Dmitri
Chapter Two
Present
I couldn’t believe that only three years ago, my father had been sitting at this very desk. Three years since Andrei Zhukov brutally murdered my father. Three years since that murderer’s one and only daughter disappeared without a trace.
At age thirty-two, I was the Pakhan of the Antonov Bratva, yet I couldn’t track down a single woman.
The file resting on my desk seemed to taunt me as I pulled it closer and flipped it open once more.
This had to be the hundredth time I’d scrutinized its contents, desperately searching for a clue I might have missed.
How could Larissa Zhukov be nothing more than a ghost, with only her birth certificate as evidence of her existence?
The only person who had ever laid eyes on her was my father, but he was now six feet under, his secrets buried with him—all thanks to Andrei Zhukov.
Even now, the events that transpired in the Zhukov household baffled me.
The broken entry point and the blood-soaked remains of Lidia Zhukov painted a gruesome picture of vengeance.
Someone sought retribution, yet inexplicably, they spared Andrei’s life.
Either he wasn’t present during the assault, or someone showed him mercy.
Regardless, there was no trace of him or Larissa.
Initially, I suspected a kidnapping, but Stepan, my trusted associate, discovered Larissa’s bedroom window ajar during his search of the premises.
Despite locating Andrei’s right-hand man and subjecting him to relentless interrogation, we gleaned no useful information about the incident.
My sole desire was to make Andrei pay for my father’s murder.
I envisioned him helplessly watching as I claimed his daughter, bending her to my will, and securing an heir.
I planned to grant him a prolonged, agonizing death after achieving my objectives.
But fate had other plans. My father had accepted Larissa’s hand in marriage as a settlement for Andrei’s debts.
However, the stakes had now risen beyond Andrei’s financial obligations.
Larissa would be bound to me, a pawn to settle scores and avenge my father’s demise.
One way or another, she would give me an heir.
Due to my position as Pakhan , I faced the relentless pressure of marrying and producing an heir. Time was slipping through my fingers.
“Fuck.”
I poured another glass of Beluga and slammed it down. Nothing beat the burn of a good Russian vodka.
“How many times are you going to look at the file?” Stepan asked as he walked into my office without knocking.
“Just because you are my brigadier doesn’t mean you don’t need to knock,” I reminded him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
Instead of answering me, he walked over to my desk and help himself to a glass of Beluga. I watched Stepan take a seat in the chair in front of me and prop his feet on top of my $10,000 mahogany desk.
“Just because you are my best friend doesn’t mean you can put your feet on my desk,” I snapped as I leaned across my desk and pushed his feet from the surface.
“Are you going to be a crab ass, or are you going to let me show you what I found?” Stepan took a swig of the $2000 vodka before pulling his cell from his back pocket.
While he held his cell out to me, I gave him an annoyed glare before swiping it from his grasp.
“Who is this?” I asked, confused as to why he was showing a picture of an attractive woman. When I looked at her picture longer, I came to realize there was something about her that seemed familiar. “Why do I get the feeling I’ve seen her before?”
“Because you have. Three years ago. You and I were standing on the upper level of Raptor. Do you remember the woman you couldn’t take your eyes off of?”
I pinched my thumb and index finger together and then spread them apart across the screen to make the picture of the woman staring back at me larger.
“How could I ever forget?” Those beautiful green eyes . The minute she walked into my club, her eyes captivated me. It was then I knew I had to have her. “It was the night we were called away because someone had murdered my father. I will never forget that night.”
“She might be a friend of Larissa Zhukov,” he replied. “It’s a long shot, but it’s the only clue we’ve had in three years. The other woman in the picture is Chloe Adams. She used a fake ID to get into Raptor.
“Did you find out Chloe’s friend’s name?” I asked, assuming her ID was fake as well.
“I was able to pull the CCTV footage from the entrance where Jacob was checking IDs.” Stepan downed the rest of his vodka and pushed to the edge of his chair. “The name on her ID was Sara Jones. She lives on Brooklyn Street. I thought maybe you would like to check it out.”
“What do you think?” I shot back. “You know, you could have led with that instead of pissing me off.”
“Nah. What fun would that be?”
~***~
We pulled up to 572 Brooklyn Street in Brooklyn forty minutes later in my Lamborghini Temerario.
I could have driven one of the SUVs, but just like Stepan’s attitude toward me, I liked pissing him off.
It wasn’t a pretty sight watching his big frame squeeze into the front seat.
I was by no means a small man, but Stepan was a beast at six-foot-six and two hundred seventy pounds.
As I looked out the windshield, already I could tell this trip was a waste of time. It appeared no one had lived in this house for a very long time—much longer than three years. But since we were here, we might as well take a look.
“You aren’t seriously thinking about going inside that death trap,” Stepan asked as I killed the engine and opened the door.
“Let’s go, plaksa , crybaby.” I never knew Stepan to be afraid of anything. Not even a run-down abandoned house.
The unlocked front door made it easy to enter the house.
I realized, even before entering, that this wasn’t an abandoned house, contrary to our belief.
The further we walked inside, it became clear that this home was the residence of the less fortunate.
Men and women, dressed in months-old clothes and appearing strung out on drugs or alcohol, occupied every corner of the house, lying on beds narrower than a single bed.
Just like New York City, Brooklyn wasn’t immune to their share of homeless people.
It was clear this place wasn’t going to give us the answers we were looking for. Just when we were ready to leave, a deep voice sounded behind us.
“You two looking for something? Cause you certainly don’t belong here.” A black man approached us, looking more civilized than any of the other occupants of the house.
Nodding at Stepan, I signaled for him to show the stranger the picture of Sara Jones. As he held his cell out, I watched the stranger’s expression for any sign that he might have seen her or known her.
“What do you want with her? I don’t want any trouble,” he looked between Stepan and me, waving his hands in front of him in a cross pattern.
“All we want to know is if you have seen her,” I said, willing to beat it out of him if I had to.
“I’ve seen her,” he began. “It’s been a while. She was only here for a couple of months and then left. Not sure where she went. Not even sure if she’s still alive.”
“How long ago?” I asked as I signaled for Stepan to search the rest of the house.
“Years, two, maybe three. Couldn’t say for sure. My mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be,” he admitted. “Like I said. She was only here a couple of months and then she left.”
Something told me that he knew a lot more than what he was telling us. The way he looked at Sara’s picture told me he had seen her more recently than he was letting on.
“She’s not here, Boss,” Stepan interrupted my conversation as he moved past the stranger.
Giving the black man one last look, I warned between gritted teeth, “You better hope you aren’t lying, because if I find out you are, you’re going to wish you never met me.” I took one last look around before stalking out the front door with Stepan close behind.
“I want someone watching this shithole 24/7. That old fucker is lying,” I commanded as we headed back to my car.
“You really think she would come back here?” he asked, questioning my authority.
“Just do it.” I gave him a knowing stare, which told him never to question me again.
Instead of returning to the imposing Antonov mansion, I steered my car toward Raptor.
It was the sanctuary where I found solace, a place where I could escape the lure of regrettable actions.
My mind needed clarity, and the only way to achieve that was by spending time with one of my caged birds—a temporary reprieve from the chaos within.
My little kanareyka , Ginger, might have appeared as an innocent yellow canary in her little bird cage, but when it came to pleasing me, she transformed into a fiery black raven.
Her jet-black hair cascaded like midnight silk, and her dark brown eyes smoldered with a captivating intensity.
Despite her artificial enhancements—her voluptuous breasts, exaggerated lips, and surgically enhanced curves—she possessed a body that many women would envy, a figure sculpted to perfection.
She wasn’t my usual preference, but she offered a satisfying escape, an experience that never failed to clear my troubled mind.