The Heir (Kiselyov Bratva #1)

Chapter One - EMMA

CHAPTER ONE

EMMA

“OH, SON OF a biscuit!” I mumble loudly to myself.

It’s been a long day, and once again, my key is stuck in the door of my apartment, refusing to allow me entry.

This happens more often than I would like due to the building so old.

I’m not sure when the last time it was updated, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was before I was born.

The building manager said he’d get around to fixing my lock, but I’m starting to believe he’s not going to do anything because it’s not a big enough problem for him.

I moved to Boston six months ago to be closer to my grandmother. Gran has been a big part of my life growing up, even though I grew up in upstate New York and she lived in Massachusetts.

Gran was supportive when I took a gap year after high school, and she took me to Ireland to see where she was born. She taught me her favorite family recipes, and now I can make them completely from memory. She always knew just how to make me laugh with a joke or a story about Grandpa.

My phone rings, and I'm almost grateful for the small break from trying to open my front door. I look at the caller ID and see it's my boss at the restaurant I work at.

“Hi, Boris. What’s up?” I ask him, still trying to unlock the door.

“Privet, Emma. I know you went to see your babushka today. How is she?” Boris asks.

This man has been my one friend since I moved to Boston.

He’s a lot like a grandpa, and cares like one, too.

He gave me a job when he found out I could speak Russian, and it’s nice to be able to use those skills so I don’t lose them.

“Not good. The doctors say there’s nothing more they can do for her.” I give up trying to open the door, focusing on my conversation with Boris.

“I’m so sorry, Emma. What do you need?” Boris asks.

“I know I’ll need tomorrow off, because I need to go look at hospice homes, if that’s okay,” I tell him.

“Done. You take care of your babushka. I will see you on Wednesday. You let me know if you need any more time off, and we’ll figure it out.”

“Thank you, Boris. I’m very appreciative. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” I hang up the phone and refocus my attention on my apartment door. I’m struggling to remove the key so I can try again, when I see my next door neighbor coming up to his own door.

“Need help with your door, Emma?” Patrick asks, his Irish accent coming through.

“Could you? The key is stuck again, and it’s been a pretty crap day.” Patrick walks over to grab the key from my hand. Not only does Patrick have an accent nice to listen to, but the man has the most beautiful pair of blue eyes you could get completely lost in. He smells good, too.

“Here you are then,” he says as he slides they key in the lock and effortlessly opens my apartment door.

“Thanks,” I reply, trying not to let him see the blush that is slowly spreading across my cheeks. Patrick returns to his own apartment as he tells me to enjoy the weekend. I close my door behind me and lock it before sinking onto the couch.

Looking around the tiny space, I keep asking myself how I got to this point in my life.

A year ago, I was finishing up my junior year in college and planning a trip with my parents.

Then my mom suddenly became ill, and passed away within a month.

Two months after that, my father was killed in a car crash.

It was a hit and run that left me completely alone except for Gran.

By the time all the bills were paid, there wasn’t enough left to pay for school, so I had to drop out.

Now I work as a waitress and live in a tiny apartment with a wonky lock, but at least it’s cheap.

Gran’s been sick for a while after developing vascular dementia several years ago.

It came on so gradually that we just figured it was part of her growing older.

Then she had a fall, and injured her back and arm.

She didn’t hit her head, but her mobility was impaired so my parents placed her in an assisted living facility that also had a memory care unit.

She declined even further after my parents died, and had another fall last month when she tried to go to the bathroom by herself.

It was hard to see her go from being able to do things to seeing her need help to eat and drink.

Today, the doctors told me there’s nothing more they can do for her.

She wouldn’t survive any kind of surgery.

The doctor’s exact words were, “You need to prepare yourself.”

Needing some time to wallow in my feelings after the news today, I cuddle up on the couch with my favorite blanket, my leftovers from work, and my favorite show on my laptop.

My laptop is my lifeline. It keeps me entertained with streaming services, and I’ve used it for digital journaling since I lost my parents.

It’s not long before I hear loud noises and thumping from next door at Patrick’s place.

It doesn’t happen very often, so I don’t usually worry about it.

I asked Patrick about it once, and he told me he has friends over that are very enthusiastic video game players and football fans.

It’s Sunday night, so I know there’s a football game on TV.

I get it. Everyone needs something to be passionate about and de-stress with.

That’s what journaling and cooking do for me, sometimes even reading.

I put on my headphones to block out the noises coming from next door, and return my focus to my show and my food. Tonight is for feeling my feelings in privacy and comfort. I need to be a little bit sad before I can figure out what to do next.

I feel like life is taking me down a road where I’ll have to make some hard decisions that affect more than just me. I’m losing my Gran, and that breaks my heart. My parents are gone, and I don’t have help. I’m going to be alone.

I let the tears fall to get it all out, and then take a shower with one of my favorite shower steamers, and wash off the stress of the day. I put on my comfy pajama and crawl into bed.

Tomorrow I’ll try again for a good day.