by LP Lovell
I go to the back and feel inside the tail pipe for the key, then unlock the door and slide behind the wheel. Thick clouds of fog swirl in front of my face as I turn the ignition over and the car coughs. A low whirring comes from the laboring engine before it begrudgingly sputters to life. This is it, the final leg of my journey, and as I pull out onto the dark Moscow streets, it feels very much as though I’m driving right into the gates of hell.
Minutes drift into hours, and I think of Nero. Glancing at my phone, I note the blinking red battery. I think about it for only a moment before I’m dialing his number. It’s stupid and sentimental, and I know better than anyone that I have no room for sentiment—but just one last time.
“Una.” His voice is strained and tight, laced with a rage that would make grown men shrink back in fear.
“Capo,” I whisper.
There’s a beat of silence. “You’re in Russia.”
“I know you don’t understand, but…”
“Turn the fuck around, right now. Wherever you are, stop. I’ll come for you.”
A stabbing sensation takes up residence in my chest. “I can’t.”
“You would do this? You would hand him our baby?”
He sounds so hurt, and behind all that rage I know he must be in agony. My eyes prickle with unshed tears again and I bite my lip angrily. “Please trust me. I have a plan. You will have the baby.”
There’s a pause. “But not you?”
I say nothing for a moment. “I promised I would come back to you in one way or another.” Even if he only gets a piece of me, that baby will be all the best pieces. The untainted ones.
“Morte, please…” His voice breaks, and I squeeze the steering wheel tight until my knuckles turn white.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“Una…” I hang up and a lump lodges in my throat. Emotions threaten to bubble over, but I lock them down. I shove them into a deep, dark recess of my shattered heart, and erect a steel wall around it. That is where Nero will live until I can see him again, or until I die. He’ll remain locked behind impenetrable steel because the Una that Nicholai wants, his little dove, she cannot love.
After hours of driving, I turn down a desolate track that’s barely noticeable in the thick snow, but I could find this road with my eyes closed. In the same way that a bird always knows where to migrate, this is instinctual. I once called this place home, after all. A wall of snow rushes at my headlights as I follow the tree line. Eventually, a bright spot of light becomes visible in the distance. The closer I get, the brighter and bigger that singular light becomes. I stop the car right in front of the eight-foot tall chain-link gate. Razor wire looms ominously, the jagged edges casting shadows through the light.
I cut the engine and close my eyes, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. This is it, the moment it all ends. I hear the rickety clicking of the gate sliding back and when I open my eyes, two figures are standing in the gap, the snow eerily billowing around them. My numb fingers reach for the door handle, and bitter-cold winds rips through me. I force myself to stand and face the two men in front of me, refusing to show fear because fear is power.
“I’m here to see Nicholai,” I shout over the raging winds, reverting to my native tongue.
A rifle is pointed at me and the guy on the right jerks his head behind him. Their faces are covered, leaving me unable to make them out. I walk towards the small concrete building buried in the snow. The roof is a curved dome and, to the unsuspecting eye, it looks like nothing more than an old aircraft hangar, but it sinks well below the earth and is an impenetrable maze of tunnels built to withstand nuclear attack. Nicholai is nothing if not paranoid and insane.
They pause outside the door to the vehicle bay. One of them pats me down, removing the single .40 Cal from the back of my jeans before pushing me forward. The door opens in front of me. A rifle is jabbed into my back and used to shove me forward a step. The first part of the bunker is the vehicle bay, and standing there, between the SUVs and snow mobiles, is Nicholai. His hands are folded in front of him. His wool coat layered over a pristine suit. He looks so utterly flawless and so out of place in this frozen hell. The irony is that he is, in fact, perfectly placed. The heartless devil presiding over his kingdom of torture and control.
“Little dove,” he breathes, his face breaking into a wide smile.
Even though every muscle in my body is tense, readying to fight, I remain stoic. I fully acknowledge the threat in front of me. And it’s strange, because although I’ve been away for several years, I have always viewed Nicholai as a father figure, someone who helped me, who made me strong. I knew he was flawed. I knew it was hard and ugly, but I accepted it. I was loyal to him. Until now. Until he wants my child. Because suddenly, the things he did, his methods and his motivations, are not justified. And it isn’t until now, until it’s my child he wants, that I see that so clearly. Nicholai is not my savior, but my persecutor. I now see him as the sick and twisted creature he is.
He steps closer, reaching a hand towards my stomach. I growl and twist away from him. “Where is Anna?”
“She is safe.”
“You will release her immediately.”
“My sweet little dove.” He grips my jaw on a maniacal laugh. “You are nothing here.” He squeezes until pain radiates through my face. “You are only what I made you. You. Are. A disappointment.”
“Let Anna go.” I wrench my face away from him and drop to a crouch, kicking at the legs of the man with the gun. He hits the ground with a thud. I pop up with his gun raised and pointed in Nicholai’s direction.
“Ah, you see…” he tucks his hands in his pockets and walks a few paces to the right. “You always were the best, Una. Better than anyone else.” Icy-blue eyes meet mine. “You made me so proud.”
On some silent signal, figures emerge from the shadowy recesses of the garage. At least twenty or so, all armed, all Elite. They won’t be as good as me, but I can’t take twenty.
“Will you kill me, little dove?”
“Release Anna.”
“I would have. But you continue to insult and dishonor me at every turn. So, I will not give you honor. Your sister will stay here. Perhaps she will motivate you.” I had a feeling he would do this, and it makes my task here infinitely more difficult. Two figures move in on either side, one pointing a gun at my head, the other aims the gun at my stomach. Looks like Nicholai is making them as ruthless as ever. Left without any choices, I drop the gun and hold my hands up.
I’m led through corridors that I could navigate with my eyes shut, shivering violently as the concrete walls of the underground fortress seem to emit cold like the inside of a refrigerator. I’m locked in a cell on the very same wing I stayed in when I first came here. Nicholai saved me from the clutches of would be rapists only to bring me here and have me locked up. I stayed here for weeks. The guards wouldn’t talk to me. I was deprived of sleep, food, beaten…and after weeks, Nicholai ‘reappeared’, telling me he’d had to leave me. I was thirteen. I’d lost both my parents, been torn from my sister, nearly raped…he seemed like a savior to a little girl who had never had one. And what did I have to do in exchange for his kindness, his respect, his adoration? I had to be strong. I had to be the best. I had to kill. And as long as I did those things, I believed I had his love. I think I needed it because despite him beating it out of me, despite him forcing me to shoot Alex...isn’t love the only real motivator in this world? As humans we crave it, need it, and will do almost anything for it. It is our ultimate and unavoidable weakness. I sold my soul for the love of a man who uses the adoration of helpless children to build an army.
22
Nero
The second she hangs up the phone, I’m fighting back blinding rage. I try to call her back, but the line has been disconnected. How could she do this? I launch the phone across the room with a roar. Gio is standing silently beside the door, arms folded over his chest and a frown pinching his features. Jackson is si
tting on the couch. I called him in because I don’t want Gio’s rational, diplomatic advice right now. I want blood. I want fucking war and Jackson will give it to me.
“She’s only twenty miles from the base,” Gio places an iPad on the coffee table. A small red dot blinks in and out on a map. When we first caught Una in Paris, we knocked her out and I had the doctor place a tracker in the back of her neck. She’d never notice it, and I’m hoping the Russians won’t be looking for trackers on her. “Even if we could get to her, Nicholai will have ground forces that close to the base. It would be a suicide rescue mission.”
I’m completely helpless and I can’t stand it. I tell myself this isn’t over, that we can still fight, but damn it, she surrendered without even telling me. And she went behind my back, so I have no plan, no way of getting to her. She cut me out and now I’m left standing on the outside while she takes my child into an impregnable base with a guy she’s openly admitted is crazy.
“Find a way of contacting Sasha,” I tell Gio. He’s good with computers and hacking shit. I’m sure he can find a way to get a message to the guy. He may well be our only way of contacting Una now. Gio nods and leaves the room.
Jackson glances at me. “What are you thinking?”
“Get your guys together and contact Devon. I want them ready to go tomorrow morning. We’re going to burn everything Russian to the ground. You want a fucking rat, you smoke him out.” Devon is my other New York capo, loyal and lethal. None of the guys will need asking twice when it comes to fucking up the Russians.
“On it.” Jackson gets up. I pour out a glass of whiskey and he hesitates in the doorway. “We’ll get her back, boss.” Then he leaves.
I hope he’s right, or I’ll bring the bratva to its fucking knees with my wrath. After all, without her, without my child, what do I have to lose?
I stand in front of the inconspicuous looking brick building on the Lower East Side, settled between two restaurant chains. A passerby wouldn’t look twice, but I know better. Leaning against the hood of my car, I lift a cigarette to my lips, inhaling a thick cloud of smoke. My mind constantly drifts to Una, wondering what he’s doing to her. It’s those thoughts that feed my rage, like constantly pumping oxygen onto a blazing inferno.
Jackson comes around the corner of the block and casually strolls over to me. “Might want to step back,” he says with a wicked smile. We round my car and duck down behind it. A couple of his guys use the car parked behind mine to take cover. Jackson hands me the primitive looking cell phone. I hold down the one for several seconds, and then, the street behind us erupts. The bang is so loud it makes my ears ring. Windows blow out on the nearby buildings, and heat weashes over me
Jackson throws his head back, laughing manically. “Roasted Russian anyone?”
I push to my feet and watch the inferno of flames engulf the small brick building. The fire spreads, reaching for the restaurants on either side. People run down the street screaming while others stagger out of the restaurants. No one leaves the Russian club, and that’s because Jackson rigged it with enough explosives to bring down a building twice its size. Low and behold, the roof suddenly caves, sagging inward before collapsing in a flaming pile. A secondary explosion makes the ground tremble. I round my car, climbing into the driver’s side. The window is smashed from the explosion, but I don’t care. This is just one of twelve different attacks happening all over the city. Nicholai thought he could just take what’s mine, that there would be no consequences, well, this is the consequence. I do not care for repercussions. What more can he do to me? He has taken everything, and I will see that Russian fuck bleed out all over the New York concrete, even if it’s not his blood.
I call Cesare as soon as we’re a few streets away from the blast. “Nero,” he says when he picks up, his voice coming over the car speakers. Jackson stares out the window, deliberately trying to look as though he isn’t paying attention.
“Nicholai has Una.” My voice sounds far calmer than the white-hot rage that’s burning me from the inside out. “This is a courtesy call. Perhaps now would be a good time to call your Russian contacts.”
“What are you going to do?” he asks carefully.
“I’ve already made a start, but I’m going to burn everything the Russians have to the ground. You tell them that for every-fucking-day my woman and my child are not with me, I will kill a Russian woman and child.”
“No. You go too far. She is Russian! She is Elite.”
“I never told you about what Nicholai has planned for my child, did I?” Silence. “He’s going to turn it into the ultimate soldier, raised from birth to be a weapon for the bratva.”
He clears his throat and I know that as much as he hates Una, he hates the idea of a child of Italian blood- his blood- fighting for the enemy. “Let me call Dimitri. I can reason with him.” Dimitri Svelta, high up in the bratva with links in the Russian government. He’s as corrupt as they come, but corrupt I can deal with. Nicholai’s outright insanity cannot be reasoned with.
“The bratva have allowed Nicholai to do this for years. He has built them an army.”
“I can speak to them about the child, but she is Russian, Nero,” he says, as though she belongs to Nicholai, a piece of property to be bought and sold.
“She is mine. That baby is mine. And I wasn’t asking permission. This is what I will do. Stand against me and I will unleash your secrets, old man. Try to stop me and you will make yourself the enemy. Pass the message along to Dimitri.” I hang up and lean back in my seat, slamming my foot over the accelerator.
“So we’re at war?” Jackson asks.
I nod. “A war the likes of which the Russians have never witnessed.” I glance at him. “I ask you to walk into a bloodbath. Are you with me?”
“As if you even have to ask. I’m the only fucker who might almost be as sick as you.” He snorts. “We’ll get Una back. You’re a damn site more manageable when she’s around. I mean, I’m down with the blood and bodies, but Cesare is probably shitting on himself right now.” He laughs and I shake my head.
Cesare had better pull through, because right now, I’d take his fucking head without blinking.
23
Nero
Gio sits in the passenger seat, and I can practically feel the tension coming from him. I usually acknowledge his advice, after all, he is a Made man born and bred. He knows what it takes to hold power in the mafia, but right now, I don’t give a fuck about the mafia. I’m going to use every inch of power that I have to get Una back.
We pull up at the shipping dock and I get out of the car. The briny smell of the harbor hits me as Gio comes to stand beside me. We make our way towards the small maze of shipping containers in the center of the shipping yard. That constant rage is beating away at me, consuming everything in its attempt to fill the gaping void left by having Una torn from my side. The hinges creek loudly when I open the door of the dark blue container, the paint peeling off the iron beneath. The single light bulb rigged from the ceiling casts a harsh yellow glow over the inside of the container. Jackson and Devon are here, both their faces set in a stony mask. Jackson nods to me when I enter. Devon is young for a capo, and unlike Jackson’s hulking bulk, he could be a businessman, a young banker or something of the nature, except for the fact that he’s a bloodthirsty little shit. Gio is my second because I’ve known him my whole life. He has morals, and he’s the only person that can possibly rein me in when I go too far, which is often. Jackson and Devon are my capos because they have none. Jackson moves to the side, revealing two figures huddled against the back wall, one clutched in the arms of the other.
“Bring them,” I say, taking my gun from my holster. Jackson grabs the woman by the arm and drags her to her feet. She immediately starts crying, heaving, desperate sobs as she reaches for the child. Devon grabs the kid. They’re both shoved to their knees in front of me.
“Take the bags off.”
Jackson yanks the bags from their heads and they both bl
ink. The woman is probably in her late thirties. Her face is tear-stained and her dark hair is matted to her cheeks. The kid is a teenager. Despite having pissed on himself, he’s not crying, though his bottom lip trembles. They’re the wife and son of a bratva leader here in New York, and that’s unfortunate for them.
As I look at them, I know I should feel something, because even for me this is bad. These people are complete strangers to me. They didn’t take Una. They don’t want to take my child. And perhaps, as I look at this kid I should be thinking: what if this were my child? But I don’t. I feel nothing but cold fury. I think of nothing but sending Nicholai a message loud and fucking clear: I will keep coming for you, and I will spill innocent blood until the streets of New York run red.
I lift my gun and Gio shifts beside me. “Nero, please…”