by Kate Stewart
“Going to war is an easy solution for you.” Sergei doesn’t attempt to hide his disdain for me. “When you have the brothers doing all of the dirty work for you.”
I meet his gaze and hold it. “I am a Vor, too. You seem to forget.”
His lips sneer and Nikolai steps up to place a hand on his shoulder before he says something he will regret. That will incriminate him and allow all of the others to know his dirty secret. That he is the father of a son who will never live up to Nikolai’s standard. That he is the father of me.
“And I will be the first through the door,” I add. “Should it come to a war.”
Viktor steps beside me and places a hand on my shoulder, showing his support for me without speaking a word. It grates on Sergei, and his eyes linger on the connection for far too long.
That his defective son should rank higher than him in his own organization is something he will never accept. While he remains a captain- an Avtoritet- his rank will never go any higher. I am invaluable to Viktor. It should not come as a surprise to him. He set the bar for me when he cast me and my mother onto the street. When he set the course of her fate, he also set mine.
I was always destined to prove my worth. To serve as the constant reminder of what he did. Of how he had been wrong about me. And it gives me enormous pleasure to see that ugly twisted sneer on his face every time he looks my way.
“I do not believe that it will come down to that,” Viktor states. “Arman knows better than to try to take on the Reds. There is only one reason a man would ever surround himself with so many weapons.”
I meet my father’s gaze and nod my agreement. “Because he is a little bitch.”
His reply is filled with equal venom.
“I hope you are certain.” He slaps Nikolai on the back and beams at him proudly. “Because I would not send my only son into battle for you, let alone your worthless whore wife.”
What happens next is a complete loss of my self-control. I am used to the insults he directs towards me. But Talia is another matter altogether.
I don’t realize what is happening until Viktor pulls me off him and calms me down. Nikolai helps Sergei to his feet, and he spits a bloodied tooth onto the floor while he glances over at me. His finger is shaking when he points in my direction.
“I am done with him, Viktor,” he roars. “Enough is enough. I don’t want to see him here again.”
“You are right,” Viktor states calmly. “Enough is enough. Everyone out.”
The remaining Vory filter out of the room, leaving only Viktor and I on one side, and Nikolai and Sergei on the other.
When the door is shut and the room is silent, Viktor’s gaze moves over Sergei. And while he has always maintained a cool manner, right now his disgust is obvious. And though it should not, as Viktor has always been loyal to me, it comes as a surprise.
I was out of line, hitting Sergei in a business meeting. Goading him in front of all the other Vory. But it is clear at this moment, it is not me who Viktor wishes to speak to.
“Tell me what you do for this brotherhood,” he says to Sergei.
My father’s gaze moves to him, and he replies. “Everything that is asked of me. I am only loyal to the Vory.”
“It is correct that you do everything that is asked of you,” Viktor answers. “But you are not loyal to the Vory. You are not loyal to the code of which we live by.”
Sergei has the good sense to keep his mouth shut while Viktor goes on.
“You do not value family. And is that not one of our most important values?”
“I do value my son,” my father answers.
“Ah, yes.” Viktor moves his gaze from Nikolai to me. “But you have two sons. One which you have discarded and disowned. And left me to take on the role of a father figure in his life. Is this how you honor your family?”
The room falls silent, and I cannot meet my father’s gaze. His shame.
We do not speak of this. Ever.
Even when I explained my situation to Viktor and was inducted into the brotherhood, we did not speak of it. We were all aware of the situation, but the topic has been avoided. Until now.
And it is clear to me, I am not the only one who wishes it to remain buried.
“And your wife?” Viktor goes on. “What of her? You made a mockery of her for all to see. Bringing your mistresses into your own home. To sleep in your marital bed? And then casting her out on the street with your son.”
The temples in my head are aching. And I want Viktor to stop. But he is the pakhan. And neither Sergei or I would dare to question him right now. I know all of these things to be true. And speaking of them will not breach the divide between us. But Viktor seems to think it is necessary.
And as he is like a father to me, I trust his judgment.
“Now you come into my meeting and make a mockery of Lyoshenka for all to see? To offend his wife in front of the brothers? You are aware of the consequences for such actions. And if it were anyone else, you would not have done so.”
It is true my father knows the consequences. This is why he remains unapologetic when he meets my gaze. He is aware there is no avoiding it now. And the only thing he has left is his pride, which he will not sacrifice at any cost.
“He is defective,” Sergei replies. “Worthless. He is no son of mine.”
Viktor reaches for his phone and taps out a message to one of his soldiers, the room silent while we wait for what comes next. After a few moments, a Boevik appears with the shears, passing them off to Viktor.
“Nikolai,” Viktor says. “You will do the honors.”
Nikolai glances at Sergei and receives his nod of approval. Then he takes the shears from Viktor and reaches for his hand.
“No,” Viktor stops him. “Not the fingers.”
Sergei tries to hide the fear on his face, but it’s there. He meets Viktor’s gaze, wordless, as he waits for his punishment. Even I am not breathing, and I know Nikolai is not either.
“An ear,” Viktor says.
The room is quiet. For a long moment. But Nikolai does not delay any further, and Sergei does not protest.
I watch as my father tries to remain stoic while Nikolai cuts off his ear. It does not last for very long. Like the coward he is, the pain brings him to his knees. It is only Nikolai that I feel a small pang of regret for. This will certainly drive a wedge between them as Viktor intended.
But an order from the pakhan will never be questioned or ignored, by anyone. And Nikolai does not deserve my sympathies.
When the act is over, Viktor tosses Nikolai a handkerchief to stem the bleeding. And there is a sigh of relief from Sergei.
We all believe it to be over. The punishment for his offenses have been carried out, and he now knows never to speak ill of my wife again.
But Viktor is not finished.
“I am stripping you of your duties as Avtoritet,” he announces. “And from here on out, you will take your orders as Boevik to Nikolai. Who I am promoting in your stead.”
“You cannot be serious,” Sergei bellows. “He is only a boy.”
“He is twenty-five. And he conducts himself in the way that a Vor should.”
Viktor catches my eye before he goes on. “And besides, you should be happy. He is your pride and joy, no?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Talia
Alexei comes in late.
I know, because I can’t sleep in his absence.
Even though we are still worlds apart and will probably never trust each other, his being in the house is the only thing that makes me feel safe. Even though it shouldn’t. Even though it’s the most foolish thing I could do after Dmitri.
I hear him fumbling around in his office, and then a curse before the light comes on down the hall. I swing my legs over the bed and move towards him, like a beacon in the night.
I find him at his desk, pouring a glass of cognac, although it is apparent he has already had several. Only the lamp next to his desk is on, so the
light is dim, but even still, I can tell something isn’t right.
When his face comes into view, I see he has a split lip, and a bruise on his cheek.
I step inside and move towards him, only catching his attention when I’m directly in front of him.
“Go back to bed.”
His voice is harsh and cold. I ignore it and round the desk, instead.
He is too wound up, so I don’t chance sitting on his lap. Instead, I sit across from him, on the desk. Studying him, as he does the same.
“What do you want?” he demands.
Right now, I want to fix whatever is hurting him. But I don’t know the way. Nobody has ever showed me. So I do the only thing I can to connect with him. The only way I know.
I lift my hips and discard my shorts while he watches, followed by my cami. And then I’m naked on his desk, spreading my legs for him to see me. My hand slides down between my thighs slowly, playing with myself while he watches.
The room is quiet, and I have every bit of his attention. Cognac long forgotten, he leans forward, just a little, his eyes moving over my body.
“You said you were going to fuck me every day,” I tell him. “But you’re a liar.”
He’s on me then. I’ve never seen him move so fast.
His body is pressing me down against the desk, one hand tangling in my hair and yanking my head to the side so he can kiss my throat. The other is fumbling with his belt and zipper. He frees his cock and then sinks inside of me.
There’s a sigh of contentment, and then some angry muffled Russian against the skin of my throat. He fucks me into the desk and I get more of the same, wrapping my legs around him and letting him use me.
He fucks me hard. Punishing. But the war he is fighting is with himself.
I don’t understand a single thing he’s saying, but his message is clear in any language when he yanks me off the desk and sends me down onto my knees.
I take his cock in my mouth and he gags me with it. And then strokes my face in a tender gesture. I get more of the same. Harsh and then gentle. The words continue to flow from his mouth uninhibited, and I’d give anything to know what he was saying to me right now.
I feel him tensing. But he won’t let himself come. He grabs my head to hold me in place, allowing himself time to pull back from the edge. And then he’s yanking me up, flipping me over. Now my ass is hanging off the desk, and he’s behind me.
“Don’t move,” he tells me.
I feel him disappear from the room, but only for a moment. When he comes back, there’s a candle in his hand, which he sets on the desk beside me.
Anticipation and fear war inside of me.
But between them, somewhere in the middle, is the one thing I shouldn’t feel.
Trust.
I can hear him shuffling through his drawers, and then the smell of butane combined with the catch of the lighter. The room is quiet and still when he leans down and kisses my back. Gentle and soft. Right between my shoulder blades.
“Mine.”
It calms me when he says that. There is so much meaning behind that one word. So much promise. And against my better judgment, I relax for him. Gripping the edge of the desk beneath my palms and laying my face flat against the wood.
He picks up the candle with one hand and strokes my ass with the other.
On the opposite side of the wall, his shadow looms over me. His arm tilting. I close my eyes and breathe. The first drop of wax falls onto my skin and steals that same oxygen. The second hurts less. And the third is when I feel the rush of endorphins.
His palm slides down between my thighs to cup me and then finger me. He alternates his movements from the dripping candle to the hand between my legs. Pleasure and pain. So much pleasure and so much pain. I come harder than I ever have this time. My back covered in heated welts when he drags his fingers down and pulls off the wax while he shoves his cock inside of me. And then he’s fucking me again. His hips jarring against my ass. I have to grip the desk to keep myself in place.
I think he’s going to come, but he doesn’t. He flips me back over and lifts me into his arms, holding me close while he fucks me in the most intimate of positions. Face to face.
“I want to look at you,” he tells me. “I need you to always see me.”
He kisses me, and then he comes inside of me.
Then he lays me down on the desk and steps back.
“Stay like that,” he tells me as he sits back down in the chair. “I want to look at you.”
That’s what he says. But I have a feeling that isn’t the case at all. I have a feeling he put me in this position for a reason. Legs bent and knees up. He wants me to get pregnant. To have his baby. And yet, when he finishes with me here tonight, he will go to his room. And I, to mine. We will not have lingering conversation or touches because we are both afraid.
So I disobey him by sitting up and gathering up my clothes.
I can’t bring myself to leave without a word, so I lift my fingers up to touch his bruised and swollen face.
“I hope you made them pay.”
His eyes are tormented and filled with longing. For me.
But he does not act on it.
So I leave.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alexei
“Talia has made breakfast this morning,” Magda announces cheerfully.
“She has?” I question, my lack of excitement clearly deflating hers.
She nods. “She is getting better.”
“It always gets better before it gets worse,” is my answer.
Magda frowns and then moves her attention to the reports I’m working on.
“You will eat together this morning,” she tells me.
I cock my head to the side, and she smiles.
“You must, Alexei. You must reward her progress. It is the only way.”
“My time and attention is not a reward.”
“I think Talia would disagree.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair and glance out the window. The seasons have changed so quickly now that she’s here. Tonight is the Christmas party. Which she will attend with me. And do her duties as my wife. And for this reason, I tell myself, I will go downstairs and indulge her this once.
I can’t have her moods changing when I need her to play her part.
When I tell Magda this, she frowns.
I ignore it and file my papers away before going downstairs.
Talia is in the kitchen, just as Magda said. And in a good mood, just as Magda said. I turn to Magda, who is trailing behind me.
“You should not have left her alone in there,” I warn.
Again, she frowns.
“It is not an act, Alyoshka.” She shakes her head. “She is getting better.”
“Until she finds a knife to set herself free.”
I do not wait for Magda’s response. Instead, I take a seat at the table, unsure what else to do. I usually dine in my office unless there is company. Magda delivers my meals, and I rarely give it any thought. But now, I feel uncomfortable. Out of place. Watching her move around the kitchen.
When she turns around and looks my way, there is flour on her nose and shirt. And some sort of batter tangled in her hair.
But also, a smile on her face.
I clear my throat to hide my own.
“Good, they are all ready now,” Talia says. And then she delivers a heaping plate of fresh waffles to the table, followed by a bowl of Strawberries.
I reach for one waffle, and she stares at me. So I take another. Magda does the same, and we all eat in silence.
During the meal, I watch Talia carefully. Her good mood dissipates quickly. Magda glances at me, silently telling me to do something. But I don’t know the answer. So we wait in stillness.
And eventually, Talia speaks. Trapped by old memories. Locked inside the darkness in her head.
“She made waffles that day,” she says, as though she is just remembering.
She blinks up at
me with glassy eyes. “I should have known, because she made waffles.”
“Your mother?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers, her fork clattering to the plate. “She never cooked. She barely let us out of the room. I should have seen it.”
“You couldn’t have,” I tell her from experience. “When someone is that far gone, they make you believe what they want. They fool everyone.”
Both Magda and Talia are staring at me now, and I look away. Pushing my chair back, I reach for Talia’s hand. She does not hesitate to give it to me. But the despondency has set in again, so she cannot walk. I lift her into my arms and rest her head on my shoulder while I carry her up the stairs.
I don’t know what to do with her. How to help her. And it weighs on me.
I can’t leave her alone, so I simply sit down with her and cradle her in my arms. She rests her face against my chest and relaxes. Her fingers move over the soft material of my sweater, sliding the material between her thumb and forefinger.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she says.
Live.
That’s what she means by those whispered words.
“You can, and you will,” I tell her.
She is quiet. Thinking dark thoughts. And I know that I need to coax them from her. I know that helping her means facing my own fears. That she will not recover. That I can’t ever help her.
I reach for her fingers and place them over the star on her hand. And without further insistence, she moves them of her own accord. Into a rhythmic pattern. Tracing the lines and my name, over and over again.
“Tell me about your mother,” I insist.
She meets my eyes, and hers are violent with emotion. More than I’ve ever seen in her before. It wants to break free, but she doesn’t know how.
“Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear,” I encourage. “You have only ever been honest with me, Solynshko. So be honest now.”
It takes her some time. Time to decide she trusts me. But that’s exactly what it is when she looks up at me. And I know it is not easily given.