In which the holiday spirit is coming for Alexi whether he wants it or not.
Lucya…
Walking through my festive holiday rubble, Alexi frowns, which I’m beginning to think is his factory default setting.
“Didn’t you get anything for yourself?”
“Are you forgetting that gigantic closet of clothes and slutty lingerie occupying the guest room?” I ask, “I’m set for the next decade at least.”
Now he’s amused. “Slutty lingerie? If it’s not to your taste, order something else. I told the personal shopper to find you some pretty things.”
“You didn’t pick those out yourself?” I ask, unaccountably pleased.
He shrugs, “I just told her what colors look best on you. But you did need clothing. I’ve seen the sad little collection the men packed for you when they cleared out your apartment.”
Ignoring the existential horror of Pytor packing my underwear drawer, I stick to my standard cocktail of outrage and defiance. “I had plenty of clothes, you don’t get to judge my fashion taste.” I pointedly look at his black t-shirt, jeans, and boots. Though he looks edible in anything.
Alexi looks like what male models should look like without all the airbrushing. He’s peeling an apple with one of his razor-sharp knives that he seems to always keep on his person. I watch his long, capable fingers create a perfect spiral of the peel and I have to swipe the back of my hand across my mouth to make sure I’m not drooling. There’s an elegant sense of competence to everything he does. No flash or fanfare, just quick, precise movements.
His phone chimes, interrupting my lust-filled perusal of my husband-to-be.
“Da?” I hear the agitated babble from the speaker but not the meaning. A shadow falls over his face, making it look sculpted in stone. “I’ll be right there. Do not engage.” He slides the phone back into his pocket and heads for the elevator.
“Is everything okay?” I’m trotting alongside him like an agitated golden retriever, but the frozen expression on his face is scaring me.
“I have to go out,” he says as the elevator door slides open. “Do not leave the apartment, Pytor will be here to stay with you.”
“Please, just…” What can I say? He’s Bratva. “Will you please be careful?” Then I take the plunge, even if he’ll think I’m pathetic and needy. “Come home to me.”
For a moment, his ice-cold eyes thaw. “Why don’t you decorate the trees while I’m out? You can show them off to me when I come back.” He kisses my forehead, and then he’s gone.
Alexi…
The idiots had targeted the wrong shipment.
“Fucking amateurs,” Samuil spat on one of the men kneeling in front of us.
“I’m disappointed,” I say. “You stupid fucks pulled me away from dinner for this?” Gesturing irritably at the shipping containers, I try to control my temper. “You tried to steal a shipment of high-grade lumber from Canada. Well-played. I believe you were looking for the cargo that holds hundreds of modified SVD Dragunov rifles?”
The fifteen men left alive were kneeling in a line on the rough planks of the dock, blubbering like children, pleading for their lives. Walking along the line, I spot two, bloodied but silent. Pulling my Glock, I shoot the man kneeling next to them. The two jump but stay quiet.
“You, gentlemen, might survive the night.” I crouch in front of them. “No identifying tattoos, different nationalities… you’re either mercenaries or, as I’ve said, fucking idiots.” One of them glares at me, his eye rapidly swelling shut. “These men?” I gesture with my gun, “They’re already dead. You might have a chance to walk out of here. You’re independent contractors, I can tell.” The glaring one shifts slightly. “I can respect that. I will give you double your fee. I’m guessing it was somewhere around a million? A million five? Standard contract these days. Tell me who hired you, and you walk.”
“Fuck you,” the quieter man spat, “you’re going to kill us anyway.”
“Well,” I allow, “I am going to kill you.”
The other man jumps as I shoot his partner, a trickle of blood coming from his swollen eye. “Look,” he says hastily, “all I can give you is the name of the man who hired us. I don’t know these assholes, but they’ve been speaking Polish. I know just enough of the language to be sure.”
Shouting and cursing, the others try to drown him out and I nod to Samuil, who takes out half of them, and the others are gunned down by David and Artur, who’s whistling a Christmas tune.
I glance at Samuil, who rolls his eyes. “I thought we wiped out the fucking Wozniaks.”
“Give me the name of the man who hired you,” I say, resting my Glock on my shoulder as I turn back to the last man alive. “No one will know you turned.”
“He’s a broker,” he stammers, “they call him The Butcher.”
“That’s not a name,” I say. “You know there’s Poles involved.” Gesturing to the rapidly cooling corpses, their wounds steaming in the winter air, “If you know enough Polish to recognize the language, you had to have heard a name. They weren’t bright enough to keep quiet.”
“I didn’t.” He shakes his head vehemently. “That’s all I have.”
Rising, I nod at Samuil. “Release him.”
“What?” Samuil corrects himself, “Is there anything else you need first, Boss?”
“Yes. Release him after he contacts The Butcher and reports that the job is done. Keep him on the connection as long as you can to see if we can trace it. If you can’t track this bastard through the confirmation, follow the deposit into his bank account.” My gaze returns to the kneeling man, his unswollen eye is wide with surprise and cautious hope. “I’m a man of my word. If you lead us to The Butcher, you live.”
A few flakes of snow fall on my head and I glance up into the grey sky.
“We’re supposed to have the first big snowfall of the season,” Artur says, switching to “Frosty the Snowman” in his whistling repertoire..
“I had no idea you were such a fan of the holidays,” I say.
“What can I tell you?” he shrugs, “Having kids changes everything.”
The vision hits me with startling clarity. Lucya, her stomach swollen with my child, sitting by our fireplace, smiling up at me. Suddenly, I want nothing more. Not my Bratva. Not my role as Vor.
I want Lucya.
Shaking my head to clear it, I gesture to the rest of my men. “Clean this mess up and make sure the lumber shipment gets to the right warehouse.”
Usually, I’m at a scene like this to the end. As Vor, it’s my role to make sure everything is done correctly. Tonight, I’m speeding home after leaving everything to Samuil.
I can see the soft glow of the Christmas tree from the apartment windows before I turn into my building, and when the elevator doors open, Lucya is standing there, smiling nervously.
“So, I know you’re not used to celebrating,” she begins in a rush, “but you did say I could decorate, so…”
There’s a blaze roaring in the fireplace, too much wood, and too big for safety, but I’ve already accepted that my bride-to-be is a firebug. The biggest of the trees is set up in the corner by the bank of windows, decorated with lights and dozens of exquisite, spun-glass ornaments.
She has scattered boxwood wreaths tied up with big plaid ribbons on nearly every wall in the great room, the kitchen, the hallway, and I suspect even more in our bedroom.
Lit greenery is draped over the mantle and around the door frames, and even if it looks like Ded Moroz, Father Christmas has exploded all over the house, it looks…
“Beautiful.” I’m looking at my Kolibri as I say it, and she is beautiful, even simply dressed in jeans and a sweater, no makeup and it’s possible she has a sprig of boxwood stuck in her hair. “So beautiful.”
“I’m so glad you like it,” she says, breathing a sigh of relief. “I was really worried you might think I’d gone overboard.”
“Well…” I smother a chuckle, “It is definitely festive. You’ve worked hard tonight. Come sit with me and you can tell me about it.”
She brings me a glass of whiskey and some wine for herself. I put her feet on my lap, rubbing her soles as she sighs.
“Wait! I should be doing this for you!” Lucya says, “You were the one out in the cold all night.”
“Your bonfire is keeping me warm,” I say, enjoying the feel of her soft little feet in my lap. “Tell me what other Yuletide surprises await me.”
Putting her hand on top of mine, she says, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about your night? It’s nothing that will surprise me. I am Bratva too, after all.”
The light from the flames is making her skin glow and I’ve already decided how this night is going to end; by laying her out in front of the fireplace and making my hummingbird come until she’s boneless and delirious with pleasure. I don’t want to talk about blood and death, or that the Wozniak Mafia is targeting us.
“Tell me about what Christmas was like for you as a child.”
She brightens. “Well, the only time my mother allowed us in the kitchen was during the holidays, and we’d make tea cakes and smother them in powdered sugar, and those cute little mushroom-shaped cookies….”
I rub my wife’s feet and listen to her happy voice, baking in the heat of the fire.
And I am at peace.
