Last Kiss

by Jessica Clare

  Just as long as he doesn’t die.

  “Now you’re just saying that shit to freak me out,” Daniel says. “I will pay you a million dollars if you never mention the words ‘Vasily’ and ‘semen’ to your dear brother ever again.”

  “I gave you that million,” I tell Daniel easily, but my fingers betray my anxiety. I can’t stop twitching, and my fingers skim my baseball cap. The hall is utterly quiet other than our conversation, and I wonder what is happening behind the door that Daniel is guarding.

  “You can have it back,” Daniel says.

  “I don’t—” I begin to argue, but Vasily cups my chin.

  “Keep the money, Nadya. You might need it if I am gone.”

  No, no, no. I don’t want to hear this. I turn to Vasily and begin to straighten his tie. It is askew by an infinitesimal amount, and I don’t like that. I adjust the knot, smoothing my fingers down the dark silk.

  “What’s he talking about?” Daniel asks.

  Quickly, Vasily recaps what happened earlier. The burning of the painting. Elena’s death.

  “You need to see what is inside,” Daniel says, his voice growing low. It’s clear that our earlier conversation was for anyone who could listen, but this is for Vasily and my ears alone.

  “Is it bad?” Vasily asks.

  “It’s . . . interesting,” Daniel replies. “I don’t know if it’s good or bad, to be honest.”

  I don’t like interesting. Desperately, I smooth my hands over Vasily’s collar and tug at his sleeves so they hang correctly. I’m obsessing, my fingers checking his buttons to ensure that he is not rumpled. His hair is starting to show hints of yellow against his skull, and it looks strange against the dark brown dye. I smooth a longer lock off of his forehead and tuck it behind an ear.

  “Nadya,” he tells me softly. “I look fine.”

  “Your tie is not straight,” I tell him. “I should take it off and retie it so it hangs properly.” But I don’t. I just smooth and smooth and smooth the fabric. “You don’t have to go in,” I blurt, dangerously close to tears. “We can turn and run. I can drain money into a ghost account for you. You and I can go find another dacha and we can hide out—”

  “I cannot,” he tells me, voice soft. His fingers caress my cheek again. “I am volk, no matter what.”

  I blink repeatedly, trying to calm myself. Trying not to cry. Vasily doesn’t like to see me crying. “I told you once that I didn’t love anything. But I do. I love you. I love you and I want you to come with me.” I don’t want to lose him. Not now, not ever.

  He tilts my face toward his and leans in. His lips brush gently against mine in a whisper of a kiss. Then, he releases me and looks at Daniel. “Keep her behind you at all times,” he tells him. “If there is bloodshed, I do not wish her to be harmed.”

  Daniel pulls two small guns out of holsters tucked under his arms. “You got it.”

  I want to cling to Vasily’s leg and beg him not to go as he turns and faces the double doors. Facing his future, however long or short it may be.

  Then, he pushes the doors open and steps inside. Ahead of him, I see rows and rows of chairs and men seated in the chairs. Is it a firing squad? I push forward, dragging Daniel with me like a shield. I have to see what is going to happen.

  As I push into the room, I take everything in. There are at least thirty men seated in here, all of them young. I do not see a single one that is bearded or gray haired. They are all young, and fit, and they wear the same cold expression that I have seen on Vasily’s face so many times. They are Bratva. Killers. They are all dressed in dark, bland suits so they can blend in.

  And they all have guns on their laps.

  As Vasily steps inside, I admire his broad shoulders and his form. He is the biggest out of all of them, proud and unyielding. He is not asking for forgiveness from these men. He dares them to speak against him, despite the fact that they are all armed. My breath catches in my throat, because he is magnificent.

  He is volk.

  He regards them, and speaks short words. “Petrovich Elena umer. Ya ubil ee.”

  They take this in silently.

  He continues to speak, no doubt telling them of what has occurred. I can’t make out any of it, and I decide I need to learn Russian so I can participate in future conversations, if there are to be any. For now, I imagine the words he tells them, picturing Vasily as the narrator in a story. Yes, yes, Elena was quite the cunt. She was a raging bitch and she tackled my sweet Naomi, so I had no choice but to dispose of her crazy ass. Now you will all kiss my feet and thank me for this.

  I paraphrase, of course. The reality is likely more somber, because not a single person is smiling.

  Vasily says one word, then drops his hands as if to say he is done. Silence reigns.

  One person stands up in the front row. It is the older boy of the two that escaped with Vasily. He is carrying a gun, dressed in a fine suit. As he stands and approaches, a surge of panic rises in my throat. Is he going to be the one to kill Vasily for daring to want more for the Bratva?

  But to my surprise, he turns his gun around and offers the butt of it to Vasily. He speaks, saying something long and dramatic. I catch none of it except volk. But the offer of the gun gives me hope. And I watch as one by one, each man stands and turns his gun, butt facing out. It is an offering to Vasily.

  And I don’t need to know Russian to know that they want him for their leader.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  VASILY

  I walk through the crowd of men, brushing the stocks of the guns. There are thirty or so of my brethren here and they stare at me with faces full of grim expectation.

  What has happened here?

  Naomi has somehow orchestrated a near-bloodless coup. In my narrow-mindedness, I failed to see the potential in my brothers. I failed them by not trusting.

  If it were not for her love and belief in me, I would be dead or on the run. I would not be standing here, new leader of the Bratva. It will not be an easy transition. Outsiders will challenge us for territory and power.

  But we are young, strong, and still idealistic in our own strange ways.

  I’ve carried out dark deeds with many of them, all for the purpose of extending or, at the very least, protecting the Petrovich power. But what has the Bratva done for us? I reach the end and turn toward the assembled group. Heart so full I can barely form words, I begin to speak.

  “When I was a boy, I believed that being volk would save me, save my loved ones. But I soon learned that being volk for Petrovichs meant having no loved ones. The Bratva comes first, yes?”

  They nod as one. “And if we did not place the Bratva first then a boyevik, a soldier, would be sent to bring us back in line. One of our own would suffer. The boyevik would not want to inflict the pain but he would do so, because to not obey would imperil what he held dear. A mother, a father, a brother, a lover.” A sister. “I wake up one morning alone in my bed and think this is no better than Communist Russia, when our grandfathers feared they would be sent to a work camp where we would die at the hands of Soviets.” I raise my palms in surrender. “I think to myself that I no longer desire to be volk and I set out on a quest to obtain the famed Caravaggio that had hung on the walls of the Bratva palace for a century until it was lost by Sergei. I am here to tell you that the Caravaggio is gone. It is dust.” Murmurs move like a wave through the room. “I have nothing to offer you in terms of power or money.” Naomi coughs but ceases at my glare. “Nothing but my weapon, my body, and my vow. I will fight for you so that you can live without fear for your loved ones, for your own soul.”

  I drop my hands to my side and wait.

  Igorek walks forward and picks up my hand. He pushes a heavy signet ring on it. I frown at him but he remains silent, only waiting for a reaction. The ring is made of silver and is tarnished in the deeper recesses. A person not skilled at cleaning wiped off the surface black to reveal the wolf’s head.

  “The white-furred gray wolf li
ves in the harshest of climates, in the coldest of lands, and still thrives. It is an honorable species who has killed off its competitors and risen above its challengers to live with its pack in the snow and ice and tundra of Siberia. The gray wolf is a survivor.” He pulls down my hand and kisses the wolf. “We are your pack, Volk Vasya. You can choose to eat the Petrovichs or abide with them. Tell us and we will carry it out.”

  The sound of thirty bullets being chambered in unison fills the air with ominous harmony. One by one, the boyeviks come forward and kiss the ring. It is awkward and discomfiting, but the ritual is necessary for them and perhaps for me.

  “Is it time for the loyalty tests?” Naomi asks in a loud whisper. Igorek ducks his head to hide a smile.

  “Nah, Naomi, they don’t have time for that. Vasily has to work fast.”

  “You should call him Vasya, Daniel. That’s what all his friends call him. Nicknames are used by people who have affection for one another,” Naomi informs her brother, who looks at her as if she is talking gibberish.

  “I don’t have affection for that asshole,” he retorts. “I’m here for you.”

  Before the two can devolve into a sibling argument, I intervene. Pulling Naomi to my side, I admit, “Daniel is correct. We must act swiftly.” I turn to Igorek. He will be my second. “We should call a meeting with elders. If the majority of the elders oppose us, then we will leave and form our own organization.”

  “With what funds?” asks Stefan, a new boyevik just moved up from the lower ranks.

  “We have lots of money,” Naomi pipes up. I shake my head as Daniel pulls her aside. She should cease speaking. Already too much curious attention is paid to her. I do not wish for the Bratva to know of her worth. In this uncertain period, she could be seen as a bargaining chip. I will not allow for this to happen. The more that she shows her value, the greater a target she becomes.

  “Let us not worry about money at this time,” I suggest, but already I see the boyeviks eyeing Naomi with interest. I press my lips together. “Call for the meeting.”

  Igorek nods. He motions for two others and they follow him out the door.

  “How will you know if they are lying when you ask them if they will be willing to follow you?” Naomi asks.

  “I will watch them.”

  “I could make a polygraph,” she suggests.

  “How?”

  “A polygraph measures breathing and heart rate. There are a lot of false positives, and a true sociopath has no problem passing but given that your test subjects would be unawares, it could provide you a data point greater than, ah, watching.” She says that last word with no small disdain.

  I cannot help but allow a small smile to curve my lips. She is a wonder. “What do you need?”

  She describes her tools. I send two of the remaining boyeviks for the supplies.

  “These phones have a heart rate monitor for your finger. Require everyone to place their finger on it. We’ll use these photo diodes from these exercise watches and tape them on the neck. That will measure two pulse points. I’ll monitor the results here.” She points to her computer, which is set up next to my seat at the head of the table.

  “I didn’t come all this way to watch my sister be cannon fodder,” Daniel interjects. He picks up the laptop and sets it down in the corner of the room and then drags boxes around it, effectively screening Naomi off from the rest of the room.

  “I can’t see anything back here,” she complains and picks up the laptop. Daniel blocks her exit. She looks toward me once and then twice, and then with an extraordinary effort, she meets my gaze. “Please, Vasya. I want to sit next to you.”

  I can deny her nothing. I wave my hand for Daniel to move. He glares at me and refuses to budge, but when Naomi pushes by he does not stop her. I pinch her chin between my thumb and index finger. “If you sit by me, you must not talk. You must do everything I ask of you. Like at the club.”

  “Which club? The one where you killed Emile or the one where you killed the donkey fucker?”

  Predictably Daniel explodes. “Jesus Hermione Christ, you shit stain, what the fuck were you doing with my sister? This is fucking unacceptable.”

  “Daniel, you can reprimand me at another time, yes?” I nod toward the boyeviks, who are watching with unabashed interest. He grits his teeth but nods.

  “The rest of you prepare for the meeting.” Most of the boyeviks leave although a few do not. Some have come to the Bratva with nothing. Alexsandr, our old general killed by Sergei, believed in taking orphans from the street. Treat them kindly and they will follow you with blind loyalty. He was not wrong. I have been a loyalist from the age of ten, willing to do anything the Bratva asked of me. But when Elena tried to keep me in line by threatening my sister, discontent lodged in my heart, and with each day that she was imperiled, the seeds of treachery took root and grew. Outside the window of the warehouse, I see nothing but gray streets and small, battered cars.

  Naomi places her small hand on the windowsill next to mine. The contrast between us is monstrous. Her hand is pale and lovely with elegant fingers that do extraordinary things. Mine are scarred and beaten. Already they look like the hands of a man two decades my senior. It is a wonder she allows me to place my hands upon her form. When we are alone, I will ask her if she wants to leave. She should not feel compelled to stay with me. I’ve taken her from one captivity and placed her in another. That Daniel has not taken my head from my shoulders speaks to his honor and elevated thinking. It would be a privilege to be referred to as Vasya by one such as Daniel.

  “When this is over, the dacha is yours, Naomi,” I croak out hoarsely. These words are hard to give voice to so they are quiet, little darts in the air. I want to grab them and eat them up.

  “What do you mean, it is mine?” Her eyes narrow and I look away, out the window again. The bleak landscape mirrors my aching heart.

  “It is yours alone. I will not be there but by invitation,” I say.

  “I don’t understand,” she says impatiently. “You know you have to be blunt with me. I don’t like this. You—”

  A commotion at the door interrupts her, and Igorek appears with his two men, the elders trailing behind him. Whatever she wants must wait, for the meeting is convening.

  “What is the meaning of this?” huffs Georgi.

  Thomas, the most sedate and serious of the elders, nods his head. “Do you bring us the Caravaggio?”

  “Please be seated.” I wave my hand toward the table. “As you can see, each seat has a sensor. Press your index finger there when you desire to talk. The diode is for your neck.” I sit at the head and attach myself to Naomi’s wires. Some of the leaders do as I ask. Others do not. I grab the hand of Georgi, who sits next to me. “Georgi, you do not wish to participate?”

  He sneers. “I am not your lackey.”

  It is with little regret that I shoot him in the shoulder. Shocked silence ensues at the table. I repeat my request. “Please ensure that the pressure is hard against your veins, or we will shoot you for not having a pulse.”

  Thomas speaks again. “Where’s the Caravaggio? We told you that we would vote for you as boss if you brought us the painting, a return of the glory of the Petrovichs.”

  “The Caravaggio is dust and Elena is gone.”

  Some of the pulses must have jumped, for I can see a spike in the heart rate lines of Naomi’s program.

  “Then you are done with the Bratva,” Georgi gasps, his face white with the pain from the gunshot wound.

  Ignoring Georgi, I address the remaining men. “You elders have a choice. You can follow me as head of the Petrovich Bratva, or I and all of the boyeviks will leave, and we will form our own brotherhood. And hungry for territory and power, the Petrovichs will be our first target.” I steeple my fingers together and lean back. “So you can fall in line, leave, or present a united front against us. What will it be?”

  Georgi, pale as snow, leans forward. “You think the son of a whore will lead us? Neve
r.”

  “That is one vote against. Who else?”

  Toward the end of the table, Pietr clears his throat. “I will follow you, Vasya. I have always liked you.”

  “Ohh he is lying. Look Vasily,” Naomi interrupts. The graph is spiking wildly. I do not entirely understand what I am looking at, so I look at Naomi and read her expression. She is delighted that her machine is working. “Ask him something else, something that would make him lie again.”

  “Do you fear this woman?”

  “No,” Pietr scoffs, but he is unable to meet my eyes.

  The graph is wild again. She claps. “I love it. He is afraid of me. That is a first. Ask him if the sky is blue. For a control.”

  “Is the sky blue?”

  He does not answer. I lift my gun. “Pietr, is the sky blue?”

  His answer is sullen. “Yes.”

  “Is the grass green?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love your vodka.”

  Hesitation. “No.”

  “These are all true,” Naomi hisses. “Ask him another question like . . . has he raped a woman?”

  “Well, Pietr have you?”

  He purses his lips together. “No.”

  The graph goes crazy.

  “A lie.” She scowls. I pick up my guns and shoot him twice, first between the eyes and second in the heart, for good measure.

  Georgi pushes away from the table and runs for the door. Igorek shoots him before he can make it to the end of the table.

  “This is a fucking shitshow,” Daniel growls behind me. “You need to end it before someone we care about gets hurt.” He jerks his head toward Naomi.

  “Place your fingers on the phones, please,” I ask. The commotion has caused people to move away from the devices but at my command, everyone obeys. They know now to speak the truth or die. It is simple.