67. Octavia
The metal gates gleam beneath the setting sun. An engine fires up at my back, the rumble fading away as my final ally drives off. The air is warm and sticky, promising a cloying night ahead.
I wonder if Mom’s body is still trapped somewhere on this property that she hated so much.
Dad said Popov claimed the corpse, something that seemed to bother him greatly in that stoic way of his.
He never told me the details of how she was found, only that she was found, and there was no question about the nature of her demise.
Their gates are thicker than ours—so much so that it’s difficult to make out the sprawling mansion behind. I’m also not alone. A collection of large men stands in front of the sealed metal, glaring at me with pure vitriol. One’s gaze drops down to my dress, his lips flattening.
I was instructed to come dressed for a wedding, but I’m in mourning, after all.
Surely, white would be in poor taste. My black dress hangs to my ankles, fluttering around the two slits that open on either side of my thighs as I step.
Unrestrained movement. Easy access. My hair is pinned into a bun at the top of my head.
I’d have preferred to wear Vasiliy’s princess braids, but needs must.
“Step forward,” one of them barks, hand brushing the gun bulging beneath his belt. “Arms out.”
My brow quirks up, but I comply. A drop of sweat glides down my extended arms from the humid heat.
It’s a difficult feat to maintain my regulated breathing when they swarm me.
Rough touches shove me in every direction, roving over my skin.
My gaze stays trained between the gate’s bars as those hands rove lower, trailing down each leg until they snag on the holster beneath.
A huff of laughter blows out above me. One of them rips off the leather, taking the knife with its sheath.
“Come along,” the same man says, pushing a button on the small device in his palm. A high-pitched screech is the only warning I get before the gates grind open, allowing us passage.
The walk into the compound is tense and populated.
If Vasiliy hadn’t managed to extract the quantity of their forces beforehand, I’d be far more thrown by the impossible number of faces milling about inside.
I know we have nearly the same amount, but seeing all of the bodies and weapons hanging around on this side of the fence still sends my blood pressure skyrocketing.
Motionless snipers are perched on the roof and across the gates’ pillars.
We have a plan.
We can take them.
A hundred eyes find my spine as we walk through the stone courtyard.
Where the Siderov compound is gothic and structural, Popov’s looks far more opulent.
The windows are sheets of glittering glass that display the grand furniture inside.
In the current circumstances, the aesthetic feels like a taunt. We come to a stop.
When the massive door swings open, I’m prepared to meet a face that shares my features.
But the man waiting inside couldn’t be older than forty-five.
His skin is a shade even paler than mine, covered in healed nicks and scars where his folded button-down displays it. His light brown hair is cropped close to his skull in the same fashion most Bratva soldiers share, but there’s something in his attentive gaze that reeks of hubris above that rank.
I stay still in the doorway, forcing him to approach me.
“You are late.”
By fifteen minutes. “I’m sorry. I wanted to look my best for such a momentous occasion.”
His gaze swings down my form with such ownership that I develop a theory about who I’m dealing with.
“Indeed.” He steps close enough for me to breathe the cigar smoke soaked into his clothes. “We’ll have dinner before our ceremony.”
So this is the man I’m scheduled to marry. My grandfather’s lead enforcer.
“What about my cousin? When will you release him?”
A low laugh. “Gifts come after the wedding, doll.”
I expect the deflection. Luckily for us, Mom’s diagrams also confirmed the location of their cells. If everything goes well, Vasiliy won’t need to go searching to locate Kirill.
“What do I call you?” I ask, folding my hands behind my back.
I’m not prepared for the hand that snaps out to grab my hair, pulled back in a tight bun. True fear freezes over my skin, mixing with old memories. I stumble forward, dragged so close that his chest meets mine.
“My name is Boris, but you will call me sir. You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you, Annika?”
I meet his gaze, pressing breath through my rattling ribcage. “No, sir.”
He smiles at the honorific. “You’re so tiny, aren’t you? I can’t wait to break you, little doll.”
I don’t dare move a muscle. Not with his hand still wrapped around my bun, pressing my skull back at an awkward angle. When I don’t respond, he finally releases his grip, allowing me to stumble backwards.
“I’m so glad we understand each other,” he drawls, stepping back to my side. “Now, let’s go enjoy our ceremonial meal.”
His bruising grip around my arm forces me onward, and I take in each room of the house I spent so many hours studying from afar. My face fixes in a panicked expression, completely at odds with the bloodthirst beneath.
Curtain up.