Rise of the Pakhan

Chapter 1 Rise Of The Pakhan

RISE OF THE PAKHAN

NALA

Day one million.

Or maybe a billion.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Especially my crappy skills at counting or keeping track of how long I’ve been trapped in this basement. I roll onto my back, telling myself I should be used to it by now.

The creaking of the pipes along the wall from the cold that never seems to go away. The stale air from the lack of windows, meant to keep me imprisoned. I should be used to counting cracks in the concrete floor to help get rid of the boredom that never goes away.

I tilt my head and squint my eyes. At the right angle, the cracks look like rivers on a map. I trace them with my eyes, then close them, imagining I’m somewhere else, drifting on water instead of lying here.

Footsteps pound on the ceiling above me. My eyes snap open and my heart jumps, racing wild.

It’s Tuesday.

The girls upstairs must be hurrying, trying to avoid Madam Belova’s temper. There’s no other reason. This isn’t one of the days they rush to greet the men who come and go at all hours.

Not that I’ve ever seen the men. But I know what happens up there in the brothel. I know because Madam Belova, the one in charge, grumbles and curses me multiple times a week in her broken English. She says the Pakhan should put me to work upstairs, instead of trying to get me to read minds.

I wish he would.

I don’t care what I’d have to do up there, as long as I could leave this basement I’ve been trapped in for seven years.

Maybe up there I could find a way to escape or kill myself, instead of spending the rest of my life helping the boss of the Volchya Bratva, fend of threats and destroy his enemies.

I turn onto my side again, forcing my breathing to slow down. I remind myself that I do this every week. I’ll get through it. I just say what I see, try not to upset Grigori Ivanov and the worst that will happen is I’ll get beaten.

I don’t know how long I lie with my legs drawn to my chest, preparing myself.

Down here, time doesn’t exist. There’s no clock or calendar.

Nothing except for the mattress on the floor I'm lying on, a small bathroom with a toilet, a sink and a narrow shower that gets harder to fit into, as my body keeps changing.

And it has changed. A lot.

I don’t know what’s normal anymore. I don’t know much of anything and I’m not even a hundred percent sure about my age. I think I’m eighteen. If not, then I’m almost eighteen.

All I know is, since the day I woke up on this mattress, I’ve counted seven New Year's Eve celebrations upstairs. The first two years, I wasn’t sure what all the noise was about. It didn’t take long to realize it was always the same. Every single year.

Unlike now.

There’s no more running. Not a peep from upstairs, meaning, Grigori Ivanov will be here soon.

This is the routine every time the man behind nearly every dirty deal in Moscow comes to visit. The same man who ordered the killing of my family in New York and keeps me locked down here.

I sit up slowly, careful not to stretch the skin along my side that’s still healing after another encounter with the Pakhan’s belt buckle. The older he gets, the more paranoid he becomes, raging when I don’t confirm his suspicions about people.

I don’t know what to do anymore because whenever Grigori gets angry, I get hurt and threatened with my sister’s life. I also get starved. The last part is Madam Belova’s favorite—denying me food and water.

I lick my lips, suddenly aware of how dry they feel. Yesterday morning was the last time I had water. Sometimes it gets so bad, my lips crack and bleed. When that happens, eating becomes really painful. I touch them with my fingertip, relieved they still feel okay. Thank goodness.

Any minute now, Madam Belova will come down the stairs with a tray of food. She does so on Tuesdays, before the Pakhan arrives. I don’t know why. It’s not like he cares if I’m starving, all he cares about is that I’m awake enough to tell him what he wants to hear.

Right on cue, I hear her heels on the stairs. I watch her as she comes down. I’ve tried to figure out her age, but it’s hard to tell. Although her hair is black without any strands of gray, her mouth and cheeks are lined with wrinkles. In a way, she reminds me of my fifth-grade teacher.

The only difference is, Mrs. Marlow was really kind. She used to give me compliments in class even when I got the answer wrong, which happened a lot.

Madam Belova stops at the bottom of the stairs, her usual spot. She never comes closer, never near enough for me to touch her. I think she’s afraid of what I might see if I did. Understandable since she’s a horrible person.

"Here is food." Her accent is very thick, so much that I used to struggle to understand her. Not anymore. I’ve gotten used to how she pronounces her words.

"Eat now. Don’t make trouble, chernomazaya."

I hate when she calls me that. I don’t know exactly what it means, but I know it has to do with my skin color. I can tell by the way she looks me up and down, curling her lips every time she says it.

I don’t talk back no matter how much it burns me up. I’m powerless down here and reacting will only get me spat on or punished with even less food than I already get.

I look at the bowl in the center of the tray.

It’s some sort of porridge again. Pale, thick and gluey enough to turn my stomach even though I’m starving.

I want to eat. I really do, but I can’t swallow another spoonful of it.

I’ve been eating this stuff for weeks. My stomach seems to not care, churning and twisting in on itself, begging for food. I don’t care. I won’t eat it.

Maybe this is how death from starvation begins. I hope so. If I can push through the hunger pangs, maybe I’ll stop feeling anything and just never wake up one morning. The thought makes me smile inside my head. I’d never do that in front of Madam Belova; it would get her too angry.

“No eat?” She gestures at the tray as she starts backing up the stairs. “Too good for my food?”

I stay silent, not letting her goad me into reacting. She glares at me and keeps going. At the door, hand on the handle, she turns back. Her red lips carve into a snarl. "Think you're special. Because Grigori Ivanov sees you.”

She frowns, pointing a finger at me. “You…not special. You…nothing but black bitch with party trick.”

She nudges her chin toward the ceiling. “Soon, you work upstairs. All kinds of men. Bratva men.” Her smile stretches wider. “Girl like you. Bad attitude. Used. Then—” She slices a finger across her throat, mimicking a knife.

She fixes her gaze on me, nodding to herself as if she’s already picturing my death at the hands of those men and loves the image. She opens the door, closes it again and locks it.

I try not to think about what she said. Bratva. Or rather, Volchya Bratva.

Killers and extortionists. They’re the men who control Moscow, using legitimate businesses as fronts for their illegal activities.

These are also some of the men I’m forced to monitor for the Pakhan, using my gift to see past events, intentions and things people try to hide.

I also know a lot of people die because of what I tell him.

It’s not my fault.

It isn’t, I remind myself. It can’t be. For seven years, Grigori Ivanov made sure I understood that if I didn’t cooperate, it wouldn’t be me who truly suffered. It would be my little sister, Kayla.

The last time I saw her was the day my family drove me to the airport for my school trip to London. She was nine at the time. She was the same age when my parents were murdered.

All because of me. Me and my stupid gift that I wish I could give back to whoever, whatever gave it to me.

Grigori Ivanov spared my sister’s life, so he’d always have a weapon to use against me. And like a puppet, I tell him everything he wants to know. I always do and I will again when he comes down the stairs. Any minute now.

I don’t have to wait long. Outside the door, I hear voices. My stomach clenches, this time not from hunger. My heartbeat kicks up, racing now. It’s him.

The door swings open. I close my eyes, inhaling a slow breath, trying to calm myself, my heartbeat and my nerves.

This man terrifies me. Even after all these years, the closer he gets, the more it feels like I’m about to vomit.

I force my eyes open, afraid to anger him if I look away. He’ll see it as a sign of disrespect.

He comes down the stairs, his broad shoulders and stomach poking out in what looks like an expensive suit. Grigori’s an ex-KGB agent who inherited the title of Pakhan from his uncle, a founder of Volchya.

The man coming to stand before me is powerful, deranged and extremely paranoid.

"Nala."

He says my name without sparing a glance at me, stepping over the untouched bowl of porridge as he heads for the wooden chair in the corner. I’m never allowed to sit in that chair.

My legs wobble as I stand. I can’t tell if it’s from fear or hunger.

"Sit.”

I lower myself onto the cold concrete floor, right at his feet. My usual spot. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a photo, dropping it onto my lap like he's tossing scraps to a dog.

"Tell me about this man."

I pick it up.

It’s someone I’ve never seen before in my past readings. He looks around Grigori’s age— mid-fifties and balding. He’s also wearing a suit similar to the Pakhan’s, a thick gold chain around his neck.

"I need to touch him," I say quietly, hoping it won’t set him off. "Something he recently touched.”

The Pakhan knows my gift can’t work from a picture alone.

This is the second time he’s tried to push me to read that way, knowing full well I need to be close to the person.

I can’t get a clear reading if I can’t grasp something that carries the person’s energy.

That’s the only way I can explain how my gift works, because I don’t even understand how I’m able to see and hear the things I do.