“Miss Khitrova, what a pleasant surprise, your father will be very pleased to see you.” Mr. Volkov greets me at the bottom of the grand staircase. He’s a giant of a man with weathered features who’s been with my father for as long as I can remember.
I give him a wide smile, all brilliant white teeth and sunken dimples. This is the persona I portray to the world. Sweet, charitable Katia. They know nothing of my slave farm. Or my continuous business dealings with criminals in leagues far higher than my father. This is how I want it. “Yes, I came to surprise him,” I say, holding up a black, rectangular box with gold lettering on the lid. “I brought his favorite imported chocolates from Bravina’s downtown.”
Mr. Volkov grimaces. “You spoil him. He is not to have those…”
“One piece won’t hurt him, in fact, it’ll probably improve his mood, where is he?”
“The master bedroom.”
“You don’t need to come with me,” I inform him, and hold up a hand, cutting him off before he can say anymore. I turn my back to him and start up the black and white, veined, marble staircase. The mansion is haunted opulence. Each of the seventeen rooms decorated just as extravagantly as the last. All of them have remained empty since I was a child. They’re simply there as a show, another display of the Khitrova wealth.
I don’t knock as I palm the handle and pull open one of the double doors. I enter to find my father, one of the most infamous crime lords in the country, propped up in his specially crafted and perfectly gaudy sleigh bed that seems to just engulf him. The intermittent beeping of medical equipment further adds to the depressing scene. He has an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and it looks like he’s aged ten years in the last year alone. It doesn’t look like he’ll make it to the end of next year. And there is not a sad or regretful bone in my body as I anxiously anticipate that beautiful moment. He won’t leave this earth as a forgotten man. There is a lot that he’s accomplished in the last four decades. The legacy he will leave behind has impacted more than just our family. He’s been an integral part of making Little Russia into the mecca it is today.
He’d come to Boston in the late fifties, a twenty-one-year-old low level drug runner with a shrewd mind and big dreams. He worked his way from the bottom, moving up the ranks by proving himself a competent foot soldier. Where it got interesting was how well and how quickly he’d moved large amounts of dirty cocaine to where it was in its highest demand. The ghettos. He eventually formed his own crime organization, a crude form of what would ultimately become the Khitrova group. He took out his opponents by secretly putting them against each other, and all he had to do was sit back and watch them destroy each other until no one was left standing, except for him. And despite how many times the feds tried to bring him down, they never found substantial evidence to pin him with. Why? Because he had the Boston PD in his pocket. Money for favors. There was always a crooked cop to be bought, in my father’s case, he managed to buy the commissioner. That little tidbit isn’t common knowledge, but my private investigator has been nothing but thorough at his job so far.
Another thing that has been highly speculated but has yet to be proven is the way he’s been able to disguise his criminal dealings with legitimate businesses all throughout Boston. The majority of which he runs in Little Russia. The restaurants, the jewelry stores, and even the nightclub he’d handed over to Dmitry to run in the North End. They all provided work for the inhabitants of Little Russia while concealing a massive drug operation with ties overseas.
I hired the PI not only to learn all these things about my father, but to also uncover the other secrets I knew he was hiding. There were parts of his past that didn’t add up where they should have. But I was determined to find those missing pieces, mostly out of curiosity but also because discovering people’s secrets and exploiting them was fun. That’s a lesson my father has taught me indirectly.
The four people in the room aside from my father all turn to look in my direction as I walk into the room. The three men worked for him and the petite, dark-haired woman is his nurse. I vetted her myself.
One of the three suited men is one of my undisclosed employees. Vigo is briefing my father on something when I catch the tail end of the conversation. There are no words from my father for a long time afterwards, until he reaches up with his shaky hand to remove the oxygen mask from his face.
“Stay…” his voice is raspy, his breathing labored, but he forces himself to speak, “stay on it…”
“Yes, sir,” Vigo acknowledges, and with a nod, he and the two other men exit the room.
“Miss Khitrova,” the nurse says in greeting, and I spare the smallest of smiles in her direction before I set my dark blue designer bag down on a brocaded chair and proceed to my father’s bedside.
“Chocolate,” I offer, smiling at him.
“You…are…too…good…to…me…Katia,” he rattles, only to double over in a fit of coughs that has the little nurse scrambling to his side with a cup of water. I take it from her without a word and help him drink as I soothingly rub his back.
“There, there, father,” I sooth, bringing the cup to his mouth once more for him to drink. “Don’t push yourself so hard.” I allow the nurse to readjust the oxygen mask over his face once again before handing her the cup and take his hands, cupping them in between my frigid fingers.
No warmth.
His hands are as cold as mine. “You have to rest.” I touch my lips to the back of his veined hand, the kiss the epitome of daughterly affection. “Daddy, I want you to accompany me to the fundraiser on the thirty-first. We can ring in the New Year together.” His dark eyes crinkle at the corner when I give him a teary smile. He raises his hand to cup my cheek. “Rest now, I’ll be back Sunday to see you again.” He doesn’t immediately release his hold on my hands but I’m unwavering in my act so I tolerate his touch until he finally lets go and I’m free to move. “Be well, enjoy the chocolates,” I whisper with another kiss to his hand before I stand to leave.
“Sonya, a word, please?” I request of the petite nurse, picking up my bag on my way out. Further down the hall, I’m standing in front of a family portrait from years ago with a dispassionate stare. My father is at the center, a ten-year-old Dmitry at his right, and I’m at my father’s feet with Knox standing a short distance to the left of us. Not exactly a part of the family, but not an outsider either. Like a guard dog.
“Miss Khitrova…?” Sonya’s soft voice draws me out of my brief reverie. Turning toward the other woman with an assessing stare, I take in the chin-length bob that complements her oval face and the full, dark fringe that settles neatly over her equally dark brown eyes. She’s like a doll with her doe eyes, button nose, and perfectly bowed lips. She’s dressed in her nurse scrubs, consisting of a dark purple top and matching loose-fitted bottoms. She has on the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen, some warped, hybrid Crocs/orthopedic garbage that should be in an incinerator.
“I fucking hate those shoes,” I remark with disgust in my voice, staring down at the offending footwear.
“I’m sorry they displease you,” Sonya says, mildly. “Would you like me to take them off?”
The gently-worded inquiry brings my gaze back up to Sonya’s pretty face. “I would like for you to burn them,” is my matter-of-fact response as I take a step closer to her, closing the short distance between us. “And this, too, while you’re at it,” I hook a finger in the front of Sonya’s top and tug it lightly. “But that’s fun for later. Have you done what I’ve asked?”
“Yes, of course. He’s up to three times the dosage now.” We’re so close that we’re speaking in whispers, her lips a flirtation away from a kiss. “How much longer do you want me to stay here, Miss Khitrova?”
“Until I say otherwise,” I reply, silkily tugging on the white string of Sonya’s pants and then slowly slipping my hand inside. Bypassing the thatch of curls, my fingers press into the heat of her cunt. Her lips part to release a moan when my fingers glide along the s
lick lips of her pussy. Teasing strokes that go no further but work in driving her crazy. “It’ll be over soon, kitten,” I utter against her mouth, “and then you can come home for some much deserved cream.” Pulling my hand out, I raise it to find her slickness coating my fingers, “Clean my fingers.” She opens her mouth to lap the two fingers I’ve inserted between her lips. “I will reward you, kitty, when the job is done.”
Sonya is a good girl. I trained her myself. She’s been with me for a few years now and has possibly convinced herself that she’s in love with me. The bitch would probably take a bullet for me. That’s good. It was always nice to know I’d have a human shield in the wings willing to die for me. That will come in handy one day.
***
Inside my town car, I find Vigo seated on the other side as I settle in. I train my features into impassivity, even though I’m surprised to see him. He is a complete brute of a man, but I like him because there are some brains behind all those muscles.
“Did we have an appointment?” I ask mildly, as I watch him reach for one of the four short glasses in the closed compartment at his side before handing it over to me. “Thank you, halfway, please.” He twists the cap off the green bottle in his left hand and fills my glass to the appropriate place with sparkling water.
“We have a problem.”
My right eyebrow quirks up, “Oh?”
He frowns, taking a moment to seemingly gather his thoughts before elaborating. “One of the jobs we went on the other day, it was supposed to be a straightforward shakedown. Junior said it would be an easy mark, and it was, until your guy interfered.”
He now has my complete attention. “Knox?”
“Look, I know how fucked in the head the guy is, but there’s no fucking way that he supposed to do what he did.”
“And exactly what did he do?”
“I’m not saying he did it or didn’t do it. All I know is the mark and his sister didn’t have the money to cover the loan…”
“So what, you think Knox paid it for them? That doesn’t make any fucking sense, Vigo. Why would he possibly do that?”
“Fuck if I know, but we got the twenty-five grand and I know the mark didn’t pay it.”
My mind is suddenly going a mile a minute. A small contemplative frown cracks my impassive façade. “It doesn’t make any sense,” I muse almost silently to myself. “You must be mistaken, Knox doesn’t care about people.”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I can keep an eye on him for you.” At that, my lips rise into a humorless smile.
“You don’t follow Knox, not unless you’re a professional. He’ll know you’re tracking him before you even realize it. ” I take a sip of water before saying, “Keep an eye on the mark. I want to see if there is any sort of connection there. And in the meantime, I’ll take care of Knox.” I’m due for a visit.
“How long are you going to have me do these little street jobs? I’m still waiting on that higher position with higher pay you promised me.” Skepticism of me delivering on the promise I made several months ago rings loud and clear in his voice.
“And you will have it,” I reply. Rummaging through my bag, I pull out a hefty stack of crisp one hundred dollar bills. “A very small token of my appreciation for now,” I say, holding up the money for him to take. “Your intel on my father’s businesses has been very informative so far. You’ve been a great asset to me.” I settle back against the seat after he pockets the money. “I am a woman of my word, Vigo, trust me, your loyalty will be well rewarded. But for now, I need you to remain where you are.”
In order to get him on my side, I’ve enticed him with a position at the auction house. Vigo has been with my father for years. He is nowhere near being my father’s confidant but with all the things he’s seen and retained over the years, it was imperative to have him working for me. The auction house and my slaves are the carrots I now dangle in front of this mule. I’m smart enough to know the simple promise of it will not hold his interest for long. He’ll have it, but not before I’m ready to give it to him.
Chapter Fourteen
Lacey
While everyone is inside celebrating Thanksgiving with their families, Dante and I are out in the cold, in the dead of the night, searching for our mother. And to the surprise of no one, we haven’t found her. It’s pointless. I know this. Dante knows this, but neither of us wants to be the one to say it. It’s going on three hours since we started scouring the streets, no particular locations in mind, just going on hunches. We visit Red’s usual hangouts, trying to talk to the people he typically hangs out with, hoping they can tell us something. Anything that’s going to lead us to our mother. We find nothing. No one is worried or cares enough to give us any information. In fact, they all seem determined to stick to their “no snitching” bullshit dogma. It’s frustrating as fuck. Every turn is a dead end. We weren’t very hopeful to begin with when we started this search. I filed a missing persons report the other day, but that was just as useless as us driving around the neighborhood chasing a ghost. Another missing person on skid row is the least of the local PD’s problems.
She may be an addict but she isn’t illiterate. She would have called me or Dante by now. I can’t shake the horrible feeling that something bad has happened to her. Red isn’t the type to stick around. I don’t think he would even bother to take her to the hospital if it ever came down to it. The image of her broken and lifeless body slumped against a Dumpster like garbage in the back of some alleyway causes my throat to close up and tears to well. I’m suddenly wishing I hadn’t left her to fend for herself with Red that night two weeks ago. The weight of the guilt is a burden I know all too well and it sits like a massive boulder on my chest, cutting off my next breath.
Maybe if I’d stayed, maybe if I’d been strong enough, brave enough to stay that night and face whatever punishment I had coming from Red, maybe, just maybe, she’d be here now. Perhaps even sober enough to rustle up a cheap imitation of Thanksgiving dinner. What were a few broken ribs, a busted face, and a fat lip compared to my mother being here with me now? Fuck… I should’ve stayed and endured the pain.
I’m not sure who says it first or even if anything is said at all. But we come to a silent agreement on hour four. Nearly ten p.m. And we’re cold, exhausted, and hungry. There aren’t many words exchanged between us in the car ride home. The car that’s hanging on by a thread. We make it home feeling frustrated. Three and a half minutes later, microwaved mac and cheese, nuked Idaho potatoes, and a lukewarm soda are what’s for dinner.
“I’ll…” Dante clearing his throat disrupts the flow of silence and I look up from my untouched mac and cheese bowl. “I’ll keep looking tomorrow. Ask around again. Junior might know something.” God, he’s exasperating. I can’t fucking stand it. He knows damn well he isn’t going to go see Junior about our mother. I don’t know if he even realizes just how bad of a liar he is.
“Yeah, okay, whatever.” I’m done. I’m tired. I don’t have the brain power or patience to process this bullshit. I already told him I was done bailing his ass out of trouble. Whatever he does from here on out is his problem. “Night,” I murmur, throwing my uneaten cup of mac and cheese into the kitchen trash bin before heading to my room. I turn the lock in place and shuffle to my bed.
The squeaky mattress catches me and the hefty weight of my emotions in the process. The sadness that feels like an open wound in my chest comes only second to the crippling exhaustion swimming through my veins. Sleep is there, so close that I can reach out and drag the warm down comforter of unconscious over my head. But I don’t. I can’t. And it takes me only until this very second to realize that something is wrong. Horribly wrong. I feel my heart crash to a stop against my breastbone, the impact so powerful that my chest jerks inches off the bed. Fear violates me, it shreds through every inch of my being without an ounce of mercy, leaving behind this horrifying sense of powerlessness that makes me sick to my stomach.
Telling myself it’s
a dream doesn’t help, not when I can feel his oxygen-sucking presence in the room. Dear God, he’s in the room with me. Panic incites me to move, to turn, to scramble out of bed and run to the nearest exit. But it’s like he anticipates the effort and stops me before I can do anything. One immeasurably strong hand grips the back of my neck, long, gloved fingers cinching around to the front like a manacle. The hold is inflexible. I can’t even begin to disengage from it even if I tried. I don’t see him. Not even a shadow of him. But I feel him. Hear the quiet resonance of his voice along my ear in a whoosh of warm breath.
“I’ve come to collect, Lacey.”
It’s the voice of my nightmares. What he just said makes my blood run cold. But before I can say anything, before I can even try to understand any of this, there is the smallest pinch at the base of my spine and then… there is nothing else.
***
Cotton. That is the first thing that comes to mind as I blearily come awake. My mouth is full of it. Or at least something that feels like it. It prevents me from speaking, from screaming, from doing anything else but attempting muffled noises that only make worse the dryness in my throat. I have been deprived of all moisture, as if someone has made it a point to remove all evidence of saliva.
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