The Pakhan’s Heir (Empire of Blood #1)

1. Nona

NONA

The worst thing about spring in New York is that the diesel and trash smells mix with the smell of rain in the worst way.

The moment I step off the plane, the stench greets me like a smelly, long-lost relative.

It’s strange how one can leave the state for a while and forget, then as soon as the smell greets you on your first few steps through the airport, it’s like, Oh!

This is home. It’s just weird how being away from home for half a year caused my mind to conveniently forget the sounds and smells of the city I’ve lived my entire life in.

I’m walking through the airport, dragging my bag behind me, catching my reflection in the mirrored glass, looking out over the tarmac.

I’ve lost weight since I first started school.

Not too much, but enough for me to notice these jeans riding loosely on my hips as I walk.

At the moment, I’ve got my long red hair up in a braided ponytail in an effort to hide how dull and lifeless it looks right now.

My skin’s not doing too good either, for that matter.

I have to stop as I catch myself in the reflective morning sunlight.

My soft, pale skin feels oily from the long plane ride and in the shine of the glass windows I pass, I look less like a human and more like a shined-up porcelain doll.

I’ll just be glad to get back home and take a shower.

I start thinking about the text I sent to Papa weeks ago about my arrival.

At the time, he texted back a canned response.

Something like, “Good! It’ll be great to see you.

” I swear, if I didn’t know for a fact that my father would sooner kill everyone around him than let anyone near his phone, I’d think that one of his people sent the text instead.

I have a stinging memory of the one time I had mistaken his phone for mine that still rings in my ears if I think too long about it.

I never check my bag, so I won’t have to go the extra route toward the luggage check.

I hate standing there like an idiot waiting for my bag to come rolling along on that conveyor belt and hoping beyond hope that it comes back to me in one piece.

The last time I actually did check a bag was when I went on a high school trip to Italy.

The airport lost it for three days and I thought Papa was going to blow the entire airport up.

In fact, I’m pretty sure that he’d threatened to do so as he screamed at the attendants over the phone.

It was a good thing they couldn’t understand Russian.

But all that said, I haven’t heard from him since I sent that text weeks ago, which…

I suppose isn’t terribly unusual. He’s a busy man, after all.

I only hope that when I show up in a cab, he won’t be too surprised to see me.

In the meantime, I’m walking around JFK, maneuvering around small clusters of families gathering to wait for incoming parents, children, cousins, or whatever loved ones from the flight I’d just left.

I spot the Rent-a-car stand a few yards away.

Too bad I’m not yet old enough to just rent a car.

If only I could just get into my own car and traverse the New York traffic to Manhattan without having to worry about some cab driver looking to take me the long way around to jack up his fare.

In fact… I stop walking and pull out my phone, looking at my car service app. There is always this option.

“Hey, Nona.” I look up from my phone to see one of my father’s men standing in one of the doors leading outside. I know him, I think. Well, I know his face. His name, however, eludes me. Boris? No. Mikhail… ?

All I actually do know is that he’s one of Papa’s enforcers. He’s just standing there in the doorway, blocking anyone from going through it, a scowl on his face, his low, sloping and lined forehead digging even deeper lines as he nods in my direction.

“Let’s go,” he says in Russian.

I shove my phone in my pocket and follow him outside. Guess Papa did remember I was coming in, after all. Outside, he leads me to the car—a sleek, black luxury deal sitting in the pickup zone… with three more of my dad’s men sitting inside.

My bag is taken and put into the trunk. At the same time, the back door opens and one of the three men steps out, holding the door open for me.

“Welcome home,” the one holding the door says.

Some welcome. I give him a tight smile and slide into the back seat.

He follows, squeezing me in the center between him and another of Papa’s men.

The first one’s done with my bags and is getting in on the passenger’s side.

“Is this really necessary?” I say tentatively.

“I mean, it doesn’t take four people to pick me up. ”

“It does right now,” the first one says. “Dangerous times we’re living in.”

And that’s the only explanation I’m going to get.

I lean back in my seat and do my best to squeeze my arms closer to my body so as not to touch the other two men on either side.

As the car pulls off, a vague memory pops into my mind.

Sometime when I was younger—very young, too young for my feet to reach the floor of the back seat, I had to travel this way.

It’s only happened a couple of times, but everywhere I went for a few months, whether it was school or to a friend’s house, I had to have several bodyguards around me when I traveled.

Never got an explanation for that. But back then, I was in grade school. I don’t know what explanation Papa could have given me had I asked. And besides, I had been told never to talk about what he did for a living. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I got to know the truth.

So, I hope there’s an explanation when I get home.

“Dochurka! Come here. Let me look at you in the light.”

He’s standing in the door as I step off the elevator.

Funny how time doesn’t ever change him very much.

He’s wearing a nice dress shirt and slacks and his snow white beard is neatly trimmed, but his silver hair, which is almost always a little too long on top, is swept to one side and has a messy, but organized look about it.

He smiles at me warmly, his thin face brightening the moment he sees me.

He holds out his arms, and I rush over to him and throw myself in them.

“I thought you forgot,” I say. He hugs me back for a moment, and I feel one of his hands let me go for a second.

I look around just in time to see him gesturing to his men.

Get her bags and bring them inside, he says without speaking.

He turns me around, looking me over before putting his arm around my shoulders.

“How was your flight?” he asks me as we walk into the foyer. “Good, I hope.”

I take a half-second to enjoy the smell of my father’s cologne mixed with the faint antiseptic smell of the marble floors under our feet.

The apartment looks remarkably the same as it did before I went off to school.

The foyer, then the dining room with the black lacquer table and high-backed chairs, one of two crystal chandeliers hanging above.

The living room off to my left, the metal stairs leading up to his bedroom and to mine somewhere off toward the back of the house.

It’s extravagant, but it’s my home. I smile at my father and say, “It was okay. Stewardess was a little rude, but otherwise…” I give him a shrug.

“That happens sometimes,” he says as he beams and pulls me close. “I’m just glad you’re here. Come on, I’ve got blueberry pie for you in the kitchen.”

Of course he does. It’s my favorite treat.

He leads me to the kitchen and I see the pie sitting on the counter, two plates stacked one on top of the other and silver forks sitting neatly on napkins next to them. I sit down on a stool right in front of the pie as he retrieves the ice cream from the freezer.

Everything kind of falls out of my head as he serves up the blueberry pie and ice cream. At least it does until one of my father’s men comes walking into the kitchen.

“Sir,” he says, “Where do you want the suitcase?”

“Put it in her room, idiot,” he says in terse Russian. His man doesn’t even respond. He just nods and backs out of the kitchen.

“Papa?”

“Yes, my darling daughter.”

“Is everything all right around here?” He starts cutting the pie and slows down a little, his smile fading. “I mean, you used four of your guys to pick me up. You haven’t done that since I was little.”

He sighs and puts a piece of pie on my plate, handing it to me, then he cuts himself a slice. “Must we talk business so soon?” he says. “I’d rather hear about your studies.”

That’s bullshit, actually. All he cares about is whether or not I’m doing well. Anything outside of that, he’s not particularly interested in. “I’m doing all right,” I tell him, feeding him the line he’s looking for. “And you’re changing the subject.”

He sighs again as he pulls an ice cream scooper out of the drawer. I’ve noticed that he hasn’t looked directly at me since I brought this up. Oh, boy. Whatever is going on, it must be big.

“Is everything okay?” I ask as my stomach flutters nervously.

“Everything is fine,” he says, and I know immediately that it’s a lie. “Things are a little tense around town. I was just taking some extra measures, that’s all.”

“Extra measures.” Uh-oh. That could mean a lot of things. He scoops out the ice cream and puts it on both our plates of pie, then joins me at the table. “Am I… are we in danger?”

He shovels a big forkful of pie into his mouth and shakes his head. “No,” he says through a mouthful. “I will just have someone chaperone you for maybe a week or two, while you’re home. It’s no big deal.”

If I were to listen to just his tone, I might believe him.

He has a way of speaking when he doesn’t want to let me know that something is very wrong.

Kind of like how a person talks to a dog when they don’t want them to know they’re going to the vet instead of a walk.

It’s a little too soft and a little too casual.

But… I have to take that explanation. Pushing the issue isn’t worth breaking up this moment. After all, I just got here. Better to keep things friendly for now.

The sound of men talking wakes me. The low voices rumble against the floor and the walls.

No one’s shouting or arguing. I don’t think they are, anyway. I sit up in bed and rub my eyes, then I look over at my phone charging on my nightstand. It’s after midnight. Who could Papa be meeting with at this hour?

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and pad toward the door. As soon as I put my hand on the doorknob, an inexplicable rush of fear shoots through me.

Something in me is telling me to go back to bed. Ignore the talking. It doesn’t concern me. I should do exactly that, too. Go back to bed, back to sleep. Everything’s fine, just like Papa said earlier.

I don’t really want to, though. The way my father brushed me off in the kitchen about why four of his men had to escort me home hasn’t sat well with me.

I could sneak down to his office and listen in, be back upstairs before he even knew I was there. I’ve done it hundreds of times when I was younger, and most of the time, I didn’t get caught.

Just five minutes of a conversation. Long enough for me to hear who Papa is talking to.

I leave my bedroom and walk on tiptoes to the stairs. I can hear their voices echo down the hallway leading to my father’s office. Carefully, I walk down the stairs and across the floor toward his closed office door.

I walk up to it and press my ear against the wood, listening. My father’s laughing.

“Fedor, I tell you,” he says, “we could solve a lot of problems this way. I see only benefits to our ending this whole thing.”

This whole thing. That must be what my father meant by nothing. If ‘Fedor’ is the Fedor I’m thinking of, then there must be some conflict or a war or something. Fedor Molotov and my father have been rivals since I was a little girl.

“It’s tempting,” I hear Fedor say. “We still have quite a bit to negotiate, though. I’ll have to speak with Alexandr, my other men. Contingencies will need to be made.”

“Everything can be negotiated,” my father says. “But you must agree, given your son’s disposition, this is the best solution. For us both.”

“Hmm. I can’t deny that. It’s a little archaic… but this is the kind of unity that would solve many of the conflicts between our families.”

I could jump for joy. Fedor Molotov has been a thorn in my father’s paw for ages. It’s about time they started talking peace…

The door opens suddenly, and I’m staring up at my father, the light from the office bringing shadows over his face. I stand up quickly and take several steps back as Papa stares at me, his eyes as black as night.

“Fedor,” he says without looking back, “let’s talk about this tomorrow, shall we?”

“Good idea,” I hear behind him. “I will call you.”

He steps out of the office and spots me. For just a moment, he looks me over, his deep amber eyes scanning me quickly.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says to my father and leaves.

My father doesn’t move or even acknowledge him. We both stand staring at one another as Fedor’s footsteps echo in the hallway… then the front door opens and closes.

Papa’s hand shoots out like a viper, grabbing me by the hair and yanking me to him. “How many times have I told you not to eavesdrop?” he growls in my ear. “You’re not even home a day and here I find you sneaking around like a rat!”

“Please—Ow!”

He slaps me across the face, once, then again. Tears flow from my eyes as he drags me by the hair back down the hall and to the stairs.

“When I want you to know something,” he says as I stumble up the steps, doing my best to keep up with him, “I will tell you. Do you understand me, Nona?”

“Yes,” I say, sobs stuck in my throat as he continues to drag me along down the hallway. We get to my room and he pushes me, tossing me into my room and onto the floor.

“You’ll stay in here until I’m ready to see you.” It’s all he says as the door slams in my face. Panic sets in and I rush to the door to try and open it.

“I’m sorry! Papa! Please!” The door won’t budge. He’s locked me in from the outside.

And now the memories that I keep forgetting come back to me. Times when he decided I had broken a rule. The slaps in my face, the punches, the kicks…

And sometimes, being locked in my room. The worst of them all. He’s locked me in here for days before with nothing but the bathroom water to drink.

“Please!” I yell through the door. “Don’t do this! Papa, please!”

I cry out until the sobs take me over and I slide down the door, weeping into my hands. My father’s rage is always the other part of the sword that I live by, always ready to strike me down at the first chance.

I just hope he lets me out.