by Sophia Henry
19
Kirill
The Russian bath just outside of Brighton Beach isn’t the most glamorous banya in the area, but it’s the oldest and it was my uncle’s favorite place. Being there is relaxing and comforting, a perfect place to meet with his brigade.
Since arriving in New York, I’ve stayed under the radar, trying to figure out who killed my uncle before I came out of hiding. But it’s been next to impossible for Drago to get any information since he doesn’t have any type of authority here.
“Kirya! Back from the dead!” Boris, one of my uncle’s Avtoritets grunts when I enter the banya.
The steam hits me immediately, sweat beading on my skin. It’s been so long since I’ve had a chance to relax, it seems like I can feel the toxins come to the surface. Despite wanting to let go and enjoy the experience, I have to keep my guard up.
“Does resurrection run in the family?”
“Never trust someone is dead until you’ve laid your flowers on their casket,” I say, removing my towel and hanging it on a hook.
“Should we expect the same from Viktor?” Another man asks. He’s one of Boris’ brodyaga, a soldier, like Drago is to me.
“I think you know the answer. You were both at his funeral.”
“True. But Vitya was a sneaky motherfucker. Always had something up his sleeve.”
“The only things up his sleeve right now are worms. You’d be smart to remember that.”
My tone is hard, making it completely clear that I’m finished with the humor regarding my uncle’s death.
Though the timing of Viktor’s assassination was a surprise, the act itself wasn’t. The threat of death is constant, something that comes with the territory.
But whoever killed him coming out of his condo on a Saturday morning took out my mother as well.
My chest tightens and stomach clenches just thinking about it. Anger colors my vision, tinting everything in red.
Viktor was fair game. My mother was not.
Vengeance courses through my blood, pumping adrenaline and fueling my thirst for knowledge. My mother’s murderer will pay with his life and won’t be quick. I want to watch him suffer. I’ll smile, as I watch every last drop of blood drain from his body and the spark of life leaves his face.
I came to New York to avenge her death. Taking over my uncle’s brigade was a bonus. His men approached me when I let it be known I was alive and in New York.
I should have stayed under the radar for a little longer, but I need the intel, protection, and loyalty these men offer.
The meeting goes well. I still don’t know who killed my uncle and mother, but I have confirmation that it wasn’t anyone in the North American Russian operations. While it’s a relief to find out it wasn’t someone associated with him, it leaves so many options open. Chechnyan? Ukrainian? Italian? Another organization or street gang?
Boris will communicate with the rest of his men to keep their eyes and ears open.
Just as I’m buckling my belt, I hear the gunfire first, then the screams.
Before I have a chance to grab my gun, the door bursts open and two men storm into the locker room. One tackles me full force. The back of my head bangs against a wooden bench before hitting the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut, flinching at the pain.
The man on top of me is double my size, but I punch at his head anyway, trying to get enough force to get him off. We wrestle, rolling around the floor until he pins my arm against my body and holds them with his tree-trunk thighs.
Looking down at me is the man who’s always smiling. Not that the Georgian has a choice. His boss sliced his face that way years ago. Oleg Sobakin has always been known for being a sadistic showman.
“Did you really think you would come here and take over?” Igor asks. The Georgian looms over me, a jagged smile permanently cut into his face.
“Your uncle earned his place after years of paying dues.”
“Who the fuck are you to talk? You were a piece of shit shestyorka under me.” I say, knowing I’ll get under his skin by calling him the name for the lowest men in the bratva ranks.
They’re going to kill me. That’s not a question.
I don’t fear death.
Do I want to escape it for as long as I’m able? Of course, but it doesn’t scare me. When I choose this life, I accepted every part of it.
I only have one fear—what they’ll do to Stasya after I’m dead. Drago will give his life to protect her. I know that. But he can only do so much.
The Georgian smacks me across the face with the handle of his Glock, sending my head back and splitting my bottom lip. I lick the wound and laugh, spitting blood at his feet.
“How about you, Smiley? Have you made it to brodyaga yet?”
Might as well have some fun before I leave the earth—for good this time.
“Keep talking,” Igor sneers, baring his crooked yellow teeth. “You don’t have your uncle’s protection anymore. Your smart mouth makes this more fun.”
“Makes it more fun for me too, Igor,” I say, as the Georgian squats over me. He clasps my neck and pulls me up, cutting off airflow as he squeezes my windpipe.
Igor moves to me quickly and pulls my arms behind my back. While holding my wrists together, he secures them with something plastic.
Fuck.
Rope I can work with. Rope can be loosened.
Cable ties have very little give and my wrists aren’t strong enough to pull it apart.
It won’t matter if the fucking Georgian doesn’t let me go soon. I’m already light-headed and dizzy from the lack of oxygen.
Once my wrists are bound, he lets go of my neck and drops to his knees in front of me.
“Fuck that!” I say, kicking my leg out and busting him in the chin. The crack sends him backward. Igor punches the back of my head as the Georgian gets to his feet.
“Fucking kill me. I’d rather be dead than have this ugly motherfucker blow me.” I’m twisting around, making it hard for the Georgian to do whatever the fuck he’s about to do.
“Shut the fuck up! For once in your life, Kirill Konstantinovich. Shut. The fuck. Up,” Igor growls.
Finally, The Georgian grabs my feet, holding them together and securing them with another cable tie. Once he’s finished, both of them let go. Igor pushes me, sending me to the ground.
My ear hits first, bouncing off the floor before coming back down again. I hear the crack before I feel the pain. Blood gushes from my nose, surrounding my face with thick, copper-scented liquid.
“North America was not yours to take,” Igor says as he stands over me, his soles soaking in my blood. “You grew up privileged. Everything was handed to you because of your uncle. Now that he is dead. You are nothing.”
“I am nothing?” I choke out as I try to lift my head. “Look who’s talking. You are the leftovers I threw away.”
“Arrogant until the very end.” He steps on my face, holding my head down with his boot. My own blood drips over my cheek and onto my lips.
He lifts his boot, rears back, and kicks my face.
Everything goes black.
20
Stasya
“I can’t believe you’ve never invited me up here before. We’ve been friends for two years, Stasya!” Veronika chastises me as she follows me through the door of my apartment.
I hadn’t planned on inviting her up tonight either, but she showed up at the store just before closing. I felt bad telling her to go.
Ever since Veronika confronted me at my store to ask me if I was cheating on Dmitri, I’ve been cautious. The accusations wouldn’t have made me suspicious on their own, but when she started talking about mafia, it put me on alert. Since that day, I haven’t made a point spent much time with her.
“There wasn’t a reason to,” I explain, tossing my keys and purse on the table near the door. “I didn’t live here.”
Kirya and I see each other every day, either here, at his condo in Brighton Beach, or at the Dining Room. Betw
een those secret meetups and the new clothing line I’ve been working on, I’ve barely had any sleep. Today, it’s all come to a head. I’m so exhausted, all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for a week. Preferably next to my love.
After giving her a quick tour of the space, I collapse onto the couch.
“Freshen your makeup and grab your pocketbook,” she says. “I’m taking you out for a drink.”
I shake my head. “Veronika, I’m too tired,” I tell her. “All I want to do is lay right here and watch a movie.” I pat the cushion and lower my head toward the arm of the couch.
Jordan has a term for nights like this. Veg out.
“I know! I know!” She grabs my hand and pulls me from my seat. “But I’ve never seen you so happy as you have been over the last few weeks. I thought breaking up with Dima would send you into depression, but you’re like a new person.”
Her comment annoys me. I’m not happy because Dima and I broke up. But I can’t tell her the real reason. I still have to keep Kirill a secret. It’s not my place to tell people he’s back from the dead.
“Come on, Stasya! One drink and I’ll leave you alone.”
“One drink. Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes.
It’s never one drink with Veronika. Last time she suggested it, we closed down a bar in Chelsea. The next day, I had to take a nap in my office to get rid of a massive headache.
“I promise you.” She looks me in the eye, her expression pleading. “I know how tired you are. I know how hard you have been working. We haven’t hung out in forever.”
She’s right. I’ve pushed everyone else off to spend time with Kirya.
“Let me change,” I say, grabbing my purse from the table.
“I’ve missed you, my friend.” She smiles broadly, her eyes lighting up. “Be quick. I’m starving.”
“I thought you said one drink,” I tease as I head to my bedroom to change.
“We can’t drink on empty stomachs,” she calls back.
I don’t want her to be suspicious of me or think I’m putting her off. But I’m smart enough to be aware. Especially with Kirill here in New York. I’ve slid right back into his world—our world. His uncle’s men know he’s alive and here. There’s no way it hasn’t slipped out to others.
In my room, I discard the dress I wore at the store today and grab a tank top and jeans out of my drawer. After I’ve gotten dressed, I throw on an oversized sweater. Before I leave the room, I grab my wallet and Kirill’s Stetchkin from my pocketbook. Lifting my sweater, I tuck the wallet in my back pocket and the gun into my waistband.
I’ve had a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach since Kirill has been back. I know I can attribute the sense of always feeling like I’m on the verge of danger to hyper-vigilance.
The best thing I can do is keep my ears and eyes open. Over the last couple of years, my friend has never given me any reason not to trust her. But even if her motives are completely innocent, she might have information I can share with him.
When I’m feeling weary, it’s best to be prepared for the worst.
On the street in front of my store, there’s a black Town Car waiting with the hazard lights flashing.
Veronika opens the backdoor and gestures me inside. “Jump in.”
My skin bristles, but I ignore the feeling. There’s nothing unusual about having a car service in New York City—especially for special occasions. Instead of being suspicious, I should be grateful Veronika
Still, I swallow hard before climbing into the backseat. “Where do you have in mind?” I ask once she’s taken her seat next to me.
“There’s a wonderful place in Upper West Side I’ve been dying to try.” She meets the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He nods and pulls out when traffic is somewhat clear.
“Veronika, you know how tired I am. How about that place we wanted to try in Hell’s Kitchen?”
“You are always the boss, Stasya. It’s time you let someone else take care of you.” She smiles at me before saying, “Tonight we celebrate friendship and freedom!”
I return her smile the best I can, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes.
Veronika insists on talking the entire ride which means I can’t look out the window and pay attention to where we’re going. I’ve felt like I had a sixth sense before, but the further uptown we go, the more my stomach twists. I’m so on edge, I can barely keep up the conversation.
“Are we almost there?” I ask, resting my head on the window.
“Do I bore you, Stasya?” She asks, patting my knee.
I jump at the touch and sit upright quickly. “No, my friend, but I told you I am tired. The long ride is making me sleepy.”
“Don’t worry. We’re almost there.”
We ride the rest of the way in silence, which is probably good because a feeling of impending doom dread keeps me from speaking. We’re moving further and further away from what I consider the Upper West Side.
“Here’s where we get out,” Veronika says, gripping the handle of the door as the car comes to a stop.
“Where are we going?” I ask as soon as we exit the Town Car.
“Come, Stasya,” she takes my hand and pulls me toward the pier. “Let’s take a stroll and enjoy the river at night.”
“No,” I say, standing firm while she tugs my arm. “Where are we?” I ask without masking the anger in my voice.
I should have known to trust my gut.
“We’re meeting some old friends of yours,” she says.
She’s barely gotten the words out when a car pulls up next to us. I’m about to reach for my gun, but I wait a split second, watching as the doors swing open.
I recognize the driver immediately—Igor Prostakov, one of Kirill’s former subordinates, the one he never wanted me to be alone with. The only time it ever happened ended with the Georgian chasing me through the crowded aisles of Moscow’s black market.
It’s no surprise when the hulking figure of the man who can’t stop smiling gets out of the passenger side.
There’s no question that he’s mafia with connections because he never would have been allowed out of Russian any other way. Who would give a face like that a passport?
“Stasya!” Igor greets me, emphasizing my diminutive because he knows I hate when he uses it. “Welcome! I’m glad you could join us.”
“I didn’t expect to see you again, Igor.”
“I am full of surprises.” He laughs. Waves of nausea gush through me. Something about him always creeped me out, even when he was under Kirill’s control.
Veronika stands at my side, seemingly proud of what she’s done. My instincts about her were right. Instead of sending her away and spending the night in the safety of my apartment, I let her lead me straight to my death.
Kirill will be so disappointed.
“Veronika, thank you for your delivery.”
She smiles. “Happy to be of serv—”
Igor lifts his gun and shoots her between the eyes. Her body drops at my feet.
Though I’m shaking on the inside, I don’t show any outward emotion when the Georgian picks up her body, carries her to the railing, and throws her into the Hudson River like a fisherman tossing back an unwanted catch.
“Nothing?” Igor asks me.
Maybe I should have screamed. Or jumped when I heard the shot, but it doesn’t even affect me.
Being a former mafia queen prepared me for betrayal and the consequences of it.
Igor presses a button and the trunk of his car pops open. There’s a body inside, struggling to break free from the binding around his arms and legs. The Georgian lifts the body from the trunk, banging the side of his head on the cover as he does. There’s silver tape over the man’s mouth.
Blood covers the bruised, swollen face, but I recognize it instantly.
Kirill.
The Georgian drops him on the ground next to a huge concrete block. Then he kneels down and starts wrapping a thick rope around the block, secur
ing it with an intricate knot.
No.
No. No. No.
I have to act fast. My eyes dart from Igor, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me, to the Georgian who’s moved on to connecting Kirill’s legs to the same rope attached to the concrete.
There’s panic in Kirill’s eyes, but he remains calm as the man who always smiling tightens the rope. He grunts in pain.
Tucked away in the waistband of my pants is the Stetchkin Kirill gave me. He probably thinks I didn’t listen to him when he told me to keep it on me at all times. Anyone else with a gun would be shooting up the place and saving his life.
But I’m not anyone else. I’m me.
And I’ve never been more scared.
And the only reason I’ve ever shot a gun is because Kirya made me learn. He took me to an abandoned building in the northeastern part of Moscow and taught me how to shoot both the Stetchkin and the Glock.
Learning made sense given the circumstances of the lifestyle. He even gave me a Glock of my own to keep in my handbag. I did, but I never actually thought I’d have to use it.
My anxiety and indecision at this moment prove I’m not meant for organized crime because I have no clue what to do. How do I transfer Igor’s attention from me to something else so I can get to the gun? If he sees me reach for something, he’ll shoot me immediately.
The Georgian is making another knot and we’re inches from the Hudson, so I know I’ve got to figure something out soon.
A million things run through my head as I stand sweating and shaking.
How do I distract Igor?
How many shots do I have to work with? I vaguely remember Kirill telling me the Stetchkin is an automatic pistol with a twenty-round capacity, but I don’t know if the cartridge was full or if he gave it to me with any shots fired.
I have less than twenty tries.
That doesn’t bode well for me.
“It’s poetic to watch your lover die, don’t you think, Stasya?” Igor smiles. “I mean, watching him die for real this time.”