But I’m not Mikhail. I know what needs to be done, but I can’t be the one to do it.
He must sense me wavering, because his hand squeezes my shoulder in a reassuring manner. “It’s okay.”
He helps me up, and Gregor lays there, looking confused.
“Now wh-” he starts to say, but the sound of Mikhail’s gun firing a muffled shot through its silencer ends him before he can finish his question.
Gregor can’t live. Too many people would suffer and die if he did. But Mikhail will shoulder that burden for me.
“Let’s go,” he says, picking my coat up off the floor and draping it around my blood spattered dress as Nikki emerges from the room, looking skittish and scared.
“It’s all over now,” I assure her.
23
Alicia
Three Years Later
It’s the anniversary of the night that Mikhail and I met, three years ago now. We never really celebrate it, it’d feel crass to do so, but we always take note of it and do something a little special. I’m not sure what Mikhail has in mind for me this year, though. He’s been so busy after taking over for Gregorovich as Avtoritet. But then, I’ve been busy too.
Leon bops in my lap, our oldest son, named after Mikhail’s brother. Already two and growing like a weed. Having two kids makes it a bit hard to concentrate on managing all of Mikhail’s financial records, but I like being involved in his business. And out of danger. Besides, he says I’m the one person he can trust.
I glance out over at Central Park, spread out before me from our beautiful condo. It’s a place bigger than I ever could have dreamed I’d live in, but with the two kids, plus mom and Hernando, it’s just perfect. Plenty of privacy and space, and the best location, right in the center of everything. It’s a commute for Mikhail, of course, but he wanted to keep his growing family somewhere safe. And in New York, safe means ritzy.
“Mommy, walk,” Leon says, squirming down from my lap and rushing to Eva’s playpen. He’s a bright kid, and I blame that on his dad. Mikhail has been reading to him every night since before he was even born, I guess trying to be the father he never had. Regardless of his reasons, I couldn’t be more proud of our little family.
“How about nan takes you for your walk,” I say as I pick Eva up, bringing her down the hall. My mom has recovered a lot since meeting Hernando, and the doctors have said it’s a miracle, but I know what it actually is. He’s given her purpose again, never treated her like an old lady knocking on death’s door. After dad died, I guess she lost a lot of that spark, but Hernando has lit her back up.
“Oh my little Eva!” Mom says as she comes to collect my baby from my arms.
“Could you take her and Leon for a little walk in Central Park? Mikhail is due home soon, and I have a little surprise for him.”
My mom laughs, bouncing Eva in her arms as she nods.
“Of course, sweet peach. We’ll get out of your hair for a bit!” She kisses me on the cheek before she quickly gathers the children and leaves me to the silence.
It’s funny, living so high above the bustle of New York, away from the crowds and the noise. Mikhail splurged on this place, most of his savings gone into securing the best condo he could find, our little castle from which to rule. But as a boss in the Bratva, the millions he spent on this place seem like peanuts. I should know, I do the books.
I head into our bedroom, changing out of my more comfortable clothes into a slinky red dress that looks similar to the one that Mikhail first found me in, and I tie my hair back, letting a couple tendrils frame my face. I’m used to dressing up fancy now, and it doesn’t take a lot of time to put on my makeup and the finishing touches.
By the time I finish, though, I hear the door unlocking. Even after all this time, I find my hand going to the gun hidden in my vanity, instincts kicking in before I hear Mikhail’s voice. He knows better than to surprise me after trying that once on our wedding night and finding me with a gun in my hands pointed at his chest.
“You’re home,” I smile as I head into the living room to greet him.
His face lights up with warmth as we greet, and the beautiful bouquet of flowers he whips out from behind his back helps. The assortment was carefully picked, including several white gardenias, the flowers I’d begged for at our wedding. I didn’t care about anything else, but gardenias were my dad and mom’s wedding flower, and he got her one every anniversary. Now the tradition has been passed down.
“I stopped off for these, kotika,” he says, and simple acts like that I know are far more troublesome now. He has a small army of guards with him wherever he goes. Though none of that keeps him from being sweet to me, like how he’s sweeping me up in his arm and pulling me in for a deep, passionate kiss.
The fire between us hasn’t dimmed at all as we make out, and before our greeting can be completed, my beautiful new flowers are fallen to the floor despite my best efforts, my red dress is crumpled beside it, and I am glistening with perspiration with my stunning, muscular hunk on top of me.
“It tortures me the whole day through to have to wait to ravage you,” he growls, plucking another kiss from my lips in our post-coital bliss.
I curl into him, knowing my hair and makeup is a mess, but I don’t care. Nothing could be more perfect than this moment as my mouth meets his, slower and lazier. I want to remember this moment, the light scent of flowers filling my senses, the feel of his heavy hands on my waist.
Then I lightly rub the back of his hand, guiding it lower, towards my navel, and I catch his eyes.
“I have good news,” I say, unable to resist smiling. My love was so virile and potent, we never needed to wait long for a new life to begin within me.
His face lights up just like it did the first time I told him I was expecting.
“Boy or girl, I hope this one is as amazing as you, my love. My life,” he says, overjoyed with the prospect of being a father the third time over.
Glossary
Avtoritet - The Authority, the Boss
Kotika - Kitty cat
Nichego - Nothing
Klyanus - I swear
Zasranec - Asshole
Da, da, moy drug - Yes yes, my friend
Podruga - Girlfriend
Politsiya - Police
Khorosho - Alright
Devushka - Girl
Sotrudnik - Officer
Mudak - Asshole/dickhead
Chert voz’mi - Damn it
Byet ostorozhen - Carefully
Zatk’nis, mu’dak - Dumb asshole
Pidarasy - vacation
Vy prekrasny - Beautiful
Obeshchayu - I promise
Ne volnuytes, kroshka - It’s okay, baby
Ochyen priyatno, sestra - Nice to meet you, sister
Moy brat - My brother
Bratishka - Little brother
Pozhaluysta - Please
Smelaya devushka - Daring girl
Sestra - Sister
Spasibo - Thank you
Da svidaniya - Goodbye
Fsyevo harosheva - Safe travels
Pizdoon - Fucking liar
Bozhe moi - My God!
Piz’da - Cunt
Govnjúk - Bastard / Shithead
Spetsnaz - Russian Special Forces
Nyet - No
Da - Yes
Part I
Saved by the Outlaw
24
Cherry
I should have worn better shoes.
Garden State, my ass, I think bitterly to myself as I awkwardly stumble through the warehouse in the dark. This morning when I woke up in my hotel room in Newark, I sleepily opened my shiny New Yorker suitcase to peruse my wardrobe options, all of which are also distinctly New Yorker in style. That is to say, they are much better suited to a strut down Fifth Avenue than a tromp through the muddy backroads of New Jersey.
Shoes, especially.
I am accustomed to sharp stilettos, suede ankle boots, and fire-engine-red pumps. None of which are
particularly appropriate for a day of exploring the site of my father’s death. This warehouse is dark, dank, and definitely a stark departure from my usual haunts. I mean, I am a journalist, so you might expect me to be used to running around in unusual places, sniffing out the next big story. But because my deadbeat mom was so generous and considerate as to land me with a name like Cherry LaBeau, I’ve never exactly been on the shortlist for the Pulitzer Prize.
In fact, I’ve been lucky to score the cushy, inconsequential, lighthearted pieces they’ve handed off to me in the past. I’ve been a fashion blogger, a who’s-who editorialist, and a celebrity gossip generator for several years, and it’s paid fairly well — which is to say not much by most standards. Well enough to keep me housed, fed, and decked out in (admittedly out-of-season) designer clothes in the very expensive city of the Big Apple all this time.
It would almost be a dream job.
Except that it’s the opposite of anything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Despite the girly, tongue-in-cheek name on my birth certificate, I’d like to think there’s nothing very frivolous about me. Sure, I write the puff pieces they assign me and I wear the knock-off Carrie Bradshaw outfits they expect me to. I sign my ridiculous name with a flourish, and I dot my “i’s” with a heart. But beneath all that superficiality is a real, hard-hitting journalist, just itching to break free and finally write something of substance.
And it’s what my father would have wanted for me.
“People are going to judge you for your name, sweetheart,” he told me when I was eighteen and heading off to university to get my journalism degree. “But that just means you gotta work that much harder. Make them take you seriously. Be so good at what you do that they’re forced to say your name with respect.”
Standing in my inappropriate high-heeled boots in this dripping, musty warehouse, I have to bite my lip to keep back the tears threatening to sting in my eyes. I can’t be weak. I can’t let my emotions cripple me. I’ve got to be strong like Dad was. Especially if I’m going to find out what happened to him… and who killed him.
It’s safer to think about my shoes, something silly and non-consequential. It helps keep my mind off how much I miss my dad. The only family I have — had — left. Now it’s just me, and I swore at his funeral that I’d make him proud in the afterlife.
It’s autumn here in Bayonne, New Jersey, and even deep inside this warehouse I can feel the occasional cool draft rippling through. I shiver and wrap my black trench coat more tightly around myself. This place is near enough to the coast that I could probably just run to the beach from here if I wanted to. But not yet. As tempting as it would be to just plop down on the Jersey Shore and let the salty fresh air mix with my tears, I didn’t come here for that purpose. I have something more important to do. I’m on a mission.
So I take a deep breath and try my best to walk lightly through the warehouse. This is easier said than done because my damn high-fashion boots are about as quiet as a foghorn, and the vast emptiness of this building causes my footfalls to echo slightly. Still, I doubt anyone else would come here — not since it was designated a crime scene.
Right?
After all, as far as I know nobody even owns it anymore. It’s sat out here on a muddy dirt road, abandoned, for so long that the original owners have probably died. I don’t know what this place was even used for. Except for murdering people in secret.
There’s that God-awful sting of tears again and I angrily swallow back the lump in my throat. I’ve come too far and risked too much to let myself be done in by my own stupid emotions. I can mourn later. Now, it’s time to buckle down and get the scoop.
I take a few more cautious steps before I’m distracted by what sounds like voices.
My blood runs cold, but I assure myself it’s got to be the draft rolling down the empty aisles, playing tricks on my spooked mind. There’s nobody here, I’m sure of it. Nobody but me.
But when I take another step I hear a distinctive shout.
I freeze up immediately, my eyes going wide. Oh no, I think fearfully, maybe it’s the cops coming by to check and make sure nobody’s disturbing the crime scene. But then again, they told me the forensics team already got all the information they needed, that the clean-up crew came through and cleared it all up long before I arrived. If there’s nothing else left to investigate, why would the cops be here?
My heart sinks into my gut.
Unless they’re not cops.
Feeling nauseous but strangely exhilarated, I lean into a massive metal shelf and strain my ears, trying to be utterly still and silent. I hold my breath and close my eyes, shutting out all extraneous sensory information so I can focus in on the voices. Sure enough, I’m able to make out the distant muttering of what seems to be a group of men.
A group? My heart starts to race as a sense of genuine danger starts to dawn on me. What am I doing here? I’m not a cop! I’m not a private investigator! I don’t have a gun or any kind of weapon at all, and even if I did, I would have no clue how to use it. I’m just a desperately curious, frightened fashion writer who has dropped herself smack-dab in the middle of what could potentially be some kind of criminal lair.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! I scold myself inwardly. What kind of idiot goes sleuthing around a murder scene unarmed and alone?
Holding my breath so tightly that my chest starts to ache, I can finally pick out a few choice words drifting over from across the massive warehouse: Cops. Information. Suspects.
Finally I’m forced to exhale and inhale sharply, letting the damp air fill my lungs. What on earth have I stumbled into here? What if these men are dangerous? I’m not prepared for a fight — hell, in these shoes I’m not even prepared for a quick escape. But something tells me I can’t turn back now. I’ve only been in this warehouse for five or six minutes, after an hour and a half of driving to get here. And who knows — the men talking might just reveal pertinent information about my father’s death. I can’t risk giving into my fear and bolting out of here now — not when things are just starting.
Besides, if I really want to make my late father proud, I’ve got to stop hiding behind frilly, innocuous fluff articles and blog posts, and start really getting into the nitty-gritty world of journalism. And that means embracing danger, walking bravely into the line of fire just for a shot at capturing that most elusive and beautiful prize: the truth.
Still, I can’t help but gasp in shock at the loud yell I hear next: “What do they know? What have they done?”
I cover my mouth to stifle my heavy panting. I’m so frightened by now that I’ve got goosebumps prickling up along my arms and legs, even under warm layers of clothing. It’s a man’s harsh voice I hear, almost a growl. His tone is accusatory and laced with venom. He sounds mean. Scary. Cruel.
I wait for the reply, which comes after a few tense moments.
“I don’t know! I swear! Don’t you think I’d tell you if — ”
There’s a loud cracking sound and then a man’s pained yelp. I crouch down in fear, suddenly wanting to make myself smaller, less detectable. This certainly doesn’t sound like a civil conversation. It sounds like something dark is going down.
“Get up,” orders a third man. His voice is very deep, his tone controlled. He sounds calmer, and yet more commanding. Even though he isn’t as loud as the other two, his voice carries the long distance, with an impressive resonance that sends a shiver down my spine, even with just those two words. I feel the insatiable need to see what he looks like, to put a face to the compelling voice.
Against my better judgment and every straining fiber of self-preservation in my body, I begin to creep along toward the voices. But my shoes — damn, useless pieces of crap — are too loud. I just can’t bear it. They might overhear me if I keep on this way. So, even though it pains me, I carefully slip them off my feet to carry them instead. As my toes, clad only in thin hosiery, touch the frigid, filthy floor, I grimace with disgust. Would it really have killed m
e to invest in a pair of sneakers before driving all the way out here? I have a lot to learn. This isn’t a Scooby Doo episode — I can’t run around in Daphne-esque heels and perfectly-styled hair if I’m going to make this work. Especially because the monsters I’m dealing with aren’t fake.
They’re murderers.
I can feel it in my soul. These guys in the warehouse have got to be related to my father’s death in some way or another. It can’t possibly be a coincidence that they’re here right now yelling about cops and stuff, when just a week ago my father’s life was snuffed out in the exact same location. I grit my teeth and force myself to ignore how gross the ground is beneath my feet as I move slowly, cautiously along toward the men.
“My associate gave you an order! Get on your feet, ya bastard!” commands the first voice I heard earlier. There’s the rustle of something like metal dragging on the concrete floor and I furrow my brows trying to figure out what the hell it might be. Then it hits me with a jolt to my heart: chains. It’s the sound of metal chains clinking and rolling across the floor.
What the hell? I crouch down even further as I continue to make my way closer. Even though everything just got a million levels more bizarre and horrifying, I feel totally drawn to the sounds of their voices. I have got to figure out what’s going on, even if doing so thrusts me directly into the lap of danger.
Besides, with my father gone, I don’t exactly have anything else to lose.
“I don’t know anythin’ about it, man! Nichego!” exclaims the second voice. He’s the one being interrogated, the one whose voice is wavering with fear. As I come closer, I peer around the ceiling-high metal storage shelves to see the three men only about fifty yards away from me. My jaw drops at the sight.
There’s a man with both arms chained to the floor, metal links around his wrists keeping him bound to about a ten foot reach. He’s drenched in sweat and his eyes are nearly bugging out of his head, he’s so scared. He looks like a skeevy rat of a man, with receding, blondish hair, scrawny limbs, and a long, hooked nose. He’s wearing a polo shirt and cargo pants which are much too large for him, and he’s kneeling on one knee, looking up at the two other guys with desperate, imploring eyes.
Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 37