by K. Marie
When I was sixteen and Viktor was twelve, his father came to the house drunk to pick him up. I guess Viktor had taken too long to collect his things, which apparently annoyed Luka. I was in the sitting room watching television when I heard Viktor cry out. When I got to the hallway, I saw my uncle clutching a fistful of his hair. Viktor’s face was pinched in pain, and his neck was bent at an odd-looking angle.
I demanded Luka let him go, but the asshole only snarled and tightened his grip. He was mean and cruel, and also a bully.
Shooting across the room in anger, I found my foot connecting with his balls. Luka cried out and dropped to his knees, but staggered back to his feet seconds later and charged at me.
Wrong move on his part.
A quick jab to the throat stopped him in his tracks—a knee flew up to connect with his stomach, and a whack to the back of the neck sent him sprawling onto the floor. But I wasn’t done. Walking over to where he laid splayed face down, I grabbed ahold of his right hand—the one he’d used to grip Viktor’s hair, and bent back all of the fingers with force, until I heard several satisfying snaps. The sound of his fingers breaking.
“I’m sure you’ll find other uses for that hand from now on,” I told my uncle, completely unremorseful.
Asshole deserved that and a lot more.
Luka howled in pain, sending two of the byki running into the house and both my mother and father flying into the hallway from upstairs.
My mother stood with an aghast look on her face, and a hand clamped over her mouth. My father had stood merely staring down at his brother in disgust. After explaining to them what happened, my father asked me to go to my room. Viktor joined me a few minutes later.
“Thank you, for doing that.” He’d said timidly, still standing by the door.
“Not even your own father gets to treat you like shit, it’s not right. I will always protect you from those who dare put their hands on you, Malen'kiy run, always.” I told Viktor.
My mother had voiced her disapproval over my use of violence. But strangely enough, my father never issued a word of reprimand over the incident. In fact, he never mentioned it at all. I believe he was actually proud of me, he had probably been wanting to do the same thing to his younger brother for years. However, he must have said something to Luka that night because the asshole steered clear of me from that point on. I still saw him, of course, but we had few words for each other. And as far as I knew, he’d kept his hands off of Viktor. At least for a while.
When I was eighteen, I came home from University for a holiday, and my father surprised me with a new car as a gift. I was eager to test it out, also to show it off. The black two-door BMW was both slick and fast, and I probably broke many traffic laws on my way to pick up Viktor that day. When I got there, I sat outside his house waiting for him to come out, but after maybe five minutes, I huffed in annoyance and got out of the car to go get him. After ringing the doorbell several times, he finally came to the door. He was holding what looked to be a bag of frozen vegetables up to his left eye. When I asked what happened, Viktor hung his head in embarrassment. And I knew, I just knew Luka had hit him. Gritting my teeth, I struggled to hold my temper in check. But when the cowardly prick appeared behind Viktor in the doorway, all of that went out the window.
“He’s not allowed to leave this house until he learns some respect, and there’s nothing you can do about it, mu'dak!” Luka yelled belligerently, breath reeking of vodka.
When he grabbed Viktor’s shirt and jerked him backward; causing him to stumble and fall, I instantly forgot we were related as I reigned several punishing blows down on my uncle.
It must have been the alcohol that made him get back up off the floor.
With blood dripping from his mouth, Luka staggered and weaved as he climbed back to his feet, but he’d managed to produce a pocket knife from somewhere in the process. His clumsy charge had me stepping quickly in reverse out the door and onto the porch, and into a more open space that would give me a better defensive advantage. I did a quick sidestep to evade him, but when he whirled back around, he struck-out at me several uncoordinated times; each of which I managed to deflect. My goal was to disarm him, but in his out of control rage and anger, he turned his head suddenly left, then charged in that direction. Viktor had come out onto the porch and was just standing there.
I moved quickly, but not fast enough. The knife slashed through Viktor’s hand as he threw it up reflexively in an attempt to block the assault. I tackled Luka, the force of it sending us both flying off the porch and crashing to the ground. In my white-hot rage, I found myself on Luka’s back with my arm wrapped around his neck. Pressing as hard as I could, I gave his neck a quick, precise twist until I heard a gratifying crack. All went quiet and still after that. Everything suddenly paused, right along with the breath that froze in my lungs. Luka had stopped moving. When I looked up, I saw Viktor sitting huddled into the corner of the porch, cradling a hand that was dripping with blood and wearing a look of shock. Tears streamed down a face that was as white as paper.
Did I intend to kill my uncle that day? At that moment, I believe I did. Did he mean to kill his own son that day had I not stopped him? I think he would have. If not that day, then possibly another.
I’m not soulless, but I can’t say that I ever regretted killing Luka. Not for myself, but for Viktor. I thought he’d hate me for what I did to his father. But after he had gotten stitched up and was allowed to leave the hospital that day, my father brought him back to our home to live for a while.
“He deserved to die…I hated him for the way he treated my mother. I planned to kill him myself someday…” Viktor said that night.
“I told you I’d always protect you, Malen'kiy run, even from your own father.” I reminded him.
“And I will always do the same for you, dvoyurodniy brat.” He vowed.
I learned several things that day. One, my father was right. Had I not been taught hand-to-hand defensive combat, I likely wouldn’t have been able to defend myself, let alone Viktor. Two, never act out of anger, it affects your judgment. Three, Ari had taught me well.
In the old Soviet days, there was a unique murdering technique called ‘zamochit’ that was widely used by the Red Mafia—one of Russia’s first mafias. Zamochit involved breaking every bone in the body one by one. A painful way to die, for sure.
Ari taught me zamochit, the sadistic bastard. But over the years, I’ve found that knowing how to break any bone in a man’s body could be quite useful. And that’s precisely what I intended to do to the man who’d sent four hapless assassins after me. Vadim Savin was a fixer of sorts; a man who handled a lot of pesky problems for those of the criminal world. He was ballsy, I’d give him that, but he’d also proven stupid. The man must have been hard-up for money. Why else would he agree to a job that he knew would bring certain death to his doorstep?
Hell, I’m no goddamn priest, I could give a fuck less about the complexities of a man’s misguided soul. The answers I sought were more simplistic. And I would break every bone in Savin’s body until I had those answers.
Twenty-One
G A R L A N D
“Deiter has arrived,” Sharon said from the doorway of my office, “Do you want him in here or in the conference room?”
I’d prefer neither. That was my first thought, before giving an internal sigh.
“In here is fine, Sharon, thank you,” I murmured reluctantly.
I had forgotten all about the Monday morning meeting with the project manager, which was unusual for me. But it spoke to how tired and distracted I’d been the past forty-eight hours. Today was terrible timing, but business is business.
“Good Morning, Sir,” Deiter greeted as he entered the office and strode across the expanse of gray carpeting.
Ignoring his outstretched hand, I gestured to the chairs that sat across from my desk. “Take a seat.”
Deiter’s eyes registered surprise before glancing down at the chairs, then he quickly
took his seat. A lot had happened since I’d initially summoned the man, now I was irritated by the necessity.
“Before I go into why I’ve asked you here, I’d like an update on the progress of Harlow Springs,” I told him.
I had purchased Harlow Springs—soon to be renamed, Autumn Springs, three months ago. A former Waldorf Astoria luxury resort, the North Palm Beach waterfront property had two-hundred and fifty guest rooms, two eighteen-hole golf courses, a forty-thousand square foot spa and racquetball complex, a marina, as well as three swimming pools, three restaurants, and two lounges. Located on a prime piece of land, the resort was designed to cater to the wealthy and had the potential to net an astronomical profit. But it had lost its five-star rating under previous ownership. It was currently undergoing renovations that were being overseen by Deiter—who’d worked on an earlier project for me. The man was competent at his job but seemed to suffer from the affliction of being a dick, according to reports. I’d recently had two contractors quit.
“The project is about seventy-five percent completed—with the guestrooms being almost ninety percent complete. The majority of the remaining work is in one of the restaurants and at the rear of the facility,” Deiter reported.
“Tell me, how will the loss of two contractors impact the expected completion timeframe of next month?” I asked coolly.
“Uh, well, I don’t expect there to be a delay as a result,” he answered, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“No? Have you found replacements already?” I asked with a raised brow. “If not, I don’t see how a delay can be avoided.”
“Um, no, I’ve not yet found replacements, but, I should have some shortly,” Deiter answered, avoiding my direct gaze.
“Do you see what I’m getting at, here?” I asked calmly, leaning back in my chair and regarding him across the desk. “Time is money in this business. If we lose contractors, work is delayed. When work is delayed, it costs me money. I’ve calculated that it costs me fifty-thousand dollars every day that the renovation isn’t completed. And since I’m in the business of making money instead of pissing it away, having to extend that figure by even one day past the timeframe is completely untenable.”
“I-I honestly don’t believe there’ll be a delay, sir-,” Deiter began, before being cut off.
“I didn’t hire a stupid man, did I, Deiter?” I ask coldly. “Because insulting my intelligence is surely a stupid thing to do,” I told him, rising from my chair.
Rounding the desk, I took a seat on its corner opposite him; folding my arms across my chest and crossing one foot over the other. The pose felt relaxing, but I knew that it looked anything but. Sometimes, the use of body language could convey a message louder than words. And, yes, I also knew how to be a dick when necessary.
“Here’s the thing, Deiter. If I wanted someone overseeing the project who’d throw fucking temper tantrums and not play well with others, I would’ve put my six-year-old daughter in charge. But I put you in charge. So, here’s what’s going to happen—the two contractors have agreed to come back at my request. Which means from here on out, you will conduct yourself like a goddamn adult and get done the job I’m paying you to do. Without any further delays. Otherwise, you will pay me out of your own pocket any money lost on my part; or find yourself sipping all of your meals through a straw for the unforeseeable future. Understood?”
Deiter stared at me through widened eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed hard several times, apparently at a loss for words. He had never seen this side of me—a side that was only ever revealed when earned. Though, if rumors could be believed, he had to know that it existed. And there was some truth to most rumors.
“A simple yes will do,” I prompted when he remained silent several seconds too long.
“Oh, uh—yes sir! Completely understood, there’ll be no problems at all,” Deiter responded with an emphatic shake of his head.
“Good, I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do,” I said dismissively, rising from my perch and standing there until Deiter had made a speedy exit.
I felt a tinge of annoyance as I walked around the desk to retake my seat. Out of all the shit I had to do today, that was at the bottom of the list. Shrugging it off, I reached for my phone and tapped on a number from the contacts list.
“Is this a good time to talk?” I asked when my father finally answered.
“Da, syn, ya zhdal tvoyego zvonka,” he responded back in Russian, his preferred language for communications.
Yes, son, I've been waiting for your call. Which means, he already knew what happened.
Of course, he did, I thought sardonically.
There wasn’t much my father didn’t know when it came to his son. He made it his business to know, had eyes and ears everywhere.
My call to him today wasn’t to report the news of what happened anyway.
C A M R Y
Pressing my knees into the yoga mat, I pushed my body forward until my forehead touched the floor and my arms were extended all the way out in front of me in the child’s pose. After holding the position, I pulled back slowly and exhaled, releasing the air that had been frozen in my lungs. Unbending my knees and straightening my legs, I laid flat on my stomach before sliding my palms back and lifting my torso up off the mat. My hands supported half of my body weight as I tilted my head and shoulders all the way back until I was in the cobra pose. There was no particular order today, I was just testing out the various poses—testing my body’s limits, trying to determine what it was capable of doing six weeks postpartum.
At my wince, I determined it wasn’t yet fully capable of anything that required too much stretching of the abdominal muscles. Also, that my shoulder was still hurting like hell from the other day.
“Shit,” I muttered, straightening from the pose and lowering my torso back onto the mat.
Blowing out a breath of frustration, I laid still long minutes with my eyes closed, determined to relax. Other than its physical benefits, yoga was great for meditating and helping to relieve stress. Which, is why I’d decided to give it a go in the bedroom this morning. I missed doing it, but I was also looking for a healthy outlet in which to relieve my stress and anxiety. Otherwise, I was going to have to stop nursing Roman while I went on an alcohol binge.
I snorted a laugh, mentally picturing myself with the baby in one arm and a bottle of Riesling in the other. It would serve my husband right to have a full-blown lush for a wife.
“Stubborn man…drives me nuts,” I muttered, rolling over onto my back and bringing both my legs straight up in the air.
Garland insisted on going into the office this morning. Someone had just tried to kill him for God’s sake! I didn’t want him out of my sight. I know it isn’t a realistic solution long-term, but, dammit! He could take at least a couple of days off.
Huffing in frustration, I went through several more yoga poses before finally calling it quits and settling into a sitting position; a simple butterfly posture. I sat trying to clear my mind and willing it empty of all thought except that of the beautiful waterfalls on the islands of Hawaii. We’d visited several during our honeymoon, they were all equally breathtaking.
Unfortunately, my brain held the images only a couple of minutes before refusing to cooperate and drifting to the things that I’d been trying to avoid thinking about.
Those little pesky things like my life…and my conscience…and my actions.
Trying to run away from one’s problems or one’s conscience, was like running on a treadmill or hamster wheel. You wouldn’t get very far. You’d only end up tired and defeated, which was how I felt right now.
Just because I destroyed the evidence and tried burying my head in the sand didn’t make the problem go away. On the contrary, those problems had knocked very hard and very rudely at my door in the form of a spray of bullets.
That reality was hard to accept—hard to process, but deep down, I al
ways knew it was true. I knew that everything Jason put in that report about my husband was real. I just didn’t want it to be. I convinced myself it somehow didn’t matter because there was distance—that he was here in Miami, with me. Whatever was going on in Russia had nothing to do with him.
Yes, I was an idiot.
How could someone whose father was rumored to be a Russian mobster—a Pakhan, as Jason had termed it, be completely exempt from any association? It was laughable, really, all on my part.
When I asked Jason to investigate Garland, I never in a million years would’ve expected what he’d come back with. Sure, I knew Garland had his secrets, that there were things in his past that he hadn’t shared with me. But after Broggs’s comments and some of the things that John had stated in his letters, I became more curious about my husband’s past—about his life in Russia. I wanted to know more; more than he’d already shared. I wanted to know about my elusive father-in-law and why the two of them seemed estranged.
Be careful what you go looking for.
I reread that report at least ten times. At first, somewhat incredulously. Admittedly, I’d started to think that perhaps Jason was a scammer who’d taken my money and fed me a bunch of bullshit. The man I married and was crazy in love with couldn’t possibly be the product of a father linked to such an organization. He couldn’t have possibly grown up in such an environment. That sweet woman who was now my mother-in-law couldn’t possibly be married to a mobster.
I was dead wrong.
There was a moment when I’d panicked—was ready to pack mine and Autumn’s shit and hightail it back to Michigan. I had been very close too. Probably should have. But love tended to make people stupid.
So, after going through the five stages of grief; denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance, I finally came to terms with it. However, I still wasn’t ready to confront Garland. Instead, I did a three-sixty and went back to the denial stage.