Mikhail
The morning passes as I sit at my desk, scrutinizing the pages of my father’s journals, searching for secrets hidden between lines of text about deals and threats. “Dammit,” I mutter under my breath. I keep returning to the journal with the missing pages, as if they’ll reappear. My fingertips run over the torn edges as my frustration grows out of control. I push away from the desk and pace the floor again.
Two weeks before Desmier’s death, Gennady notes a brief disagreement between himself and Zakhar. That’s not a big deal, but the name mentioned is-Raymond D’Artello. A member of the Lanzzare, he was picked to be my first kill.
10 a. m.-Zakhar opposes target choice. He insists it’s not the right move.
Was there a reason for Zakhar disagreeing with my father? I thumb through the pages again, hoping something will make sense. Maybe a written line will leap out at me from a page I’ve stared at before. If Zakhar was against killing D’Artello, then there had to be a reason. Was he a traitor back then?
But according to Vito Genovesi, Zakhar is the wronged one. My sworn enemy vouched for the honesty of a traitor.
Fuck this. I take my frustration out on the desk chair, shoving it out of my way. It spins and hits the wall.
“Something wrong?” Alexander stands in the office doorway dressed in a freshly pressed suit. He never looks like he gets his hands dirty. I didn’t expect to see Alexander today, but he’s made an appearance almost every day since the ill-fated wedding. When I ask why he’s coming here, he claims to stop by out of concern, but it’s more likely he’s checking up on me.
I slip the critical journal into the desk drawer.
Alexander has already seen it, but he is wise enough to say nothing.
“What do you want?” I ask. “Any news on Zakhar?”
Alexander walks over to the desk and runs his fingertips along the edge. “My intel alludes to a possible meeting here at the penthouse.”
I grin even though he’s not making a joke. “The possibility has been present for months. But I would hardly extend an invitation to a person who continues to use me as a target practice.”
Alexander eyes the liquor cart. “Then I recommend that you don’t meet with Zakhar.” He faces me. “He’s hard to trust.” Alexander cuts to the point, and the implication is clear.
“All the more reason for you to have eyes on him,” I reply. “Come back when you have something useful to tell me. He shouldn’t be able to make a move without us knowing. See that you do your task diligently.”
It’s evident that I want him to leave, and Alexander obeys my order, moving toward the door.
“Tell Dominika to find Maria and ask her to come to my office.” It’s ironic that the person I turn to is a traitor’s daughter.
Alexander eyes me, but no offhand comments are made. Trust is crumbling, and it’s too risky to even make small talk. I’ve heard too much, but not enough for it to be dangerous. He nods solemnly, then walks to the door.
Maria and I sit side by side on the couch with the office door locked. The journals from the crucial years are spread across the coffee table, and we huddle over them like archeologists who have discovered a priceless artifact that will alter history. Her soft hair brushes my cheek as we sit too close together, and only her complete focus keeps me from losing mine.
I flip through the journal and find another passage where D’Artello’s name is mentioned four weeks earlier.
“Raymond D’Artello must die,” I read aloud, “he stands in our way against the Lanzzare.” I look at Maria. “It’s Ippolit’s handwriting, not Gennady’s.”
Frowning, she runs her finger over the damning passage. “Why would Ippolit write in your father’s journal?” Her eyes widen as she looks at me. “Doesn’t this prove that they knew about your father’s journals back then?”
The revelation dries my throat, but the words come from Maria’s mouth. “Your father didn’t know that they knew.”
“But my father would’ve seen that entry,” I argue.
“Maybe it wasn’t written for your father to see,” she suggests.
Memories flood my mind. Larissa warned me about the brigadiers, her beautiful face marred with worry. Zhanna guided me with riddles, her enigmatic expression insistent as she spoke. And finally, Vito’s words about their actions, none of them good, echo through my mind.
“Have I been a pawn, played by those I trusted most?” My hands grip the book tighter, and the paper crinkles under the strain.
Maria lays her hand firmly on my arm, and instantly, her touch grounds me. “We need facts, no matter who it hurts. Don’t jump to conclusions just yet, or they’ll only explain them away later when you confront them.” She goes to the desk and returns with a pad and pencil. “We’ll piece each fact together like a jigsaw puzzle.”
We pore over the pages and copy down passages verbatim. Slowly, a rough timeline of the events six months before Desmier’s death emerges.
“Read this entry.” I point to several lines discussing the Lanzzare. The brigadiers, along with Zakhar, discovered a major scam operated by D’Artello. Minuscule amounts of shipments were being stolen, not only from the Bratvas but also from other Mafias. Worthless amounts on their own, but combined, it equaled a fortune.
“There’s no disagreement that D’Artello had to be stopped,” I tell her. “But there’s something off about how it was supposed to happen.”
Sighing, Maria pushes her hand through her hair. “And what happens next is torn out of the book.”
I reach for Maria, placing my hands on her shoulders and massaging the tightness out of them. She tips her head back, letting me dig my thumbs into the tight knots. She rolls her neck, and her moans are tempting. I take advantage of the stretch of bare skin, and my lips linger, kissing.
Maria catches her breath. “We have to keep going, Mikhail.”
I stare into her golden hazel eyes. “We’ll find the truth. No matter who it hurts.”
No matter who it hurts. I close my eyes and clear my mind of all the chatter driving me crazy. I’ll let the evidence in these journals decide who is guilty. But the most damning part is revealed after the torn pages.
It’s not what is written but how it is written.
Gennady’s writing becomes shorter, less detailed, and more and more days are skipped after that fateful day all those years ago.
The journal betrays something my father kept hidden from me my entire life: that he became detached and withdrawn after Desmier’s death.
But the final blow came on the day of my mother’s suicide.
There’s only a single line-My darling chrysanthemum wilted, all because of me.
I push the journal away and stand. I walk away from the couch and stare out the window onto the city my mother loved as much as I do.
“I never believed he loved her,” I whisper, and my breath clouds the glass.
Maria stands up and joins me. “Isn’t it better to know than to never find out?” she asks.
Holding her hands together, she stares at me anxiously as dread changes how she sees me. She doesn’t come any closer, waiting to see what I will do.
I don’t dare tell her again that I will protect her. Who am I protecting her from? I don’t know anymore. I take one step closer as if approaching a skittish animal-a doe wandering out of the woods. I take Maria’s hand and press it to my lips, and instantly, her shoulders relax as a small smile appears on her lips.
“We’ll find the truth,” I repeat her words, and she hugs me.
We’ll find the truth. No matter who I have to hurt.