“Yes! Yes, we’re clear, and help is on the way.”
My fingers tremble in terror as I look down at several shot wounds lodged in his chest.
He was blocking me from the gunfire.
“No,” I press down on the wounds as best I can. “We need a doctor! A-a-ambulance. Someone find me an ambulance!”
But a cool hand brushes mine through the blood.
“It’s okay, love.” The words are a rasp between wet coughs.
“No.” None of this is okay. “I just found you.” My fingers grip the fabric of his shirt as though I can physically tether his soul to mine. “We’ll get you to the hospital. They’ll patch you up.”
I can’t tell who I’m lying to. I just know it’s the only acceptable outcome.
I’ll take nothing less. This is just like all those times Vasiliy got thrown back into the cage after an interrogation. It looks really scary, but he’ll bounce back. He always bounced back.
“I’m so…” he coughs. More blood. I tilt him to his side, desperate to help clear his airway. Too many problems. Not enough time. “Proud of you…” His chest only grows damper beneath my fingers. “I’m glad…I played the long…game.”
“Stop!” I cry. “Don’t say that. Help is coming, Dad. We’ll get you hel—”
He hushes me with a raspy sound.
His face blurs beneath my tears. I need him to fight!
“I…love you.” Another strained inhale. “More than…”
No. No! How dare he give up? I thought Siderovs were supposed to bend, not break! I’m about to start screaming in his face when his fingers squeeze my palm.
His sight stiffens, drifting somewhere behind me.
I wait for him to whisper something else. I wait for another cough or a choke.
But nothing comes.
I stay on the floor for a long time.
Minutes?
Hours, maybe.
The sun drifts down.
His eyes move.
No, they are moved.
I’m still clutching his hand when Alex kneels to shut his brother’s glassy eyes. A strangled noise leaves my throat as he does. I’m restless. My knees haven’t stopped bouncing since I learned that Vasiliy left.
Hours ago. That revelation came hours ago, in a different reality.
“Octavia?”
Alex’s voice spurs me back. I glare up at the man who’s only ever offered me smiles and jokes.
“Where were you?”
He blinks. His wrecked expression almost summons my pity. Almost.
“Where. Were. You?” I take care not to rattle my hand in my anger. Dad’s stiff fingers still press into mine. “He needed you. Where were you?” My voice breaks this time, a sob consuming the final word.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, as if his apology means anything. “I—”
“Stop it!” Ben snaps at me, suddenly appearing at his father’s back. “You are not the only one affected!”
But I’m angry with him, too. All these men who train and shoot every day. Where the hell were they when we needed them? I would punch my cousin in the face if it didn’t require me to let go.
“I’m so sorry,” Uncle Alex says, ghosting his hand over my shaking legs. “You’re right. I failed him. I-I failed everyone.”
“We’ll get him back, Dad,” Ben says in a far gentler tone than the one he used with me.
We’ll get him back?
I glance down. The body stopped leaking blood some time ago. His limbs are stiff. His eyes have been shut.
“Who else?” I barely recognize the empty rasp of my own voice. It sounds like another woman uttered the words.
Alex’s gaze pinches, so I turn to Ben for an answer instead. He’s wearing a pressed, white dress shirt, and his beard and mustache are perfectly trimmed. Something about it makes me want to punch him all the more. But then he says the words that rewire my mind.
“They’ve taken Kirill.”
No.
The buzzing bumps up a few octaves in my eardrums. Kirill. Grinning, troublesome Kirill, who hates to fight without his knives and brightens every room.
“Popov?” I ask, somehow managing an even tone.
Ben nods once. “He wants our territory. He’ll probably send a messenger to relay the conditions of his release.”
I shake my head. “It’s a farce. He’ll kill us all either way.”
“I know,” Alex whispers beside us, wiping a palm over his eyes. “But he’s my son. I can’t do nothing.”
No. We can’t do nothing.
I’m surrounded by bodies. Corpses that I hadn’t even noticed while I sat here on the floor.
It doesn’t make any sense. My dad is a terrifying Bratva kingpin.
His body is not supposed to blend into the carnage.
He’s not one of the many. I wipe my damp palms against my pants as I rise. As I let go of Dad’s hand.
“And we can’t launch the first attack?” I question, checking the chamber of my sidearm. Empty. I toss the useless weapon onto the hall carpet and reach for the other still tucked in my belt.
“We only have twenty or so uninjured men to their hundred,” Alex says. He rubs his skull, as if every word pains him. “They wiped out our immediate forces on their way into the compound.”
I glance around. Everyone remaining has gathered here.
The hall feels incredibly small with so many people, but it doesn’t take long to note the massive dent in our forces.
Blood streaks pale faces. Arms are being bandaged.
None of the men from my group is among the injured.
No, they’re all splayed across the floor.
There’s only one other woman present. Aunt Juliet sobs in the far corner while Maksim and Nik console her, whispering words I can’t make out. Alex’s gaze keeps flicking back to his wife and boys, as if he’s torn between comforting them and me. I regret yelling at him.
“Do we have any allies at our disposal?”
“Sasha reached out to our old allies when we found your name on the hit list,” Alex responds hopelessly. “None of them came through for him. I doubt they’d come through for us.”
All I can see is the bright-eyed boy who gave me my first cigarette. The first to accept me into his family with open arms and optimistic jokes. And now he’s taken, suffering a fate you know all too well.
“Well, how do we find more, then?”
No one answers my question. In fact, none of our men will even meet my gaze. I look around, finding nothing but defeat and doubt. Dad’s body lies at their feet, not yet cold, and they want to sit with their loss? My cousin, a kid they all helped raise, is suffering in our enemy’s hands!
Ben’s the one who steps forward. “You don’t have to worry about this,” he says thickly. “You had a major loss, Octavia. You deserve time to mourn.”
My next swallow goes down like a jagged stone. “Right now, I’m far more interested in making sure we don’t have another name to mourn.”
The sharp scent of blood hangs in the air.
“Octavia,” Ben repeats more forcefully. “I love you, but you are not useful in these types of negotiations. Your time is best spent with your father, saying goodbye. The Bratva will be in good hands—”
“You mean my Bratva?” I snap, stepping up to Ben. I feel the burn of gazes leap onto the two of us as my statement lands. “I am the heir to the Siderov Bratva, am I not?”
The only sound in the room is my aunt’s stifled cry as she leans into Maksim and Nik’s arms. Someone must have cracked a window in an effort to air out the cloying smell of death, because a night breeze whispers through the hall. The decorative window drapes slap with the wind.
I wish Vasiliy were here…
“You are not,” a voice cuts in from my left.
I recognize the face, but his name is lost to me at the moment. He’s one of the largest in the group, with a buzz-cut and bushy eyebrows that pull down with irritation.
“If Ben’s too much of a pussy to state the obvious, then I will. Pakhan is a title passed from man to man. Until you are married, the next person in line to lead is your cousin or uncle.”
I glance over to Ben, waiting for him to refute the soldier’s claim. He never does.
No one’s coming to save you.
I thought people were supposed to look peaceful in death.
Dad doesn’t look peaceful. Maybe that doesn’t apply to bodies that are pumped full of lead and bullets.
His normally tan skin is a sluggish, blue hue beneath the ceiling lights.
There’s so much blood I can barely make out his final expression beneath.
I wish I remembered. Why didn’t I try to memorize it?
Words repeat in my mind, still so crisp and clear from our chess match.
Examine the board, love.
Rage bathes my grief.
I wipe the wetness from my cheeks. My back is bare and unguarded. Twenty-something men remain, all looking for a sign of strength to stand behind. They communicate through violence and sacrifice.
My thumb brushes cool metal. I’m happy to supply both.
The man who spoke doesn’t have a second to flinch before my shots sing through the air.
One in the head.
Two in the chest.
All three bullets meet their marks. His body topples to the floor with a thunk that shakes the room.
“Octavia!” Ben yells.
“What—” Another voice gasps out, stepping forward. “What have you done?”
Now, this man, I remember all too well. Paxton.
I’ve avoided him ever since the incident in the hall, when I overheard their lewd discussion on whether fucking me was worth the title.
I didn’t tell anyone what they said that day.
Back then, there were so many people who would jump to defend me.
So many who cared about trivial things like my honor and my feelings.
His fist twitches, a subtle movement nearly lost in the group’s shock. My left heel shifts back just as quietly.
I’m not surprised when he charges me. Alex shouts out, too far away to intercept.
Too close to draw my gun.
I let him come, waiting until his fist extends in a brutal hook before dipping beneath his arm. My elbow catches around his throat in an offensive move I’ve practiced more times than I can count. He’s already crashing to the carpet when I twist, my thighs locking the cradle of his hips.
I’m so used to sparring with Vas. It’s surreal to transfer the moves onto another person’s anatomy. He squirms wildly as I press my barrel between his wide eyes and squeeze the trigger.
Blood sprays my lips.
This is where the guilt should pour in. This is the part where I gasp out and beg for forgiveness. Where I fling my gun aside in horror.
But all I do is lick the salty substance from my lips.
That part of my mind flickers off entirely when I climb to my feet. No one has ever looked at me like they all are now. It’s a twitchy silence, split between rage and fear.
“Trust me,” I say. “You do not want an enemy like me.”
Fear is a beautiful thing, and I see it reflected throughout the room everywhere I look. I’m disappointed when my tongue flicks out, and my lips are clean. I want more of that salty taste. I want blood more than I want air. I want death.
“Hey!”
I flip around to Ben. My other cousins are stiff, blocking their mother from the violence.
“We need more men, Octavia. Not less! You can’t kill your way into domination!”
Domination is earned.
“Perhaps you would like to challenge me yourself?” I ask, facing Ben, Glock hanging at my side. That spotless fucking dress shirt. He stays clean, while I only get bloodier. “Maybe you’d like to spill my blood beside my father’s? Shame you didn’t even wait for it to cool—”
“Enough,” Alex interrupts, pushing his son back. “This is not what he would have wanted. You all ought to be ashamed of yourselves!”
Ben’s gaze lowers in quiet deference to his father. Him, he respects. Him, he’ll listen to.
My lips pull in a skeptical frown as Alex turns to me.
“I will honor your claim, Octavia. As will everyone else in this room who still has a shred of loyalty pumping through their veins.”
No one contradicts him. It’s not agreement that causes the static silence to settle back over the room. More like a temporary rank has been reestablished. I wonder how long it will last.
Time blurs into one of those moments that stretches like a rubber band, building tension until the snap.
“How long will it take to prep the jet?” I ask, turning on my heel.
I don’t let myself think about the distance growing between my body and the empty shell lying on the carpet.
“What?” Alex gasps in bewilderment. “Where are we going?”
I don’t look back when I answer.
“New York.”