by Nicole Fox
The large space is dusty and dark as we enter, but my eyes adjust quickly. From the outside, the space looks like it could be abandoned, but lights flicker at half-brightness above our heads, filling the room with an electrical hum. Cyrus is standing at the far end of the warehouse, arms crossed over his chest. He is a small man in every way and the tall ceilings of the warehouse seem to only emphasize this fact. He looks like a child standing before us, though his face is grave. His brows pull together as we walk closer.
“You do not have a greeting for me, Mikhail?” Cyrus asks, chin lifted. “I thought we had become friends.”
Boris laughs. “If you were friends, you’d know this is not Mikhail.”
Cyrus creases his brow further, leaning forward to study me as though I might be a mirage. “Aleksandr?”
“Unless I have a long-lost triplet I didn’t know about,” I sigh.
Cyrus laughs, but the sound is shrill and humorless. “Even if there was a third, I’d still prefer Mikhail. He is good to do business with.”
“That might be the first time I’ve ever heard that,” Boris says mostly under his breath. Cyrus still hears him, though.
“I’m sure none of your other partners are as forthcoming as I am,” Cyrus says. “They wouldn’t want to bite the hand that is feeding them, per se.”
The smile on Cyrus’ face tells me he thinks he is being hilarious. I don’t want to engage him. I don’t want to encourage whatever joke he was telling, but the thought that he is having a laugh at my brother’s expense makes me tighten my fists. “And what has Mikhail ever fed you?”
Cyrus turns to me and shrugs lazily. He has grown too comfortable here. He should be quiet, respectful. We are not royalty, but our business associates usually conduct themselves with a level of respect. Professionalism, at least. Cyrus acts as though he is talking to two friends. One thing must be made very clear: we are not his friends.
“Come on, Alek,” he says, calling me by the nickname I only allow Mikhail to use. “You know your brother better than anyone. He isn’t cut out for this business.”
My spine stiffens, and I widen my stance, fingers itching to grab the blade at my hip. “You do realize that one day soon he will be the boss of the Levushka family? Mikhail will be the man in charge? Are you sure you’d like to speak about him like this? Believe me, I do not forget such slights.”
“No slight intended,” Cyrus corrects quickly, hands held out in front of him in defense. “Everyone likes Mikhail. He is a good guy. Last time he was in town, we—” Cyrus’ voice cuts off, his eyes casting nervously up to me and then away. “Well, we had a good time.”
I know what that means. They got high together. They partied together.
Father doesn’t like when Mikhail lets loose in front of the clients, and I’m sure Mikhail told Cyrus not to say anything. Clearly, Cyrus doesn’t know when to shut his mouth, though. If he did, he never would have opened it in my presence in the first place.
“It’s just that Mikhail doesn’t have an eye for details,” Cyrus continues. “He lets things slide. Things that benefit me. I mean, I’m sure you can’t blame me for not mentioning them to him.”
Boris raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest, his stomach protruding out in a way that makes him look sturdy rather than fat.
Cyrus notices his change in demeanor and laughs nervously. He turns to me, head finally bowed low. “It is just that everyone knows you are the hard ass, Alek. The serious one.”
“Don’t call me Alek.” I clench my fingers, my nails biting into the palm of my hand. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to marshal my anger. To keep my feelings close to my chest and focus on the logistics. On strictly what is necessary. But, although it would not be necessary, I can’t seem to think about anything other than knocking Cyrus’ teeth in.
He doesn’t know Mikhail. If he’d seen him last night—his eyes sunken in, skin pale—perhaps he’d have a different opinion of him. All Cyrus remembers is the Levushka twin he drank and partied with. But that is not all Mikhail is.
“Sorry,” Cyrus stammers, looking to Boris as though he expects some kind of backup from him. Boris lets out a low growl and Cyrus snaps his eyes back to me. He should be quiet. Now would be the time to stop talking and hope we will forgive his errors.
Instead, Cyrus doubles down. “But see? That is exactly what I mean. You are the serious one, Aleksandr. The one with boundaries. Standards. I’ve heard more than a few people suggest you should inherit the family after your father. It makes the most sense. Mikhail doesn’t have what it takes to be a leader.”
Boris takes a step closer to me so we are almost shoulder-to-shoulder and shakes his head. “The idiot isn’t worth it.”
I know he is right, but that doesn’t stop me from rearing back and driving my fist into Cyrus’ eye socket.
Punching him feels like a sigh of relief. A moment of reprieve after days—weeks?—spent clenched. As much as I hate to admit it, Cyrus was right about one thing at least: I am the one with boundaries. Mikhail would have had a knife to Cyrus’ neck the moment he even breathed a word against me. But me? I held back. I waited until I couldn’t contain it anymore. Honestly, I’m not sure which strategy is better.
“Fuck!” Cyrus cries as he drops to the floor. His knees crack against the concrete, and he winces. “What in the hell is wrong with—?”
“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you,” Boris says, unmoved by my sudden outburst.
Heat radiates from my center, flooding through my arms and legs, and my vision is blurred around the edges. The only clear spot in my vision is Cyrus crumpled on the ground. I grab his sweat-stained gray sweatshirt by the collar and haul him to his feet. If it weren’t for the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, I’d think I was beating up a teenager. He is too scrawny to show up to meetings like this alone. I decide to teach him the lesson the hard way.
“…‘Wrong with me’?” I ask, finishing his thought. “Is that what you were going to ask? What is wrong with me?”
He shakes his head, eyes wide. “No, that isn’t what I—”
“You are what is wrong with me,” I spit, pulling his face closer to mine until he has to tuck his chin in to keep us from touching. Until he has to lower his eyes and turn his head, avoiding my gaze the way he should have when I walked through the door. “Your obvious disrespect for the Levushka family and its members. That is what is wrong with me, Cyrus.”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he stammers, his legs flailing as he tries to find purchase on the floor so he can stand up. Most of his weight is hanging from my hand.
“Then what did you mean?” I ask. “Were you seeking to flatter me by insulting my brother? Did you think I would turn on my own family and gossip with you? Is that what you expected?”
“No, I just—”
“Or were you trying to sow discord in our ranks?” I tilt my head to the side, examining him. “Are you a mole seeking a weakness that can be used against us?”
He shakes his head vigorously, the thin hair on top of his head flapping from the force. “I’m not a mole. I’ve worked with your family for years. I would never double cross you.”
I drop him down onto his knees. He curses as his kneecaps smack into the floor again, but the curse turns to a hiss when I pull the knife from my hip and press the flat part of the blade under his chin.
“Aleksandr.” Boris sounds relaxed, but I hear the warning in his tone. Cyrus is an important connection for our family. Killing him because I’m a little pent-up wouldn’t be the best look. But that doesn’t mean I can’t scare him a little.
“I’ve worked with enough traitors to know that everyone has a price.” I slide the knife along his cheek, the sharpened blade leaving a thin cut in its wake. Blood blooms from the slice.
Cyrus looks past me, his eyes pleading with Boris, but I know he won’t find mercy there. Boris isn’t the forgiving type.
“I’m not a traitor,” Cyrus pl
eads. “I swear.”
I tighten my fist in the material of his sweatshirt and drag the knife back to his throat. “Maybe you aren’t. But perhaps you could do with a little reminder of who is in charge.”
“You are,” he practically screams. “You are. I work for the Levushkas. I know that.”
“Do you?” I glide the knife across his weak chest towards his stomach. “Or should I trim a little off the top to remind you?”
He whimpers, and I shush him. “Don’t worry. No internal organs. Just a little skin. It will grow back.”
“Please, Aleksandr. Please,” he repeats, his hands folded together in a prayer. “I’m sorry. I’ll apologize. To you. To Mikhail. To Vlad.”
I stare into his pale brown eyes and consider him for a moment. I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve worked with traitors before. It is a part of our world. I can sniff them out easily enough. Cyrus isn’t one, but he could be. He is weak, frightened. Like a rat, he will run for higher ground as soon as the water starts to leak in. He’ll turn his back on me and my family and abandon us all if he sees a better opportunity. So, I need to make sure he knows that any opportunity he takes, if it harms my family, will end with him being separated from his skin.
Without warning, I let go of his shirt and throw him backwards. He falls on his back, the air whooshing out of his chest in one burst, and then scrambles to his feet, backing away from me quickly.
“Not necessary,” I bite. “But disrespect me or my family again, and you won’t even have the opportunity to apologize. I’ll slit your throat before the words are out of your mouth.”
His hand moves subconsciously to his neck and he nods. “Of course. Yes.”
Cyrus is still staring up at me, eyes wide and glassy when Boris claps his hands. The sound echoes around the room and the weapons importer snaps his attention to my uncle.
“Now that we’re all clear on who is in charge,” he says. “Can we talk business? I don’t want to miss lunch.”
Cyrus scurries to the back wall of the warehouse and shuffles back with a bag slung over his arm. It looks heavy enough to tip him over, but there should be three more of them at least.
“You were supposed to bring half of them today, right?” I ask, gesturing for him to open it.
He drops it on the floor, rolls a kink out of his neck and shoulder, and then unzips the bag. There are a smattering of handguns and a few semi-automatic rifles, but not near the amount we paid for.
“What the fuck is this?” I turn to Boris, but he is staring down at the bag, forehead wrinkled like he is trying to count them each individually.
“Half,” Cyrus says. “This is half.”
“Half of what?” I kick the bag, and Cyrus takes a step back, his hands folded behind his back. “Not half of what I paid for. Where is the rest?”
Cyrus looks to Boris for a quick second, his eyes flitting around the room nervously before they land on me. “Did no one tell you?”
Now, it is my turn to turn on Boris. “Tell me what?”
My uncle waves his hand dismissively. “It is nothing. Not really.”
I gesture to the sad bag of weapons on the floor. “Yeah, I know. This is nothing. Where are the weapons we paid for?”
He shakes his head and runs a meaty hand down his face. “It is just a rival family. A small group of wannabes causing some trouble in St. Petersburg.”
Cyrus had been expecting Mikhail to be at the meeting for a reason. He usually handled the St. Petersburg side of things. I spend most of my time in Moscow, so I don’t expect to know everything going on, but I do expect to be informed if another family is cutting in on our territory.
“What kind of trouble?” I ask, turning back to Cyrus now. Boris had plenty of opportunity to tell me about this threat to our power, and he’d kept it to himself. I can’t count on him to be honest about the scope.
“Vlad knows about it,” Boris cuts in. “Mikhail told your father after his last trip here. He knows.”
Everyone knew except for me. I do my best not to show my discomfort at that fact and keep my attention on Cyrus.
“What kind of trouble?” I repeat.
His face pales, and he shrugs. “They want my business. My loyalty.” He holds up his hands to shield himself as though I’m lunging at him, even though I haven’t moved. “But I would never. I work for your family, and I would never betray you. The problem is, I told them that, and there have been raids. My inventory isn’t what it once was.”
“That doesn’t sound like wannabes causing trouble, Uncle. That sounds like a fucking problem I should have been informed about.”
Boris cows. “Perhaps, but it isn’t anything we can’t deal with.”
“You’re right,” I say, bending down to pick up the duffel and throw it over my shoulder. Cyrus really must be weak; it isn’t nearly as heavy as he made it look. “Because we will deal with it. And soon.”
Chapter 4
Zoya
The estate has been less busy than usual. Boris Levushka has never been one to throw wild parties or keep a lot of guests, but he hosts family. His brother and twin nephews visit St. Petersburg regularly for business, which always adds a long list of chores to my already overflowing workload. However, in the last few weeks, the house has been quiet.
Everything has seemed quieter since my father died. When my mother and I aren’t screaming at one another, the cottage is silent. I no longer hear the sound of my father humming as he searches the cupboards for an evening snack or the creak of his footsteps across the wood floors. Now, it is just the forlorn and disappointed sighs of my mother coming from underneath her bedroom door.
Before the pregnancy, I could count on my mother coming up to the main house to visit me once a day or more, usually bringing with her a fresh cut bundle of flowers from our garden or from the more immaculately landscaped flower beds surrounding the estate. Occasionally, she would finish her duties early and take on mine to allow me time to devote to my drawings.
“You need to focus on what is important,” she’d say as she practically pushed me out the door and across the lawn. “Cleaning is my specialty. Drawing is yours. Don’t let it go to waste.”
That is what my mother thinks I am doing: letting it go to waste. My life, my talent, my potential. All a waste, now that I’m pregnant.
The thought leaves a sour taste in my stomach, and I do my best to force it down. I’ve thrown up enough for a lifetime due to morning sickness, so I have no desire to do it again.
“If you’re going to stand there lurking in the corner, the least you could do is chop some vegetables.”
I look up to see Samara waving a carrot at me, her narrow face split wide in a smile. I roll my eyes and snatch the carrot from her, grabbing a vegetable peeler off the counter.
“Cooking is your job, remember?”
“And is standing around doing nothing yours?” she teases back. “I’d love to get paid to stand around and watch me cook. Want to trade?”
I throw one of the orange peelings towards her. It falls short, landing in the sink, and Samara sticks out her tongue at me.
“I can’t help it that I’m an efficient worker,” I say. “I finished all my work for this morning. The only thing left is to clean the kitchen once you finish.”
“I’ve even been taking on that job recently,” Samara sighs. “Boris has been eating dinner later than usual.”
“You should leave the kitchen. I can get to it in the morning.” Dishes and pans covered in stuck on food flash through my mind, and I fight back a wince, but say nothing.
Samara wrinkles her nose, having the same thought. “It’s easier for me to take care of it right away than let it sit all night. What we need to do is get Mr. Levushka on a better schedule.”
I’ve always had a closer relationship to Boris than the other employees, but I still glance around nervously to make sure no one overheard her. As innocent as our conversation is, it wouldn’t be good if word of it made its way back to
Boris.
“He is a busy man.”
Samara shakes her head and leans forward, finally lowering her voice. “I’m not convinced what he is doing is for work. If it was, why would he need to stumble in after midnight?”
“He made you cook for him at midnight?” I ask, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“No, are you kidding? There is no way I’d get my ass out of bed to make him a full meal in the middle of the night,” she says with a snort. If Boris asked her to, I know she would, but I don’t say so. “But I heard him slamming cabinets in the kitchen from my room.”
Samara doesn’t live at the estate full-time the way my mother and I do, but she has a room in the servant quarters so she doesn’t have to make the hour-long commute back to her apartment on the other side of the city.
“And he didn’t sound entirely...sober,” she whispers.
“You could tell that from the sound of him banging cabinets?” I ask.
“Yes, I could,” she says, chest puffed up with indignation. She throws a handful of freshly-chopped vegetables into a preheated skillet and wipes her hands on the front of her apron. “He stumbled around and cursed under his breath. When I woke up in the morning, he’d knocked things over and there was blood in the sink.”
“Blood?” I wrinkle my forehead. “People don’t usually bleed when they are drunk. Maybe he was hurt.”
“They do when they cut themselves on a knife while trying to cook... drunk,” she says, driving home the point. Then, she waves a hand like none of it matters anyway. “Anyway, the point is that your work has been slowing down while mine has been picking up, and I know it would make me a good friend to be happy for you, but I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself.”
“What’s new?” I tease, walking around the counter and bumping her hip with mine while I add my chopped carrots to the pan.
“Hey, if you were a good friend, you’d feel sorry for me, too. My life is miserable.” Samara turns her attention to a pot of simmering rice. When she lifts the lid, a cloud of steam rushes out, and she dodges it, blindly stirring the pot with a wooden spoon before replacing the lid. “More miserable than yours, anyway.”