76

Mikhail
The phone sits on the table, taunting us. My fingers itch to pick it up and hold it in my hand, but Gunsyn sits at the table, toying with his gun. His eyes dart between me and the phone, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of feeling like a big man. I ignore him and his pathetic intimidation tactics. But I know better than to make any sudden moves.
My dad, who has always been larger than life, suddenly seems so human. I made him vulnerable by running away. If my dad is dead and his voice doesn’t come through on the phone, I’m as good as dead too.
Make yourself small. Keep your head down. Don’t give them a reason to hurt you. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know who I can trust.
“What’s taking so long?” Alexander asks impatiently. “We’ve been waiting for an hour.”
Gunsyn’s attitude is cocky. “We should give Ippolit a few more minutes,” he says. “He knows not to make a move until he hears from me.”
Alexander shakes his head. “Something isn’t right. He should’ve called by now.”
I only have one chance … my dad. And I want to scream as they calmly discuss his murder. I want to tell them they don’t know who they’re dealing with. My father doesn’t back down. It’s his rules and no one else’s. A sigh escapes me, and I pretend I didn’t do it as Alexander stares hate daggers at me.
The seconds drag on like hours, and my anxiety rises until my stomach hurts. How did I end up here, surrounded by these awful men? The men responsible for my mother’s death. Why won’t Mikhail listen to me? Why does he believe them? Doesn’t he care even just a little?
I turn my gaze to Gunsyn and see him return a lewd gesture at me.
I hope my dad shoots him first.
Alexander glares at the phone. “One of us should have gone with him.”
The brigadiers return to an uneasy silence. But I retreat into my own thoughts as I stare at the phone in the middle of the table. I play back another phone call like a sad song on a loop in my head, and I feel betrayed by my dad’s lies.
Maybe if I had known, I would’ve understood why I had to stay in that hateful house. I almost miss it now.
I’ll forgive Dad, but I won’t forgive Zakhar Budanov. His betrayal will always sting like a knife in my heart. Nothing will ever heal it, not even time.
Suddenly, the phone rings, shattering the quiet. I flinch and take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Gunsyn’s hand shoots out before Alexander can touch the vibrating phone, snatching it and pressing it to his ear.
“Hello?” he barks, a smug grin on his face. He listens intently, his eyes darting back and forth between me and the other brigadiers.
“Put it on speaker,” hisses Alex, his posh accent slipping into something uncivilized.
“Ippolit?” Gunsyn shouts again. His expression darkens as he puts it on speaker.
There are sounds of a struggle on the phone-muffled screams in quick succession followed by grunts and short cries. The sound of flesh striking flesh fills the room. A scuffle and a grunt of pain, followed by a sharp cry of agony. I bite my lip hard to stop myself from screaming too. I can’t stand listening to it, but I must know what happens. I have to know if my father is okay.
There’s a loud crash and a strangled cry, then a shot rings out. The awful noise stops abruptly, and all eyes lock on the phone as a familiar voice speaks.
“Ippolit is dead,” my father says. “I’m coming for you, Gunsyn.”
“Daddy …” I’m grabbed from behind by Alexander before I seize the phone.
“Maria!”
And then he’s gone.
Gunsyn ends the call before I can say another word. I watch in horror as he pockets the phone, the screen still dark. But my father is alive.
“I want to talk to my father,” I demand.
Alexander pushes me roughly back into the chair, and I glare at him, hating him until it burns my brain.
“No one cares what you want,” Gunsyn replies coldly. “You’re nothing but a pawn in our game. You’re not important.”
I clench my jaw to prevent the hysteria. “You’re wrong. I’m the only thing that matters. You need me to get to my father.”
“Your father is a traitor.” Gunsyn grabs my arm and shakes me hard. “And now he’s killed a brigadier. He doesn’t deserve anything but death.”
His eyes lock on mine, and I know I have to tread carefully. But maybe not as carefully as the Bratva. One down-three to go. And that’s enough to keep me hoping.
“Let’s get moving,” Gunsyn commands, locking the door when they finally leave.
—————-
“Where is she?”
Gunsyn’s dark cigarette stinks in the stagnant air, even in this cavernous space. Pale smoke spirals up to the ceiling before an exhaust fan whisks it away. He stands over Ippolit’s corpse and eyes me as if I’m responsible.
Anton turns to me, still and silent. He arrived after the shooting, and his men are searching the building as we speak. But Zakhar is long gone.
While I was in transit, Larissa phoned me in a rage, saying the brigadiers had entered her home, intimidated her with a gun, and then taken Maria.
Which makes me not exactly unhappy to see Ippolit on the floor with a hole in his head.
“Where is she?” I ask Gunsyn again.
He motions toward the floor. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned withthis?”
“What concerns me is that Zakhar is still alive.” I shake my head. “And you’re holding his daughter captive in an undisclosed location without my permission.”
Gunsyn loses the tone. “We’re just doing our best not to end up like our dear friend here.”
“And I told him not to confront Zakhar.” I round on Gunsyn, recalling how I warned Ippolit about confronting Zakhar alone. “Imagine if he’d obeyed. He’d still be alive.”
Gunsyn casts a stern gaze at Ippolit’s corpse and then scowls at Anton, silently watching the whole scene. “Have your men clean him up,” he barks at him.
Anton’s wide headlight gaze fixes on me, and I nod my consent.
In seconds, Ippolit’s body is rolled into a tarp, loaded into the back of an SUV, and heading toward Manhattan. The bullet will be removed, and Ippolit’s death certificate will state natural causes. The obituary will read that he passed away peacefully in his sleep in his own bed. His legacy has been reduced to no more than a spot of blood on the floor.
“Where is she?” I ask viciously again.
“She is safely tucked away, Mikhail Ivanov,” replies Alexander, brushing imaginary dust off his superbly tailored jacket. “Not too far from here.”
I glare at him, wondering for the first time why I’ve never questioned how he can afford his costly apparel.
“Did you hear the gunshot?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
“No,” Alexander answers with an inscrutable tone in his voice.
“Then how did you know to come here?” I ask coldly.
Gunsyn tilts his chin in the air. “Ippolit called for backup.”
“Bullshit,” Pavel hisses before I can respond. “We offered him backup, but he refused it.”
The three men glance at one another and then turn to me. I raise my hand to halt Pavel from saying too much.
I want to hear it from Gunsyn and Alexander.
“Why you and not us?” I ask, but no one is quick to tell me. “Alexander, you’re being unusually quiet right now.”
He inhales, biding a microsecond of time. “Ippolit knew our location and thought we were the better choice.”
I frown, unconvinced. “I’ve heard children tell better lies. You took Maria from my sister’s home, where she was safe, and drove her to a location not far from the one where her father was.” I shake my head to mock them. “Why? Does any of this make sense to you, Pavel?”
“Nyet, Mikhail Ivanov.” Pavel folds his arms across his chest and narrows his gaze on Gunsyn. “I think someone is lying to you.”
Gunsyn steps forward, his face turning red as he points his finger at Pavel. “You think you’re hot shit, boy? You are nothing but dog shit I wipe off my shoes.” He turns his anger toward me. “We lost a man today … a good man.” Gunsyn clenches his fists as he turns to me. “If only you’d let us fight this war without one hand tied behind our backs …”
“Ippolit went into this fight with both hands.” I shake my head. “It didn’t do him any good.”
“Mikhail Gennayevich …” Gunsyn’s gaze looks like it could kill, but he has no good retort. “We only wanted to help.”
“Then you should start by obeying my orders.” My gaze is savage as I pull my gun out of my holster. “Now tell me what I want to know. Or you can join Ippolit in the afterlife to bitch and moan about me.”
Gunsyn sighs. “371 Commercial Road B. She’s locked in the back office.”
I put the gun away. “Zakhar knows we have her, and that is enough. Understood?”
Gunsyn nods. “Yes, Mikhail Ivanov.”
I fold my arms over my chest, glaring at the three brigadiers. “What is the oath?”
They look at each other, bewildered, until I pull out my gun again and then the words fly from their mouths as if they cannot recite it fast enough. “You care for no one but the Bratva, and you shall love none other than the Bratva.”
“Precisely.” Appeased, I put my gun away. “The Bratva. Not yourselves.”
I spin on my heel and head toward the door with Pavel walking behind me. They could shoot me in the back, and judging from their snide expressions, they want to.
But they won’t.
Not yet, anyway.