Chapter 1 Rise Of The Pakhan #2
Ivanov’s fist tightens, his eyes narrowing.
Scared that I’ve opened myself up to a beating, I let out a sigh of relief when he growls then yanks a gold chain from his pocket.
It looks like the same one from the photograph.
"He wore this yesterday. Before I took it.” His mouth curves into a cruel line.
“This man you see here… I am deciding his punishment for tomorrow. How severe it should be.”
He drops the chain into my hand. “Start talking.”
I close my fingers around the cold metal. Within seconds I’m bombarded with images and voices. I breathe through it, waiting for the chaos to settle, until the calm surrounds me and the past begins to play like a movie before my eyes.
The man from the photograph. He’s sitting across a table from men I don't recognize. They’re Lithuanian. Both of them. They mention a trip there. Attending a wedding. They're in a restaurant. Private booth in the back corner.
He opens a bag. Jewelry spills onto the table. Necklaces, rings, bracelets. He checks the stones. He’s interested in the diamonds. They’re negotiating prices. They’ve been doing this for months.
The images blur, fading as quickly as they came. The chain slips from my fingers, clattering onto the concrete. Grigori’s eyes remain glued to my face, waiting on his little songbird to sing.
"He's been stealing jewelry from your store,” I report back. My voice sounds distant, like I’m speaking from outside my body. “He’s selling them to a Lithuanian dealer."
I’m numb, wishing I could fade into nothingness like the images from my readings. "They meet in the backroom of a restaurant near a river. I can't see where it is.”
"I don’t care about the restaurant,” he snaps. “How long?"
I close my eyes, terrified to look at him. "About two months. They were planning to attend a wedding in Lithuania.”
"Wedding?” he barks, jerking his head back. “There will be only a funeral.” He throws a hand in the air. “I give this bastard work in my store, and this is how he repays me. He’s a dead man.”
I sit there on the cold concrete, forced to listen to his rants and threats. When I was a kid, I used to feel guilty hearing him say he was going to kill someone because of what I told him. Now… I don’t feel anything at all. Maybe I’m becoming like him. Like the Bratva.
I don’t get a break in between readings. He pulls out another picture from inside his jacket.
"My son.”
His blue eyes harden into ice as he drops the photo into my lap, just like before.
“Roman.”
The way he says his son’s name makes his hatred clear.
I stare at the picture. Roman looks nothing like the other man Grigori showed me.
For starters he’s young. I’d guess maybe thirty or younger.
He’s wearing a suit also; the background looks like some sort of fancy event.
This doesn’t surprise me. Bratva men love to pretend to be businessmen.
Some even donate to charity, like the Pakhan even though it’s all for show.
But his son…
I keep my breathing steady despite the shock.
Roman is so handsome. How is that possible?
I almost lift my head to compare him to Grigori then catch myself, remembering to keep my head down and focus on the picture.
Roman is tall and lean, built like someone who takes care of his body and the way he looks.
Not like the Pakhan who hides behind his expensive suits to appear respectable.
Roman’s dark-blonde hair reminds me of wet sand, but the scary thing about him and what I honestly can’t stop staring at, are his dark blue eyes. They’re identical to his father’s and even colder.
"What is he planning?"
My mouth goes dry, my palms misting with sweat. "I need something he touched."
"No." Ivanov leans forward, his tone hard, uncompromising. His eyes bore into mine. "You are lazy. You’re not trying hard enough.” He stabs a finger at the picture. “Now. Talk.”
My heart rate speeds up. I fight the urge to panic, tilting my head, pretending I’m trying something new. Anger radiates off him as he watches me.
"I see..." I close my eyes, making it up as I go. "He's dedicated to Volchya. He wants to maintain control of his territory. He’s facing challenges. Men questioning his authority."
Ivanov leans closer, intrigued. "Why would they question him? As much as I despise that dog, his brigade brings in the most money.”
My mind scrambles, searching for something close to the truth.
"Speak,” he roars.
"They question him because they know he doesn’t have your support,” I blurt out, still making things up. “He wants it.”
The Pakhan barks out a laugh. The sound makes my skin crawl. “Ah. Yes. Poor Roman. Son of an Australian whore I fucked almost thirty years ago. Thought I'd marry her for giving me a son. Thought herself special.”
I put this away in my memory, in case I can use it the next time I have to make things up. "Is he plotting against me?" His voice softens. His eyes glaze with the threat of murder. "Is that bastard son of mine planning to betray me?"
I swallow down a lump in my throat. I don’t need to touch anything to know the answer. I can’t explain it. Somehow, from that single photograph, I know, without a doubt, that Roman is plotting against his father.
I feel it as clearly as if my hands were on him. It radiates off and surrounds him. It’s also scary as heck, this feeling that washes over me, knowing so much about someone from just a picture.
I should tell Grigori. I’ve told him everything so far. I part my lips to do just that, when a voice inside my head begs me not to. Every instinct now screams at me to stay silent, clamp my mouth shut.
My heart threatens to beat through my chest when I see Grigori’s stare slicing into me, his patience wearing thin.
"No.” The word comes out smooth and steady as I lie to the Pakhan for the first time ever. Not only that, I make it worse by telling even more lies.
“He’s desperate for your approval,” I add. “He wants to prove himself. He thinks if he’s ruthless enough, strong enough, you’ll finally claim him as your son instead of your bastard.”
Grigori stares at me, searching my face for any sign of deception. I blink normally, I breathe normally and keep my face as normal as possible.
Finally, he laughs again. It’s harsher this time and reminds me of the villains in movies.
His laughter stops. "Blyad,” he growls, the Russian word comes out like a curse even though I don’t understand the meaning.
“He is a fool, thinking I would claim him. Roman, like you, is nothing but a tool. Only difference— he is an entitled piece of shit.”
He shoves out of his chair. I don’t have time to react or brace for his kick. It comes too fast. His boot slams into my ribs. I double over in pain, crying out. That doesn’t stop him from kicking me again. I curl into a ball, arms tight around my middle, fighting to breathe.
"Next week," he warns, looming over me. "I want better visions. Real information. Not this useless shit about my worthless son's feelings."
I hear his footsteps on the stairs and through the pain I’m vaguely aware of the door slamming.
The lock going back into place. I stay curled on the floor, arms wrapped around my ribs.
They feel broken, but I know they’re not.
After seven years, I know the difference.
They'll bruise and turn dark purple then black for a while. It’ll hurt to breathe, cough and move, but it will heal.
I’m not sure how long I lie there. I’m so numb and tired I don’t care. I close my eyes, unable to get over the fact that this is where I’ll die.
This basement will be the last thing I ever see. Grigori’s face might be the last face I ever see, and I hate that thought more than the pain. I hate that I’ll never feel the sun warm on my skin again. That I’ll never see the stars shining at night or inhale fresh air from outside again.
Worse, I’ll never see Kayla again, although I doubt she remembers me.
I’ll never ever have a life like everyone else.
I gasp in another breath, letting Roman Ivanov’s face surface in my mind.
I know I’ll never meet him. That’s okay.
Just knowing that somewhere in this city, there's another person who hates Grigori as much as I do brings a strange kind of comfort.
My only comfort.
Whatever Roman is planning probably won’t change anything. The Pakhan is too powerful.
In a sick way, I’m partly to blame. I helped make him that way.
Still…it’s the first positive thought I’ve had since I was eleven. I cling to it as I crawl to the mattress and let sleep, unconsciousness or death take me.
I don’t care which.