In which there is love and betrayal.
Lucya…
“Is there anything Dmitri cannot screw up?” I groan, pacing through the kitchen.
“No, he is the master of fucking things up,” Alexi agrees.
The new Pakhan of the Turgenev Bratva was on the phone with Alexi the following morning, screaming in fury and demanding Nikolai return home immediately. I know without Alexi telling me that my soon-to-be husband would be traveling again, getting information with his fists and a gun instead of discreetly placed listening devices.
“Your father’s funeral and Dmitri’s wedding to Inessa are next week,” I remind him. “When does he expect us to be there?”
Strangely, I’ve tried calling Inessa repeatedly since Alexi returned my phone, and she never calls back. I haven’t seen or spoken with her since that horrible night when we were kidnapped.
She left one brief text about how busy she was, which makes sense. A wedding of this scale and enormous significance is Inessa’s ultimate goal in life. I’m sure she’s obsessed with every minute detail. I never thought much about my eventual wedding, other than being happy and grateful that Alexi would be waiting for me at the end of the aisle.
His phone buzzes and his expression darkens like a thundercloud as he recognizes the number. “Da, Pakhan?”
I can tell it physically hurts him to say that.
“I see. Which field?” Alexi’s jaw tightens. “Understood. We will be there.”
“What’s going on?” I ask. His expression is scaring me a little.
When he looks at me, his eyes are polar blue. The Angel of Death is back. “Dmitri is here.”
“What- in the U.S.?” I gasp.
“Not just stateside, but here in Boston. He’s at a private airfield on the other side of the harbor. He wants us to meet him,” he says, rapidly texting someone.
“He’s supposed to be in St. Petersburg. And this is a surprise. This is bad, isn’t it? From what I can remember, surprises from Dmitri are never good. Not like ‘Here’s a birthday cake!’ surprise, more like ‘I’m going to take everything you love’ surprise, right?” I’m rambling, I do that a lot when I’m nervous.
Alexi doesn’t seem irritated by it, abandoning his texting to hug me tightly. “He enjoys putting people on their back foot. Making them fearful. I won’t play his games, but unfortunately, if the Pakhan summons us, we must go pay our respects.”
“Yeah, your brother is just as tender and charming as a case of syphilis,” I mumble, and I catch him smothering a grin.
“Try to avoid sharing that observation when we see him, yes?” He gives me a kiss, cupping my face lovingly. “I find your honesty refreshing. Dmitri, not so much.”
“I know.” I try on a weak little smile. “I thought I could make dinner for you tonight and we could go ice skating on the rooftop. But seeing your brother is almost as good.”
He laughs, but not like he’s looking forward to an evening with his slimy brother.
When we pull out of the garage in Alexi’s Maserati SUV, a black truck follows us.
“How many guys are you bringing?” I ask. He grunts. What I want to ask is, “Why are you taking a security force with us? What are you worried about?”
But, I don’t. The night darkens as we head out of Boston and along the coast, down by Scituate. “You can see so many stars out here,” I marvel, craning my neck to look through the sunroof.
Alexi is silent, a muscle tic’ing in his cheek. This does not help my rising anxiety, which I stuff down for his sake. He needs to be able to focus on his brother, and not worry about me.
If I hadn’t been looking for it, I never would have noticed the turnoff for the private airfield, a well-groomed landing strip and a dilapidated hanger that looks like an old barn. This isn’t an airfield for rich businessmen. It’s all too isolated and dirty-looking, like a place for dark deeds.
The Turgenev family jet is on the runway, its running lights are on, but all the shades are on down on the windows, it’s hard to see who’s on board.
This feels so bad.
When we park, Alexi comes around to help me out of the SUV. “You stay right next to me, do you understand?” he murmurs, “If something happens, Pytor is your next layer of protection.”
The door to the old barn opens and inside, it’s well-lit and perfectly maintained. Dmitri strolls out in an expensive suit, gripping a giant cigar between his teeth.
“There he is!” he says, arms held open wide. “My dear brother and his intended.” His shark grin turns to me. “How are you, sweet, sweet Lucya Dubrovina? You look lovely.”
He’s making a slow, visual circuit of my body and though I want to step behind Alexi, I force myself to meet his gaze. “Pakhan Dmitri Turgenev. Greetings.”
“Join me inside, you two. Let’s have a drink and speak as family, yes?” He turns without waiting for a response, heading back into the building, leaving a choking cloud of cigar smoke behind him.
Pytor and my other men are just behind us, but two of the guards flanking the door move forward, blocking them from coming inside.
“The Pakhan will have you wait outside,” one says, a man with iron-gray hair and the sagging jowls of an angry bulldog.
Alexi frowns, chill radiating off him. “Ivor Artyomov, greetings. It’s inhospitable to leave my men out on such a cold night.”
I can tell these two know each other well. Ivor’s gaze darts to the left. “I have my orders, Alexi Turgenev.”
Tightening his grip on my hand, Alexi leads us into the hangar. It’s well-lit inside, painted bright white, with a long wall unit full of tools and on the other side, a grouping of couches and chairs. Dmitri is slouched in an armchair, manspreading as hard as he can.
No wonder he hates Alexi so much. His attempt to show authority as head of the Turgenev family looks laughable next to the quiet power of his younger brother. I notice the men around him subtly straighten up and bow their heads in deference to Alexi.
Unfortunately, Dmitri notices too, scowling angrily.
“Sit down,” he snaps, “we have much to discuss. Why are the Albanian and Wozniak issues not settled yet?”
“The head of the Wozniak Mafia retreated back to his home base in Warsaw,” Alexi says. “He has no choice since we’ve killed all his U.S.-based crew members. We retrieved the last cache of stolen weapons from a New York harbor.”
I can tell Dmitri’s not really paying attention. “Good, good.” He stares at me again and it’s making my flesh crawl. I move closer to Alexi, enough that our thighs and shoulders touch. “As Pakhan, I’ve been forced to make several changes for the good of the Bratva,” he says before a nauseating little smile distorts his face. “And some of those changes are just because… I want them.” To my horror, he looks at me. “One of those changes is who I will marry as head of our family. I find Inessa unpleasant.”
“This was a directive from our father,” Alexi says calmly, “part of the agreement with the Dubrovin Bratva.”
“Our father is dead, and I am Pakhan,” Dmitri says, “I’ve decided to make a change. I will be marrying Lucya Dubrovina instead.”
“I would rather lick the toilet seat in a subway bathroom.” It flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“I refuse,” Alexi says, rising and taking my hand. “I bow to your authority in all things Bratva. But not in this case.” He turns, propelling me toward the door.
“Well, brother, I’m afraid I must insist,” Dmitri says, ashing his cigar on the floor. “You may have Inessa, if you wish,” he adds as an afterthought.
“No.” Alexi’s eyes are no longer cold, they’re on fire with a repressed fury. “Lucya is my intended. Violating agreements made by the former Pakhan puts us at risk with the other families. They’ll no longer trust us to keep our word.”
“This has always been the problem with you,” Dmitri’s face is unrecognizable, twisted with hate and spite. “The golden child, always so dutiful. Well, I’m unhappy with your progress here. I’m displeased that you’re encouraging our younger brothers to go behind my back. I’ve decided that you are no longer useful to our Bratva.”
My face is wet with a cold sweat. My universe just disintegrated and reformed in a shape I don’t understand.
The man with the bulldog face puts a gun to Alexi’s head. “Take your hand out of your jacket, Alexi Turgenev.”
“You’d rather follow this fool over the good of our family, Ivor Artyomov?”
Ivor prods him in the head with the barrel of his pistol. “Raise your hands.”
“I’m going to send my fiancée out to my men,” Alexi says calmly, “then we can discuss your concerns.”
A barrage of gunfire outside makes me shriek and someone yanks me away from Alexi, holding my arms painfully behind my back as I struggle.
“This was my final test, brother.” Dmitri is up, a stupidly huge gun in hand. “I knew you weren’t loyal to the family anymore. You’d refuse to give up a girl? You’d risk your position for this stupid little slut? She’s a pretty little thing, but is she worth this?”
The gunshot sends my ears ringing and I look at Alexi in horror as blood spreads over his shirt. He rocks back but stays standing. The second bullet hits him in the chest and as I scream and kick against the men holding me back as he falls to the floor, ribs heaving and trying to roll on his side, trying to reach me.
Dmitri straightens his jacket and stands over Alexi. “She’s mine. It’s all mine. Greet our father when you see him in hell.”
Nononononono…
He aims one more time and I see the blood fly from Alexi’s head.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” I scream, thrashing violently, trying to get to him, gore spreading out around him on the white floor.
“Throw him in the bay, along with his men,” Dmitri says, putting the gun back in his shoulder holster. “Take my fiancée to the jet.”
“Fuck you! You fucking cowardly piece of shit! You pathetic tiny-dicked motherf-” There’s a sting in my shoulder and my vision fades, the blood draining from my Alexi’s body is the last thing I see.
