Empires and Kings (A Mafia Series Book 1)

by A. C. Bextor

  He’s right. Not yet. Not until I’ve had time to process. If the look on my men’s faces gives way to the terrorizing details, I don’t think I’ll ever want to know.

  “Who’s here?” I question, pulling myself together. “Rueon mentioned someone was here to see me.”

  “Vlad, I think you need a few minutes alone first to—”

  “I asked who was here,” I direct again. “Answer me.”

  Abram’s face grows hard. His normally quiet and collected demeanor shifts from the grief in Faina’s death to undisguised worry.

  Rueon speaks in his place. “Killian Dawson has come to see you.”

  “Killian is here? In my home? Why the fuck is he here?”

  “Because I went to him,” Abram reluctantly admits. “He knows about Faina. He asked to come.”

  The man I hold partially responsible for my sister’s death is standing in my home. No longer a friend, but an enemy to my family. If he’d have done as I asked, helped eliminate Ciro from his position in this city, Faina would still be alive. I don’t need verifiable evidence of his involvement. Ciro Palleshi did this.

  “I think it’s best—”

  “Best? This is a family matter, Abram. Get rid of him.”

  “Vlad,” he replies. “Just listen to what he has to say.”

  “I don’t want to see anyone, and especially not Killian Dawson,” I seethe.

  “Vlad,” Killian speaks, entering my office and passing between my men to do it. “Give me five minutes of your time.”

  “Killian,” I sharply address, shaking my head and clutching my patience. “We no longer have any business between us.”

  “We do,” he amends. “I know loss. I’ve experienced too much of it.”

  “You also know danger, yet you refused to help me when I asked for it,” I brazenly accuse, taking a seat and not caring the least bit how uncomfortable I’ve made the old man.

  Killian bows his head, yet courageously walks in my direction before he sits. His eyes are shining with tears for my loss, for my sister, and my family. Right now, I can’t appreciate his condolences or his reasons for coming.

  “I’m not in the mood to discuss the mistakes you’ve made.”

  Sitting back in the chair across from mine, Killian surveys me in a way I expect only my father would.

  “You’ve lost someone close to you,” he gently summarizes. “A woman. The pain such a loss inflicts is unbearable. I know because I’ve lost both my boys.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I do,” he returns, not wavering at all beneath my stern tone.

  He lifts his hand to accept the drink I hadn’t realized Abram had poured. Abram sets one down on my now-bare desk. When I look up, he nods before moving toward the door. Once Abram positions himself at the entrance, Killian speaks again.

  “I didn’t know Faina,” he states, “but from what I’ve heard, she wouldn’t want you hurting innocent people.”

  “Klara was innocent. So is my unborn child, who Faina will never meet.”

  “You didn’t hurt them—Ciro did. An eye for an eye isn’t the solution.”

  “I have no plans to hurt the innocent. And when I tear Ciro Palleshi apart, I won’t feel any remorse. Faina wouldn’t, either.”

  “I’m not talking about Ciro.”

  “Your only concern here is for your grandson, Liam,” I accuse.

  “Yes.”

  Tiring quickly and wanting to get to Klara to be there when she hears of Faina, I deadpan, “I appreciate you coming, but we have nothing else to discuss.”

  “Our families are coming together, Vlad. Not in war, but in peace.”

  Anger stews within me. “The time for us to come together has passed, Killian. You saw to that, remember?”

  “I made a grave mistake.”

  “And it’s one my sister will soon rest in. We have no business together. We never did.”

  With a frown, Killian whispers, “I’ll regret that decision for the rest of my life.”

  “I have no more reason for peace.”

  “I think you do,” he replies. “You have so much more to lose. If Ciro thinks you hold nothing against him, he’ll go back to being silent and still.”

  “And if I don’t let him think this, he’ll be dead.”

  “Boss,” Rueon interrupts, stepping inside my study with Klara in his arms.

  Her head rests against his shoulder, her face buried in his neck. Klara’s wrapped in a blanket I know Faina gave her years ago. At one time adorned with flowers of all kinds, its emblems have faded with time and wear.

  “Rueon, what the hell are you doing? Klara should be resting,” I state, standing and making my way to her in quick steps. Looking to her, I hiss, “Why on earth are you out of bed?”

  Klara looks up at me, her eyes swimming in tears. The red circles around them show her worry. The white bandage on her cheek, which I know covers several stitches, is stained with her blood.

  “She wouldn’t sit still. Maag didn’t know what else to do. She’s scared and said she was coming to you with or without my help.”

  After grabbing Klara from Rueon’s hold, I walk to the couch and take a seat. I rest her head in my neck and stroke her hair to soothe her. More than likely, Klara’s had another nightmare. This one probably worse than the one before. As the days have passed, they’ve become worse and worse.

  And she doesn’t even know about Faina.

  Killian stands from his chair, taking in the sight of her in my arms. His head tilts to the side, as if seeing me with any woman is a puzzle he can’t fit the pieces into.

  “For her”—he points to Klara—“please reconsider my reason for coming, Vlad. You still have as much to lose as I once did. A peace agreement between us all will prevent more death.”

  “You need to leave,” I stop him before he says any more in front of Klara. “You can see I’m busy, so you’ll find your way out.”

  Veniamin’s bedroom has been gutted beyond recognition.

  Scattered bits of his prized possessions—clothes, posters, and whatever else was once in place—are lying broken and now litter his floor. Bedsheets have been stripped, his mattress tipped over on its side. The window dressings have been torn from their rods. Even the lightbulb from his fractured lamp has been shattered to jagged bits.

  The music is blaring at a deafening level as my son, who once felt safe, keeps up with his exercise in anger.

  Obviously, Veniamin has already heard that his beloved Aunt Faina will not be coming home to him or anyone else.

  Klara took the news exactly how I thought she would—she cried in loss, then screamed in anger. But her grief wasn’t for herself. Instead, it was for all those who loved Faina.

  It was Killian’s presence in our home that solidified the truth she wanted to deny.

  As I carried Klara back to our bedroom to rest, Leonid stopped me just outside our door. He explained that Maag had tried to console Veni, but as she was swathed in her own stricken grief, it made it difficult to carry the added burden of his.

  Walking into my son’s room without knocking, he immediately stands straight and locks eyes with me. The expression on his face can only be described as harrowing. Tear stains streak his reddened cheeks. His hair is disheveled, obviously from being pulled at its roots. His shirt is damp from sweat.

  “Get out.” He kicks his wooden desk chair in frustration. The chair turns over, and then he screams, “I said get the fuck out of here!”

  Acting quickly, I take two steps toward him. His hands fly out between us in order to stop me, but Veni’s young and still not strong enough to best me.

  Wrapping my arms around his upper body, I trap him in, making it so he’s unable to get away.

  His head thrashes as his voice breaks with each painful fucking sentiment. “I want her back,” he wails. “Bring her back.”

  As he continues to rock in my arms, I hold his head steady to my chest.

  “Veniamin, son, I n
eed you to listen to me.”

  “She can’t be gone,” he insists.

  My heart constricts. A punishing pain shoots through my chest. I want so much the same as he does. In our lives, there haven’t been enough tender moments shared between father and son.

  This is one I’ll never forget, but also one I’ll always wish I could.

  “Nothing I can say will bring her home,” I admit, still holding him close.

  I feel the back of my shirt being clutched in his fists. His body succumbs to understand what I’ve said, as if by hearing someone else say it, the truth will set the pain free.

  But it won’t.

  Not for any of us.

  The truth is my sister, the heart of this family, is gone, and how she died will always be remembered. At every missed family celebration. At every endearing holiday going forward. Every time any of us want to hear her laugh or seek her out for advice. She’ll no longer be here.

  Hoping to momentarily assuage his sadness, I say lightly, “Faina would be disappointed to see what you’ve done in here.”

  Veni’s shoulders shake and he draws in a heavy breath. “She’d be pissed as fuck,” he tells me first, pulling his head back from my hold. “She’d be lecturing me, I bet.”

  “Can we sit?” I ask, setting him free and watching as he collects himself.

  Stepping over the remains of a broken picture frame, I right the desk chair and take a seat. Veni turns from me, using his hands and shirt to wipe his face.

  “Tell me what you’re going to do about this,” he demands, taking a seat on the edge of his empty bed frame.

  Klara begged me to let this go. She asked for the sake of our family, including our unborn baby, that revenge not happen. I couldn’t promise her this. Not now, possibly never.

  “We’re not going to do anything yet. We’re going to bury Faina, Veni. We’re going to tell her good-bye, and we’re going to leave her at peace.”

  Veni sniffles through a laugh. When his eyes finally make it to mine, they’re swamped with unshed tears.

  “I heard them talking,” he explains as a single droplet falls down his cheek. “Gleb and the others. They were in the kitchen and—”

  “Now isn’t the time,” I direct.

  “They said Palleshi set this up. That he took Faina and Klara and—”

  “Veni, no.”

  “They said Faina had been beaten, Dad. Raped and beaten.”

  My eyes close to escape my son’s voice from being the one to relay the sordid details I hadn’t yet heard. My hands ball into fists and my breathing becomes labored.

  “Who beats an innocent woman? Rapes her and leaves her for dead?”

  Ciro Palleshi.

  “I want them all to die a slow death,” he decrees.

  So do I.

  Thinking quickly, I make myself comfortable. “I need your help,” I start. “As a man of this house, not as my son.”

  Veni straightens his posture and his jaw to look me in the eye.

  “I need you to trust me when I tell you that Klara isn’t strong enough to see you like this.”

  “Dad, I—”

  Lifting my hand to silence him, I continue. “You’ve always told me you want nothing to do with this business. Well, this is business. The part of it that’s dangerous and ugly.”

  “I know,” he replies. “And I—”

  “And I’ve fought Vory tooth and nail for your future’s freedom. Asking me to plot revenge isn’t your place. You have to choose, Veniamin. One side or another.”

  As only a son of mine would, a son Faina had a strong hand in raising, Veni asks, “What would she want me to do?”

  “Faina?”

  “Yes.”

  Without hesitation, I reply, “She’d want you as far away from this as we’ve always tried to keep you.”

  Clarity shines in Veni’s gaze. I’ve never been more proud of the man he’s becoming than I am in this moment. He’s making a choice. I’m watching my son decide on a life he knows could end much like Faina’s, or a life of freedom and happiness.

  Extending me a curt nod and standing, Veni promises, “I’ll take care of Klara.”

  “Thank you.” I stand and walk to him.

  As I bring him into my arms, holding him as tightly as he’ll allow, he mutters what must hurt him the most. “I didn’t get to say good-bye to her.”

  “None of us did, Veni. But, somehow, I think that’s how Faina would’ve wanted it.”

  By the time I make it to where Abram has Katrina roped and chained down to a metal table, my blood is boiling to the point of pain.

  The wounds made to Klara’s body will heal, but the memories she has of suffering alone at the hands of this filthy whore and the coward Palleshi will stay between us forever.

  I was too late. I didn’t protect her.

  Attesting to the fear Klara felt while captive, she’s not asking that I avenge Faina’s death in any real way other than taking care of the woman who hurt her. Instead, she’s asking me to compromise with my enemies. To consider peace. What Klara doesn’t understand is that any peace we may be given would undoubtedly be temporary. The madman Ciro Palleshi will eventually come back for those we care about, no matter the cost to him.

  Klara is determined to save my soul. Yet, as often as I’ve come face-to-face with the devil himself, it’s a sure bet my soul has already been compromised.

  What would Faina want in exchange for her life?

  My sister would want her death avenged in the worst way. She’d want Katrina to suffer ten times over. If she were alive, she’d probably cut Katrina limb from limb, sending part of her body to every credible threat this family knows.

  Abram interrupts my thoughts as he comes to stand at my side while I look over the room.

  The darkened shed is well stocked. Chains, knives, whips, and other elements of torture are laid out on a small table close to Katrina’s head.

  The already dying victim is unconscious, but not for long. I want this woman to feel every infliction of pain, every strike of revenge I can give her and still manage to keep her breathing. The bullet Abram sent into her before the others stormed the warehouse was removed, but only to ensure she didn’t die in order to escape her punishment. Attesting to her strength in evil, Katrina is still alive after five days.

  There won’t be a sixth.

  The branding iron already heated, Abram’s done everything I’ve asked.

  “Doc said she’s lost a fair amount of blood. And he didn’t fix her up to save her life. If you want the woman to feel even a glimpse of your pain, you need to get started.”

  Yes, I want her to feel my pain. I also want her to feel Klara’s, my unborn baby’s, Veni’s, and every other person Faina’s death has touched.

  Grabbing the salt tabs from my pocket, I leave Abram standing at my back. He knows what I’m about to do and that I need to do it alone.

  “Katrina,” I call out, arriving at the table. “Can you hear me?”

  “Vlad,” she mumbles, twisting her head from side to side. Her eyes flutter open and then immediately close against the light shining brightly above her head. “Where am I?”

  With her once flawless body naked and spread out in the same position Klara’s had been, I have no deterrents or obstructions for what I’m about to do.

  Grabbing the salt tab, I lay it over the surgical stitches that barely hold the skin of her shoulder together.

  The first bite of agonizing pain comes hard and heavy, causing her eyes to open wide. Desperation, exhaustion, and hate come together, pinning me in place all at once.

  Her hands jerk against the ropes binding her, and her breathing becomes labored.

  “You’ll take your last breath today, Katrina,” I promise. “Anything to say about that?”

  “Fuck you,” she hisses.

  Using my finger, I push the salt farther down into the wound. Katrina releases an agonized scream. Tears plague her eyes, falling down her temples, and mixing with
the blood in her hair.

  I feel nothing for her other than fury and disgust. No remorse for what I’m doing. No doubts about my judging and then sentencing her to death. There’s nothing about this woman I’d ever care to save.

  “I didn’t fucking kill the bitch!” she screams. “I did everything Ciro said to do.”

  Lies.

  Even as her world is churning in darkness with impending death circling above, the whore is willing to pass blame. Ciro was in charge, but it was Katrina who followed. His day may be coming, but hers is already here.

  “No more games,” I state. “And no more confessions.”

  “Wait!” she screams when I push the salt down even farther.

  Several stitches snap, reopening her wound. The tab is starting to dissolve against the warmth of her blood.

  “Ciro would’ve killed Klara, just as he did Faina. You….” I grab a thin, nine-inch-long rod, only about a centimeter wide, and position it between her ribs. “You were playing with my beautiful girl before I had a chance to get to her.”

  When I drive the sharp point into her side, she gasps. The raspy breath, paired with the bubbling of blood trickling out against the metal, assures I’ve hit my target. Her lung is deflating and she’s finding it difficult to breathe.

  “Do you remember what I said I’d do to you if you got near Klara again?”

  She doesn’t answer. Her face contorts, burning in both terror and pain.

  “I told you I’d feed parts of you to my dogs.”

  “Fuck you,” she spits again, so low I nearly miss it.

  “But I won’t do that. Instead, I’m going to seperate your arms from their sockets before I cut them off. Then I’m going to mark your stomach. Abram and my men are going to carry you out of here, still alive but having you know it won’t be for long. They’re going to take you into the woods and tie you to a tree, where your flesh will be torn to shreds by wild animals before morning. No one will hear you scream. And no one will come for you.”

  With Katrina vehemently fighting for each breath, I turn to Abram where, like so many times before, he nods in both agreement and understanding.

  Bending to her ear, I take in the smell of death and revel in its triumph. Before sinking the rod into her side again, I whisper so only she can hear, “It was only Klara that I ever loved.”