In which Alexi does some digging.
Alexi…
Driving home, I put in a call to my contact within the Dubrovin Bratva.
“Alexi Turgenev, this is a surprise, I thought you were busy carving up America into bite-size chunks.” It’s early evening in Russia, but I can already hear a full-blown party raging in the background.
“Dima Abelev, you are correct. But I have time for a side project or two.” There’s a click of a lighter and he sucks in a deep breath. “Does your Obshchak know you’re getting high?”
Coughing on his next inhale, he says, “Our new Pakhan is more willing to reward hard work.”
He’s full of shit. Any man using drugs on the job would get a bullet in the head from my father. It’s hard to believe that Rurik Dubrovin would be so permissive.
“Tell me why the two Dubrovina daughters are in the U.S.” He coughs again. “Put the fucking joint down, Dima Abelev.”
“Izvini, sorry, Alexi Turgenev,” he wheezes. “I don’t know much. Their mother sent them to Boston shortly after their father was killed. It’s been years. I’m not sure if they’re still there.”
“I want you to do some research for me. Find out why they were sent away. What are the Pakhan’s plans for them, who’s paying for them to stay there,” I say, pulling into my building’s empty parking lot.
“Those are very pointed questions,” he says uncomfortably, “asking them would lead to even more questions.”
“No one is better at finding the answers than you are, Dima Abelev.” This is possibly true, when he’s deep in debt and suitably motivated. “Get back to me.”
Why did Rurik Dubrovin allow Lucya and Inessa to come to Boston? That level of freedom is never allowed for women in our world, particularly high-ranking ones, such as the daughters of the former Pakhan of the Dubrovin Bratva.
A week later…
Dima gets back to me surprisingly quickly.
“Alexi Turgenev, I come bearing news.” He’s Facetiming me and he’s twitchy, off, like he’s just taken a large selection of party drugs and nobody, least of all Dima, knows which one’s about to kick in next.
“You seem nervous, Dima Abelev.”
“Ha! Well…” His eyes are darting back and forth, looking anywhere but at me. “I have your information but this closes out our debt because if anyone finds out I’ve told you, my death will be very long and painful.”
Now, I’m interested. “Go on.”
“The Pakhan has known where his nieces are since they left St. Petersburg. Their mother sends them money – her own money – to support them. What she doesn’t know is that the Pakhan sent men to watch over them. They send regular reports. Now that they’re old enough, he has plans for them.”
My grip tightens on my glass and I force myself to relax. “Alliance marriages?”
“Heh. Not exactly.” He’s shifting anxiously and I wish I could reach through the phone and slap him on the back of the head.
“Concentrate, Dima Abelev.”
“Da, well. He’s signing a huge deal with the Wozniak Mafia, it’s been in the works for years. The combination of their power and ours will make the Dubrovin Bratva invincible. There’s another player, I don’t know who, but they’re prepared to send in whatever support is needed.”
Szymon Wozniak… I remember. I carved up two of his sons in Warsaw about five years ago when they killed three girls at one of our brothels. I left them with their internal organs splayed out like butterfly wings at their father’s doorstep. I thought it was one of my more artistic endeavors. The man is a piece of shit. Any alliance with Wozniak is not good news.
“Tell me how the girls are involved.”
“He’s marrying off Inessa to Szymon,” he says, “it seems his wife died last year.”
“So tragic,” I say sourly. “And Lucya?”
“The third party, whoever they are, part of the deal is they get Lucya,” he says reluctantly.
“As a bride?”
“They requested her as a… gift.” He cringes as if expecting a punch over Facetime.
A “gift” in our world means she would be shared among countless men in any way they chose. It would be a gruesome life and Lucya would welcome death by the time it came for her.
“How soon are they putting this plan into action?” My expression is still calm, my voice monotone even though inside I’m roaring like a beast trying to shed my human skin.
“They’re already implementing the first part of the plan, but my unit isn’t involved,” he says, “Alexi Turgenev, this is all I have for you. My debt is paid.”
“It is,” I agree, nodding my head. “Proshchay, poka, farewell for now, Dima Abelev.”
“To you as well, Alexi Turgenev.” It looks like whatever fought to the surface of his cocktail of drugs has taken over because he’s wearing a blissful smile as I end the call.
Fuck.
This is bad. On so many levels. I know my first call must be to my father, but all I can think about is Lucya, waiting tables at Welcome Home with her sweet smile and messy ponytail.
Lucya…
When have I ever been this tired?
I just finished my fourth double shift at the restaurant, trying to cover our depleted credit card after my sister’s disastrous march through Manhattan’s most expensive stores. Mother won’t be sending any more money until the end of the month.
“Hey, ‘Nessa, I brought dinner,” I call out as I open our door.
Inessa’s asleep on the couch, with a half empty bottle of wine on the coffee table and a marathon showing of “Say Yes To The Dress” streaming on our TV. I could try to wake her up enough to get her into her bedroom, but…
After putting the to-go box from the restaurant in the fridge, I flop face down on my bed. I’ll just rest for a minute before I change out of my uniform and brush my teeth.
Just for a minute…
A massive hand slams down over my mouth as a pair of handcuffs snap my wrists together. My eyes are barely open when a strip of duct tape cuts off my scream and I’m jerked upright.
There’s a man, monstrous-looking with a skull print balaclava covering his face. Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he leans close. “Do you want me to hurt your sister?”
Violently shaking my head, I let him pull me to my feet.
I took lessons. Otets insisted we learn self-defense. And I can’t remember a single move. My mind is completely blank, terror numbing me as I stumble into the hallway and another scream tries to break through the duct tape. Inessa’s gagged and handcuffed too and there’s another man. He’s holding a gun to her head.
“Not another sound from either of you,” my captor whispers. “We don’t need you alive.”
Inessa bursts into noisy sobs, muffled by the duct tape and they drag us out the door. The hallway is dark. It’s never dark. The building’s always well-lit but it’s dark and they pull us down to the service elevator, the doors opening with a cheerful ‘ding!’
There are security cameras even in the elevator and I stare up at the panel desperately. They’ll see us. They’ll have footage, they can get clues from-
The camera is ripped out of the panel, wires drooping from the hole.
A white van is waiting in the parking lot, the engine running and the side door open like a gaping mouth. I try to drag my feet as they haul us out of the elevator and into the concrete garage. Could I slow them down maybe? Even a few more seconds and the night security guard could see us.
There are two bloody bodies crumpled next to the van and Inessa screams through her gag. They both have tattoos on their throat. Dubrovin Bratva tattoos. Oh, god this is real.
If they take us to a second location we’ll never make it We’ll die we’ll die…
Driving my elbow into the man’s abdomen, I nearly scream again as it hits something hard and sends agony shooting up my arm. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest. The man holding Inessa puts his gun to her chest, shaking his head. I stumble forward, letting them throw me into the van like a bag of flour.
