Chapter 22
Ivan
Venturing to the Valachi house after everything that has happened and being escorted by Damon Papparado himself, is something so out of the ordinary that I can’t help but hear that little voice in the back of my mind. It's telling me that this may all be an elaborate trap. The promise Damon made at the cemetery was too enticing.
A gift . From a man who was once my enemy, one who now purports to be my ally. I’ve always been a believer in the whole “if something looks too good to be true” saying, but unlike the times I promised my enemies gifts and gave them blood, there didn’t seem to be a hint of sarcasm in Damon’s language.
My thoughts churn like a storm as the limousine glides through the cemetery to the Valachi residence. The family cemetery is on the edge of their expansive property, and the car moves through a peaceful wooded park, driving slowly to account for the winds and turns in the narrow road.
As we drive, the voice in my head grows louder, whispering suspicions and doubts. This could be a setup. A final move to eliminate me. But what choice do I have? The play has been set in motion, and stepping back now is not an option.
I sit in the back of the limousine, Vivi beside me. She is still; the grief is too much for her right now. But there is something else, something as distinguishable from grief as night from day. I recognize it as the burden of the first kill. I felt the same once, long ago.
Vivi’s silence is a heavy, oppressive presence. I can almost hear her thoughts, the echoes of her first kill reverberating through her mind. Her eyes are fixed on some distant point, seeing something far beyond the confines of this luxurious car. I want to reach out, to offer some semblance of comfort, but the words catch in my throat. What could I possibly say to ease the weight of her guilt and sorrow?
I was a child when I experienced this. I cannot remember the exact age; things like this do funny things to timelines. I remember that I was just old enough to sit in the front seat of my father’s car. Maxim Romanov always drove himself. Always rode by himself.
That day seemed like any other at first. Usually when we went somewhere, he would tell me, "When we get to where we are going, climb under the dash. Do not come out until I tell you," he had said.
The first indication I had that this day was different was the absence of that command.
This day, my father told me to leave the car and accompany him. I remember the slamming of all the doors. Larger bodies crowded around me as we walked toward a shipping container at the pier. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater and diesel, the sounds of distant seagulls mingling with the faint hum of machinery. I remember my father rolling up his sleeves as we approached, a gesture that sent a shiver down my spine.
And when the huge metal door was opened, the space revealed a man sat tied to a chair. Terrified. The dim light from a single overhead bulb cast long shadows, giving the scene a surreal feel. The other men stepped back as my father kneeled on the ground, getting eye level with his son. With me.
“I am going to ask you to do something no human child should ever have to do,” my father, Maxim, says, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel. His eyes, usually so distant, bore into mine with an intensity that made me feel both small and significant.
“Yes, Papasha,” I responded automatically, using the term of respect I'd always called him by, even though a part of me dreaded what was coming next. I didn’t know what that was, but I knew I should not welcome it. My voice was steady, but inside, I was a whirlwind of fear and confusion.
“You know what we are. You know the things we must do. It’s time that you got blood on your teeth.” His words were a grim reminder of the world we lived in, a world where mercy was a weakness and violence a currency.
“On my teeth, Papasha?”
He bared his own at me. “Yes. Teeth. Like the monsters we are.”
He looked behind me, giving a nod to one of his men. I heard the sound of movement, and before I knew what was happening, a baseball bat wrapped with barbed wire was thrust into my hands. The weight of it made my arms fall. My father stepped forward, grabbed the bat, and forced it against my chest. The barbs bit into my skin, but I didn't cry out. I had learned that my cries had no effect on him.
“This man has betrayed us, Ivan,” he said, his eyes boring into mine. “Betrayed me and, since you are my heir, betrayed you. Now, I’ve warmed him up for you, but he is done talking to me. He is no longer useful. What do we do with useless things?”
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. “We throw them away,” I replied, my voice barely more than a whisper. The words felt hollow, but I knew they were the right ones.
“Right, son. Now, go in there and throw this man away,” my father ordered, standing up and stepping back. A dozen men surrounded me, all watching, all judging. Their eyes were cold, devoid of compassion. Somehow, as young as I was, I recognized that I was being tested, and failure was not an option.
The bat was so heavy in my hands. I was just a child. But I took a deep breath and walked up to the man, who was gagged and bound. His eyes were pleading, and I was glad my father could not see my face. I pitied the man before me. We were both trapped in circumstances beyond our control. Even if I wanted to spare this man, I couldn’t.
I raised the bat to strike. The man closed his eyes, flinching. His fear was palpable, a tangible thing that filled the air around us.
“Wait!” Maxim called out, jogging forward. He ripped the gag from the man’s mouth.
“You need to get used to their pleading,” Papasha said. His tone was almost instructional, as if this were a lesson in a classroom rather than a brutal execution.
And the man pleaded. He pleaded for his life, for his children who would miss him, for his elderly mother. He begged for another chance, for forgiveness. He swore loyalty. He admitted he made a mistake. His voice cracked and broke, the sound of a man pushed to the edge of despair.
I swung the bat. It was heavy, and I was still small. It barely did any damage, but it caused pain. Blood was already trickling down his face. I swung again. The man screamed. He pleaded over and over again. His cries echoed in the container, a haunting symphony of suffering. I wanted to end his misery; I wanted it to be over, but I was not strong enough. I could not move the bat fast enough or powerfully enough.
His death took a long time to complete. By the time I was done, the man’s face was ruined, his neck riddled with holes, and a trickle of blood flowed down his chest, pooling on the floor in a morbid testament to my actions. The bat, now slick with blood, felt impossibly heavy in my hands. I dropped it, the sound of it clattering against the concrete floor and echoing in the container. My breath came fast and hard; each gasp a desperate attempt to steady myself. Adrenaline coursed through me, and I felt a tingling at my fingertips. Without my control, tears formed at the corners of my eyes. Regret? Not quite. Pity? Maybe. It was something I could not comprehend, could not explain.
That man is dead. I did it.
The realization hit me like a freight train. The weight of my actions pressed down on me, suffocating and relentless. I turned to my father, expecting some sort of praise, a nod of approval, anything to validate the monstrous act I had just committed. Instead, Maxim’s expression was one of cold disappointment.
Before I could react, he stepped forward and slapped me across the face. The sting was immediate, a sharp contrast to the numbness that had settled over me. I staggered back, more from shock than the force of the blow.
“If I wanted tears, I would stay home with the women,” he snapped, his voice a whip lashing out at me. His words cut deeper than any wound, stripping away any illusion of sympathy or understanding. The men around us exchanged knowing looks, their expressions a mix of indifference and approval. In their eyes, I saw the hard reality of the world I was being thrust into.
I bit back the tears, forcing them to retreat. Crying was not an option here; it was a sign of weakness, and weakness was unforgivable. I straightened up, lifting my chin slightly, trying to mirror the hardened resolve I saw in my father.
Maxim’s gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, his eyes hard and unyielding. “This is the life you are a part of now, Ivan. Remember that. There is no room for softness, no place for mercy. We are warriors, and warriors do not weep.”
His words were a harsh lesson, one that I knew would stay with me forever. I’ve come to understand, as an adult, that In this world, emotions are a luxury we cannot afford. Compassion is a weakness that can be exploited, and mercy is a folly that can lead to downfall.
I nodded, the movement small but resolute, a silent acknowledgment of the lesson imparted.
The men dispersed, their business with the dead man concluded. My father’s hand rested briefly on my shoulder, a gesture that was both a warning and a form of twisted encouragement. Then he turned and walked away, expecting me to follow.
As I stepped out of the container, the cold night air hit me, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. I could still smell the blood, still hear the man’s desperate pleas echoing in my mind. But I pushed it all down, locking it away in the deepest recesses of my consciousness. There would be time to confront these demons later, if ever.
For now, I followed my father, each step a reaffirmation of the path I have been set on. The path of blood, of power, of ruthless survival. The path that would define who I was and what I would become.
In the silence of the night, as the stars bore silent witness, I made a vow to myself. I would learn, I would adapt, and I would survive. I would become what my father expected of me. No tears, no weakness. Only strength, only resolve.
This is my world now.
The memory stings as the cars turn into the governor’s drive at the Valachi mansion. I grip Vivi’s hand and pull her in, kissing her forehead.
Vivi was never supposed to take on the burden of being a monster like me. She did it to save me. Despite her gentle nature, she killed someone. I will spend a lifetime making that up to her.
We get out of the cars and head inside the house. My hand grips Vivi’s tightly, reluctant to let her leave my side.
Lulu steps forward, a reassuring smile on her face. “I promise that she will come back to you as soon as you are done,” she says.
“Her coming back doesn’t depend on your promise,” I reply, my voice firm. “If you break it, I will still get her back.”
Vivi is usually quick to correct me when I’m cynical, but she doesn’t say anything this time. Lulu takes her under her arm, and the two head down a hallway further into the house. I watch her go, a knot of anxiety tightening in my chest.
“Come, Romanov. You are going to want to see this,” Damon says, breaking me out of my thoughts.
He leads me to a door that opens to basement steps. Unlike the basement of my house, my former house, this basement is fully and tastefully furnished. The furniture matches the paint on the walls and ceiling perfectly. There is even art down here. My father, Maxim, kept a simple, plain house. The extravagance irritates me.
We walk through a carpeted corridor until Damon pauses at a door. The soft texture beneath my feet only heightens my irritation. “This is precisely what we need after a day like today,” he says, opening the door to reveal a spa that looks like it was built in the 1940s. Red and white tiles decorate the room, a throwback to another era. The tiles glisten under the soft light, creating an almost surreal ambiance. But in the basin of the tub sits a man tied to a chair.
A sudden flashback hits me: the man in the shipping container, the fear in his eyes, the weight of the bat in my hands. I force the memory back, burying it deep where it belongs.
“I don’t recognize this man,” I say, my voice steady despite the memories swirling in my mind. My eyes lock onto the stranger, assessing him. His clothes are torn, and bruises mark his face, but there’s a defiance in his eyes that intrigues me.
“None of us do. This man has kept his identity a secret from all of us,” Damon replies, a hint of fascination in his tone. His casual demeanor, the almost playful curiosity, grates on my nerves.
“Stop with the dramatics, Papparado. Who is this?” I snap, impatience lacing my words. I am not in the mood for games, not after everything I’ve been through today.
Damon laughs, a sound that grates on my nerves, like nails on a chalkboard. “This, Ivan, is Azrael.”