Ravage

by Tillie Cole

  As the glass slammed on the desk, Kirill turned to my father to answer his question. “I have been thinking. Does it not seem strange to you that we”—he pointed at himself, then Zaal—“or Mr. Kostava has received no payback for Jakhua’s death?”

  The temperature in the room seemed to drop at the mention of that man, the Georgian cunt who had used Zaal as his personal puppet for twenty years, the man who beat my sister and took her love from her.

  Kirill continued, “The Jakhuas, though they had little presence here in New York, are a large clan. They are powerful in many places, and no doubt have ‘associates’ that would be disappointed their supplier of the obedience drugs was disposed of by us.” Kirill held out his hand and began counting off. “Sex traffickers, underground fight rings, black-market slave traders, and any other undesirables that wanted to bring people under their control. Is it not strange that Jakhua was killed by our hand, yet not one strike against us has been taken in the months since his death?”

  “And now a Georgian plane has landed in New York, landed without our permission.”

  Kirill raised his eyebrow in response and said, “If I die through an enemy’s attack, I have deals with the Italians, the Irish, and the Jews to respond on my behalf. Hell, I even have the British mob on hand, too, should my potential killer’s reach stretch that far.”

  “You’re questioning who Jakhua had in his pocket?” my father finished for the Pakhan.

  “Exactly,” the Pakhan replied. “Jakhua was not a stupid man. He will have had all his cards in a row before coming to New York. He knew what his appearance here would mean to us. So, if he was even half the man I think he was, he will not have failed in securing his revenge, should the event of his death occur.”

  I inhaled a deep breath when my father looked across me to Zaal and asked, “Can you remember any of the men you demonstrated the drug for? Any of the men that watched you kill for Jakhua? His closest associates?”

  Zaal dropped his head, his eyes closing as he racked his brain. His knuckles turned white and his fingers shook as he tried to remember. I watched as his back bunched with tension, until he released a defeated breath and shook his head. “I remember nothing but nameless faces. The drugs, the drugs wiped my mind until I awoke in the basement of the house in the Hamptons with Talia. But there were many people Mast—”—Zaal shook his head and corrected, “Jakhua traded with.”

  “It would make sense that his closest ally was a Georgian. Question is, beyond the Jakhuas and Kostavas, who is there that is strong enough to threaten the Volkovs?” my father asked, his unapologetic disdain for the Georgians lacing his voice.

  “That is the question,” Kirill responded. “Which Georgian group has managed to remain unseen? What Georgian organization has lived so far underground that we, the greatest crime family in the world, have no reference for it?”

  I sat listening to the conversation, then said, “Jakhua’s generals, his guards, his top men, should have come after us, but no one did.” I could feel all eyes on me when I snapped my head up and said, “Unless they were assimilated into another brotherhood.”

  Kirill this time smiled wide at me and nodded his head. A wash of pride ran through me at the Pakhan’s obvious praise. “Exactly, Luka. The Jakhuas must now belong to someone else. But who?”

  A memory of Anri suddenly came to mind. “Anri, just before we fought, told me that he had been picked up by a Georgian mob. They captured him and made him fight.” My mind raced as another realization hit. “And they must have known about the gulag Anri and I were kept in. They came for him after the escape. They knew he was a death-match fighter.”

  Kiril looked to my father, who nodded his head. “I think Luka could be right.”

  I turned to Zaal to hear his thoughts, but his head had dropped. I knew it was because I had talked about his brother. The brother he still had little memory of.

  “So,” Kirill said, clearly bringing the meeting to a close, “it looks like we have a new Georgian threat on our hands. Which means heightened security for us all. Because make no mistake, if these Georgians have made it into New York unseen, have kept their existence a secret, they most certainly pose a real threat.”

  Kirill ran his hand over his face and addressed Zaal. “Maybe it is time that the Georgians were made aware that the heir of the Kostava Clan is alive. Maybe those that pledged loyalty to your father should be told you have survived, survived and killed the man that massacred your family.”

  Kirill rose from his chair and walked round his desk, to stand before Zaal. Zaal kept his head down, and Kirill added, “Survived and are ready to take your rightful place as the Kostava Lideri. As a joint venture with the Volkovs, of course. The Georgian underground is not so large that whisperings among your people have not mentioned this other mob. If we show the people their king has risen from death, the hidden peasants that worked under your father will flock to us, and, in turn, so will this mob’s identity.”

  Kirill leaned back against the edge of desk and folded his arms. I glared at the Pakhan. There was no way Zaal would be ready for this. No one knew what it was like for us to suddenly have to live in this free world. And what was done to Zaal in his captivity was the worst of all.

  I had moved my mouth to say so when Zaal rasped, “I am not Lideri. I was born to lead with my brother, together; without him I will not take the seat of my house. I am not the man I was destined to be. My people deserve more than me.”

  Zaal kept his head lowered, his long black hair hiding his face, when my father said in an authoritative, but fatherly, voice, “You have a brother, Zaal. He sits beside you, ready to take on this family’s seat, too. You are a Kostava, but you are soon to be joined to my daughter. I would say that even with what you have both gone through—Luka and yourself—you are exactly where you were meant to be.”

  Zaal slowly lifted his head and stared at my father. I could see the disbelief on his face that my father had said such words. Zaal didn’t say anything in response.

  Seeing him struggling, I sat forward and said, “Let him think on it. In the meantime we can use our resources to find out what we can about these intruders of our territory.”

  Kirill nodded his head and stood from his desk. “Then let us go eat; I can smell the dinner drifting in through the door.” Kirill walked out of the office without any other word, my father following behind.

  I stood from my chair, but Zaal’s elbows were leaning on his knees, his head cast down. Reaching out, I laid my hand on his shoulder and said, “It may be hard now, but things will get better in time.”

  Zaal lifted his head, pushing his long hair from his face. “I feel rage, Luka. I have a rage that sits within me all day and all night. My head is fucked up; faces and images from memories I can’t place keep me up at night. But worse than that, every time I think of my name, of my family’s legacy, I see them all piled up dead against the wall of the house. I see the river of blood running from beneath them as I’m dragged away screaming for my family.” Zaal took a deep breath to calm down and said, “I cannot live with these memories, which being the Lideri would bring. All the Kostavas have died but for me. It is time the Clan dies, too.” Zaal rose to his feet and put his hand on my shoulder. “I am your brother; of that I am sure. And I will stand by your side when you are Pakhan, and now as knyaz. I will honor this family who have saved my life, who took me in and gave me my Talia, and I will move past my old life.” His hand dropped and he turned to leave, but just as he did he looked back and said, “Anri was always the true leader out of us both; you knew him, so I suspect you see this, too. And it is not cowardice that makes me refuse this title of Kostava Lideri, but acceptance of the man Jakhua made me into.” Zaal’s green eyes met mine when he added, “I know you understand this, too. We are both no longer the boys we were when our people knew us. We are freaks, Luka. Freaks.”

  Zaal left the room, and I slumped against the desk. I ran my hand through my hair just as the door creaked open
. Lifting my eyes, I couldn’t help but smile as my Kisa stood in the doorway, her long skintight black dress showcasing her swollen stomach.

  Tilting my head to the side, I smiled at my wife, getting a blinding smile in return. Kisa shut the door and walked forward until she stood before me. My hands immediately went to her hips, and I pulled her close to my chest. Kisa ran her hands through my hair, and she pressed a kiss to my forehead. Pulling back, she said, “My papa is talking about you out there. You have definitely pleased him in your meeting.”

  Wrapping my arms around Kisa’s waist, I lifted my head for her to press her lips against mine. Kisa didn’t hesitate and crushed her mouth to mine. Lifting my hand, I wrapped it in her hair and pulled her closer still. Kisa broke away on a gasp, and I whispered, “I love you, solnyshko.”

  “And I you,” Kisa replied, then added, “You are happier, lyubov moya. You are happier in yourself.”

  Nodding my head, I replied, “Because of you. Because you took me as the man I am now.” I dropped my mouth to her bump and kissed her raised stomach. “And because of our baby. I’m gonna be a papa, because of you. The girl I’ve always loved.”

  Kisa smiled, but it soon faded. “But Zaal is not happy like us?” I raised my head. “That is why you’re worrying, and pursing your lips in that delicious way that I love.”

  My chest warmed as her finger ran across my lips, but I replied, “He is without family.”

  “We are his family now,” Kisa said.

  I stood, taking her hand. “True, and we need to make sure he knows it,” I said firmly.

  Kisa laid her head on my arm. “Spoken like a Pakhan.”

  As I led Kisa from the office, I said, “No. That was said as his brother.”

  4

  ZOYA

  The sensation of flying was what hit me first. The pain around my neck was what hit me next. I tried to open my eyes, but when I did I was met only with darkness. Disorientated, I tried to remember what had just happened. Flashes of me being stood in front of a house filtered into my mind. A house in Brooklyn. A house that held Zaal—

  I gasped when I remembered someone grabbing me from behind and dragging me into the shadows. I’d fought, but he’d choked me. A cough ripped from my throat when I tried to inhale.

  Suddenly arms I hadn’t even realized were holding me tightened and a hand slapped over my mouth. My heart pounded in fear. Avto had gotten it wrong. I hadn’t been safe. Our enemy was very much alive and must have followed me to the house that held Zaal.

  Dread raced through me. I had led our enemy to my brother. Would they be going there next?

  Even though I was terrified, instinct took over and I thrashed to get free. It was in vain, because as soon as the captor felt me try to get free the arm that was still around my neck tightened until my body went limp. As my consciousness began to fade again, I realized my captor was running with me in his arms. My hood was pulled over my head so I couldn’t see a thing, but I heard my captor. And I was sure it was a man. His breathing was low and heavy. His arm around my neck was thick and unyielding.

  His scent filled my nose: spice and musk. I remembered the dark spicy scent enveloping me as my eyes fluttered shut¸ then everything went dark once again.

  I woke with cold against my cheek. Instinctively I knew I was in trouble. Something in the back of mind told me that I was in danger. Avto had tried to school me in how to react if I was ever abducted. With my eyes still closed and my body unmoving, I tried desperately to remember those lessons.

  Nothing came to mind, save the drive to resist telling anyone anything about who I was. To anyone outside of my people, I was Elene Melua, a poor farm girl from Kazreti, Georgia.

  I controlled my breathing when I realized that my hands were shaking like a leaf. I focused on keeping calm. Counting to ten, I slowly opened my eyes. I was met with a dark, black wall.

  Taking another breath, I counted a second set of ten and cautiously rolled onto my other side. I studied my surroundings: black walls, black ceilings. No amount of counting could calm me as I realized what type of room I was in.

  My lips parted to release a shocked gasp as my wide eyes drank in the contraptions in the room. I could barely understand what they were, but I saw chains hanging from the walls, the ropes suspended from wooden blocks in the ceiling, and there was a metal bed, a crucifix, and masses and masses of other machines littering the black tiled floor. They looked like medieval torture devices, and bile rose in my throat as I lay on the floor of what appeared to be a large metal cage. Thick bars imprisoned me on all sides.

  I closed my eyes again and wrapped my coat around my freezing body. The temperature in this torture chamber was colder than outside. If I couldn’t have seen the room under the red dimmed lights, I’d assume I was in a freezer of some description.

  I shuffled my body back into the farthest corner when footsteps began approaching from what looked to be a narrow hallway to my left. My body shook with a mixture of cold and fear, and my eyes never left that direction.

  I held my breath as the footsteps closed in. Then he appeared. I assumed it was the same man who captured me. My attention remained on the floor, on his bare feet. I did not dare look up. His feet were rough, but I could see by the shape of his legs underneath his black sweatpants that he was huge. The sweatpants were loose, but I could see the definition of his thighs; they were thick and muscled.

  The room was deathly silent, my warm breath misting before me due to the low temperature in the room. I could hear his breathing as he stood beside the cage. Heavy breathing, slow, a low rasp in its sound. I kept my head down, waiting for what he would do next. But he didn’t move.

  Minutes and minutes passed in strained silence. I kept huddled in my corner, and he stayed exactly where he was, next to my cage. His feet were pointing in, and even without lifting my head I knew that he was staring at me. I could feel the weight of his intense glare bearing down.

  The longer we stayed still, the more the dank coldness seeped into my bones. My lips became numb and my teeth began to chatter, the clattering of their touch sounding deafening in this dimly lit hell.

  Then he moved.

  It was simply a flicker of a movement, but it was enough to make me stiffen in anticipation of what he would do next. Was he just going to kill me? Was he going to take me into the mouth of the chamber and torture me? My head ached as my mind raced with the fear of what was about to transpire.

  The sound of metal clanging against metal forced me to look up. I instantly regretted what I had done. It was what he wanted. He’d wanted me to break.

  A calloused hand was holding a black metal rod, a metal rod that was pressed against a metal bar of the cage. I froze as my eyes stayed on that metal rod as it focused on that hand. It was large and scarred, and my gaze traveled up the muscled bare arm holding the rod like it was an extension of his arm. His skin was fair in tone, the complete opposite of mine, but it was covered in a mass of dark tattoos. They were muddled writings etched in black ink. They appeared to be a swirling, disorganized list of names brandished on his skin.

  I swallowed, my mouth becoming incredibly dry. I tried to make out the names, and when I did my stomach dropped again. Most were Eastern European: Russian, Ukrainian, Serbian. But what scared me most was the appearance of the Georgian.

  Georgian.

  My pulse pounded in my neck so fast I was sure it was protruding out of my skin. Georgian, I thought again. My mind raced with what these names meant. Were they people he had killed? Were they people he knew? Were they the people he worked for?

  The rod suddenly moved. My eyes couldn’t help but follow the tip of the rod to the top of the metal bar, and when I did it brought with it the view of my captor’s chest. My nostrils flared as I studied his bare broad chest. A large tattoo reading “194” was the centerpiece, and the swirl of names continued over his thick muscled chest and torso. But that’s not what had me losing control of composure, panic and anxiety setting in. No, t
hat belonged to a black metal collar sitting tightly around my captor’s neck. A wide neck with muscles stacking high on his bare shoulders.

  My heart thundered when I wondered what the collar was for. Who had put it on him? What did it do?

  The captor jerked the rod to the top of the cage, but I kept my eyes from meeting his. I did not want to look into his eyes; I did not want to see his face. In my head that made this all too real. But then a buzzing sound came from the tip of the rod, an electric sound traveling through the metal cage. A shock sparked against the part of my back that was leaning against the bar. I jumped forward, crying out in pain. The electric shock had burned my skin.

  And then I did look up. My gaze slammed to meet his and all the blood drained from my face.

  Dilated eyes stared at me from a sternly featured face—a heavily scarred face, deep scars like road maps over his cheeks and forehead. His pupils were so large and black, I could barely make out the color of his irises, the appearance of the blown pupils only adding to his menacing visage. The scars continued off his face and ran up over his shaven head.

  My God, I thought; he looked like a monster. I continued to study his face, unable to look away. Under the scars, high cheekbones covered in dark stubble framed his face along with his strong jaw and broad forehead. His lips were full, his bottom lip slightly fuller than the top. Jet-black eyebrows arched perfectly over his predatory eyes. His right cheek was marked with a prominent long scar that started at his temple and ran down his cheek, cutting through the dark stubble, cutting under the metal collar, and traveling low to his defined right pectoral muscle.

  As I looked up, I swallowed, my hands trembling even more as his eyes remained fixed on mine. Those penetrating dilated eyes the only unscarred or undamaged part of his entire face. The only human part of him.