by K. J. Dahlen
I snorted. “This is not my first day on the job, Mikhail Popov.”
“I know, I know. Viktor, I know who you are,” he exclaimed, his breath coming in heaving gasps against my size thirteen boots.
“Tell me how you knew about the shipment.” I pressed down again, this time making sure it was hard enough to cut off Mikhail’s air entirely. After twenty seconds, I let up an inch. His ribs expanded with a panicked gasp.
“If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”
My laugh held no humor. “And if you don’t tell me, I will kill you. And I promise you, it’ll be a lot worse than anything Ivan does to you.”
“But Ivan is an underboss like you. He’s family to you,” Mikhail pleaded, clearly grasping at straws to draw out the last of his unfortunate smelling breath.
“Not like me. If he were like me, we wouldn’t be having this…conversation. Ivan clearly tipped off one of the other families as to the time, date, and location of the shipment—a shipment that was conveniently taken off our hands not more than twelve hours ago. And the thing is…only Ivan and I knew about it. And I sure as fuck didn’t tell anyone,” I said.
“Now,” I continued, holding down Mikhail with my foot and grabbing a crowbar off the table with my right arm, “We’re going to start this over. And you’re going to have one minute to tell me everything you know.”
I hated Mondays.
“Boss, I have the information that you asked for,” I said into the phone, climbing into my Mercedes-Benz G-Class and pulling away from the curb. I waited for the car’s Bluetooth to connect, and then dropped my phone into the cupholder.
Boss Petrov’s voice filled the leather-scented interior. “Good, good. I knew I could count on you. Now, head back to the warehouse. We have business to discuss.”
“More business? It’s nearly midnight, sir.”
Negotiations with Mikhail had gone longer than I’d anticipated. I thought—no, hoped that the little weasel would crack after the first swing of the crowbar. My fists clenched and unclenched automatically, trying to ease my tired muscles from heaving the crowbar repeatedly. Since I became a Vor—a “made man”—my taste for violence had diminished at the same time that more was expected of me.
“Urgent business. Something only the obshchak are invited to. And I want this kept private,” he ordered.
As if I needed the reminder. After half of my life working for the bratva, I didn’t need the Boss, or anyone, telling me what needed to be private. It all needed to be kept private.
Rolling my eyes to the empty car, I said, “I understand, sir. Am I to assume that Ivan will not be attending?”
The Boss paused a moment. “Ivan is being handled.”
I knew exactly what that meant and didn’t need any other details. “I’ll be there in forty minutes.” I could be there sooner, but I needed to change into some clothes that didn’t have blood spatter on it.
I heard the beep before I saw that Boss Petrov had disconnected. I relaxed back into the leather bucket seat and turned on Audible to get through another chapter of Eugene Onegin. Maybe it would be a good selection for the Billionaire Book Club. A fleeting smile crossed my face as Audible loaded my selection.
If someone would’ve told me ten years ago that I’d be driving a SUV that cost more than a house, and be part of a book club, of all things, I probably would’ve hit them. Hard.
But I actually enjoyed the club. Hearing the other guys’ opinions was interesting, if remedial at times. Especially that idiot plastic surgeon, Perry.
I revved into the machine and sped through the next set of lights. And then the next set, until I was finally at the warehouse, prepared to meet the Boss for the second time tonight.
I greeted the Byki at the door, their unfamiliar faces indicating that all the Krysha were already spread throughout the city and something was going on. My hand went to my forehead, as though rubbing my finger across the crease there would erase the last two hours. Over the years, I’d learned how to school my expression into complete blankness, swiping my hand over my face to make it impassive.
It was a critical professional skill. In my personal life… who was I kidding? I didn’t have much of a personal life.
I waited until I was inside with the other underbosses before asking Igor what was going on.
“I don’t know. The Boss hasn’t told anyone. Said we were waiting for you,” Igor told me in Russian. Odd.
After twenty minutes, Petrov addressed the avtoritet gathered in the large warehouse. He spoke in our native tongue. “Thank you all for coming this evening. Unfortunately, most of you are aware that Ivan is…no longer with the family.”
I fought a laugh. That was one word for it. Family. Mafia. Gang. Whatever you wanted to call it, once you were in… you didn’t leave.
“Our position with the Ramone family is shaky at best. We need to secure our future and to do that we are increasing our stock in international imports.” He leaned back, pausing to see if anyone had questions. Nobody dared breathe, much less speak.
“We have a very important package coming in and I need to know whom I can trust to secure that package. And know that if word gets out again, I will take care of anyone who betrays me, personally.”
Pakhan Piotr Petrov was not a man to be played with, and even I would not take him on. He was loyal to the death; but if you were disloyal, death was your best-case scenario.
I’d been biding my time until I could navigate my way out. I knew it was impossible. There were only myths of getting out of the Russian mafia, but I had to try. I didn’t want to get to be like Igor, who was 60 years old and still working for the boss. No family, no children, nothing to keep him afloat except money and power. Admittedly, I cared about money, but not that much and I did like power, but I didn’t crave it or need it to survive.
What I needed what something big that would force the Boss’s hand into letting me go, without the futile ugliness of blackmail. Even better—to make him think that my departure was his idea in the first place.
All the underbosses around me raised their hand but I kept mine down. Sheep. I sat there, still and silent as stone. It drew the Boss’s attention to me, which was exactly what I wanted.
“Viktor?” he asked.
I stood slowly, making sure that I was heard loud and clear. “You should know without asking that you can trust me, Papa. I would never betray you.” Unlike some of the others in this room, went unsaid but understood.
Most of the men in the room sat back, and I knew that I had just put a target on my back. In truth, I had more faith in their loyalty, but only because I knew that they were scared and spineless. That wasn’t the same as trustworthy, but it was pretty damn close as far as I was concerned. It was a difficult position to be in—did you trust those too weak to cross you, or trust those too high up to risk losing their rank?
Petrov simply nodded. “Da. Name your price.”
“One favor.”
The entire room hushed at my audacity.
No one requested a favor from the Boss. No one charged him. The Boss might ask, but it was a rhetorical question.
Petrov just looked at me, his eyes dark and questioning. Then, a moment later, he gave a small nod. I focused on keeping my expression neutral, and my relief invisible. The Boss had every right to gun me down where I stood, but instead he was showing mercy in front of the rest of the Boyevik there. Whatever this package was, it was important to him—which told me all I needed to know.
The details didn’t take long to hash out. I was picking up the package at the airport, arriving at JFK from London—luggage with a red tag on it, and a yellow suitcase. I needed to secure it without detection, and return it to the Boss. I didn’t know what was in the package, and I knew better than to ask. Drugs, money, secrets…whatever it was, it was better not to know.
2
Anya
I stood in the airport, waiting for my driver to arrive. Apparently, someone was to pick me up directly from
the airport and take me to Piotr Petrov. I had to get to Piotr, no matter the consequences. That’s all I knew. My uncle Boris had told me that it was the only way I would be safe.
I’d barely slept on the flight, my nerves getting the better of me. Fighting a yawn, I clutched the yellow suitcase with the red luggage tag to me even tighter and found a bench to wait on. The suitcase was what the driver would be looking for, so I kept it front and center. This suitcase symbolized my freedom—from my uncle, from the rebels, and from the Orange Revolution as a whole. I needed to get out. I would do anything to get out.
Yet even halfway across the world now, I didn’t feel free.
Suddenly, a good-looking man with a neat beard and an expensive suit sat next to me. My eyes drifted shut and I breathed in deeply. He smelled amazing. Nothing like the heavy colognes that were so prevalent back home, or the cloying perfumes layered with cigarette smoke. He smelled clean and masculine. A wave of fatigue washed over me again.
“Dobryj dyen.”
I startled, my eyes flying open. “Vitayo.”
He shifted slightly in his seat when I replied in Ukrainian, not Russian. When I turned to face him, I could see his green eyes had a ring of brown around them. He was beautiful in a masculine sort of way. When he turned his gaze forward again and showed me the side of his face, I noticed a thin white scar that ran from his ear to somewhere under his beard. I resisted the urge to trace it with my finger, calling myself all sorts of crazy for wanting to.
“Give me the package,” he said with a soft Russian accent.
I looked down at the yellow suitcase. I shook my head softly. This wasn’t right. I was supposed to be picked up with the package. I had to be. I had nowhere else to go.
“No.”
His gaze returned to me, his jaw tight and standing out in stark contrast from the rest of his face. “I’m sorry?”
I clasped my fingers around the handle and pulled it up against me. “This is mine. Where it goes, I go.”
He stared at me for a moment, and then seemed to make a judgment call. He grabbed my hand, the same one that was holding the handle of the suitcase.
“Ow.”
He pulled me up out of the airport seat. “Let’s go, then.”
My heart beat a little faster at his words. Go where? With him? Somehow, I didn’t think that was supposed to be the plan. Was someone else coming? Was I leaving with the wrong man? Could this be a trap?
“Who are you?” I demanded. Now that we were both standing, I realized that he towered over me. He was a tall man. And big. And hot. And tall.
His jaw relaxed and then tightened again. “Why do you need to know?”
I hesitated, hotly aware of his hand still wrapped around mine. “My uncle Boris told me not to go anywhere with a stranger.”
He gave a short nod, his left eyebrow lifting. “I have an… uncle, too. Uncle Piotr.” He was letting me know that he was whom I was waiting for. Somehow, I didn’t feel much relief. “I’m Viktor.”
The way he said his name sent a ripple of awareness down my spine. There was a husky heat behind his voice, like a banked fire, and yet his mannerisms were cold as ice. He looked at me for a moment, irritation flaring in his eyes, and I realized he was expecting a response. Ah, introduction. Got it. “Anya.”
“Anya.”
If I thought his own introduction had affected me, it was nothing to the shiver that went through me at the sound of my name on his lips.
“Viktor,” I repeated.
“Now we are not strangers.” His gaze warmed a little, but his grasp on my hand tightened, pulling me along with him faster until I almost had to jog to keep up with him.
“Where are we going?” I asked, huffing to keep up with his pace.
“Out. We need to leave this place.”
“Must we run? I just flew in… we’re not in any danger.” I looked around, trying to discern whatever threat he felt in the airport.
“There are men all over here that I do not trust. Come. We need to get to my car. Now.”
After I was dragged all through the airport and the parking lot, we finally got to his car. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a van with tinted windows but a beautiful Mercedes SUV that looked rugged and sleek at the same time. Like the man, it was a contradiction.
“I will take that,” he said, squeezing my hand around the handle of the case until I winced.
I shook my head. “I will keep it with me in the front seat.”
He paused before nodding. Once in the car, he reached over and buckled me in before I could do it myself. His clean scent almost paralyzed me, but I sucked a breath in when his arm grazed my chest.
“I can buckle my own seatbelt, thank you very much.”
He let out a low laugh. “I’m sure you can, but you’re moving too slow for my taste.”
“Now can you tell me where we’re going?”
“No,” he replied simply.
I sat back, crossing my arms. I had younger cousins that were less annoying than this mysterious man. Something told me that sitting on him and threatening to pull his pants down would not be as effective.
Although, the idea of pulling his pants down and sitting on him definitely had an effect on me. I shivered, my palms clutching my upper arms.
We rode together in silence until I realized that keeping quiet would get me no answers. Politeness might. “Please tell me where we’re going. I have plans.”
“You do.” The way he said it wasn’t quite a question, but also not quite a statement.
I nodded, my platinum blonde hair swaying into my face. I shook it back irritatingly. “I need to meet with Piotr Petrov.”
He clenched the wheel, the skin over his knuckles stretching. Apparently, the name meant something to him. I tried to press my luck. “Do you work for him?”
He didn’t respond for a moment, and then only with a curt, “Yes.”
“Are you like his…” I mentally searched for the Russian term. “Byki, then?”
I got a glimpse of straight, white teeth as his grim smile peeked through his beard. “What do you know about bodyguards, little girl?”
I looked down at myself. I was wearing skinny jeans, a white long sleeve shirt, and a white vest with a fluffy hood. I wasn’t sure exactly what had screamed ‘little girl’ about my outfit, but I grew angry. “I’m not a little girl.”
He looked sideways at me, the heat of his gaze scorching my skin with prickles of awareness. “You’re acting like one.”
I put my feet on the dash and looked at him sideways. Daring him to say anything. You want a little kid? Fine.
Viktor didn’t disappoint. “Get your feet off my dash.”
I resisted the urge to say ‘make me’ and stick my tongue out at him. “Tell me what I want to know.”
He laughed. “You think that putting your feet on the dash is going to make me talk? Cute.”
Of course. I was probably sitting in this car with a very attractive contract killer. A footprint on his beloved car was not much of a threat. A smile teased at my lips. Fine. I’d try a different approach. “Please?”
“Not going to work, printsessa.”
Princess was better than little girl. I was making progress. We rode in silence for another twenty painfully long minutes, until he pulled into a gas station.
“Where are we?” I asked, craning my neck to look out the window and behind them.
“Close,” he responded enigmatically.
To what?
3
Viktor
I heard her sigh and fought the smile that threatened to creep over my face. She was definitely a princess. She looked the part, too.
Anya had platinum hair the color of rich cream, with just the right amount of curl without seeming styled so. Her big blue eyes were framed by full, dark eyelashes, and the roses in her cheeks made her look like she’d just come. And her mouth. God. I nearly groaned aloud just thinking about it. Her mouth was full and red, the bottom lip bigger than the
top.
She looked innocent and tasty. All she was missing was a red cape. She even smelled sweet. I had to keep my hands off of her. She was a package, not a person. At least, I thought she was the package. Either that or the package was the yellow suitcase that was currently pressed against her legs. Lucky fucking suitcase.
While she sat in the car, I grabbed my phone from my back pocket to give the Boss an update.
“Good, good. I knew I could count on you, Viktor.”
“Mmm,” I responded noncommittedly. “So, is it the suitcase or the woman that’s the package?”
The Boss paused for a moment. “It is the woman.”
My chest tightened. “Are we expecting anything during transportation?”
“Ahhh, perhaps.”
Great. Not only was I now responsible for the protection of a human, but I could be expecting heavy firepower and hired thugs too. “I need more than that, Pakhan.”
He was so quiet I thought the call had dropped. Then, “The Chicago don. The package is his daughter.”
I nearly groaned aloud. Forget firepower; that meant authorities, assassins, and hired thugs. “His daughter? What are you going to do with her?”
“Don Ramone and myself do not see eye-to-eye on some territory.”
“Okay?” I waited for him to continue. This was all over drug territory? Normally we just went for the dealers and hit the source directly until they stopped coming to the same area.
“Not drugs,” the Boss said. Then the realization hit me, and it made me sick to my stomach. If it wasn’t drugs… and firearms wouldn’t get the Boss this worked up, it had to be the sex trade. Although, “trade” was a misnomer—it implied that there was some kind of equivalent transaction. To my knowledge, the prostitutes, escorts, and other women were forced into this position for money or protection. Natashas, some called them.
“What are you going to do with An—her?” I asked through clenched teeth.
“She’s a package. A piece of property. Nothing more, nothing less.”