“You,” he rasps. “Become stronger. And acc… accept reality, instead of… running from… it.”
Then he pushes Bogdan’s face away in a clear sign of dismissal. Chastened, Bogdan moves aside and allows me to inch closer.
I don’t kneel like he did. Instead, I stand at my dying father’s bedside and look down at him.
He’s looked down on me my whole life.
But in the final moments, I’m the one looking down at him.
Funny how savage the end of the circle can be.
“I know,” he sighs. ‘I’ve earned your… h…hatred. But it was… necessary… to make you…str… strong.”
I glance down at the line of neat silver scars that line my right forearm. Thirty-seven in total. One for every lesson I failed to learn.
“Love is unimportant,” I tell him. “Moye uvazheniye I moya predannost’.”
You have my respect—and my loyalty.
Father nods, his hazy eyes glowing with something that looks suspiciously like pride.
Then, Bogdan and I step back and we watch our father die.
When I leave his room, Father’s men are standing in a line, their heads bowed in respect.
No, not his men.
Not anymore.
Now, they’re mine.
“Call Andrei. Tell him his presence is no longer required,” I order the man closest to me. “And you two, see to his body.”
Vlad steps forward, waiting for his instructions. I survey the line of men. Of course, the one I’m looking for is not here.
“Find Oleg and bring him down to the cellar,” I tell Vlad. “If he fights back, break his knees.”
If he’s surprised, he hides it well.
Bogdan flanks my right. “What do we do now?” he asks as I turn and stride away.
“We take the reins, just like Father trained us to do,” I say. “But first, we have to avenge his death.”
I head straight to the cellar. Bogdan shadows my footsteps. On the way there, we pass the open door of the second floor living room. Mama is standing in front of the window, her arms wrapped around her slim frame.
I stop short in the threshold. Bogdan brushes past me and joins her at the window.
She turns to him with a weak smile. “I’m a widow, then?”
Bogdan nods, resting a comforting hand on her shoulders.
She heaves a sigh so big that her whole body shivers.
“Mama, you should change,” he says gently. “You’ve got his blood on your hands.”
She glances down at her trembling fingers. “He coughed up so much blood,” she murmurs. “I thought I got it all off…”
“I’ll take you to your room,” Bogdan says, glancing at me for approval.
I nod.
They turn and approach the doorway I’m standing in. I try to summon up some words of comfort. Something to comfort a grieving old woman.
But I can’t find any that would make a difference now.
As she walks past me, her eyes flicker over my face. “Isaak…”
“It’s okay, Mama,” I say stiffly. “We can talk later.”
She swallows back something.
Grief?
Uncertainty?
Relief?
Fuck if I know. Those emotions have never meant much to me. Father made sure of that.
“I just want you to know that this Bratva is yours,” she says. “It’s what your father would have wanted. It was always meant to be.”
“Maxim disagrees.”
“Then prove him wrong,” she says with a nod that reminds me why she made such a fierce Bratva wife all these years.
She grazes my arm with her fingers. Then she allows Bogdan to usher her out of the living room.
I head straight for the cellar. It’s empty when I get there. Flicking on the lights, I pluck a wrought iron chair from its resting place along the back wall and drag it to the center of the room.
Then I wait.
The minutes tick by, and I wonder if the fucker managed to escape. I’m not upset by the prospect. In fact, the adrenaline pumping through my veins would relish the chance to chase him down and slit him open from balls to chin.
Then I hear the creek of the cellar door. Shuffling feet. Muffled protests.
Three pairs of legs appear on the staircase—Vlad and Nikolai, with Oleg caught between them. I notice that Oleg’s knees still seem to be in working order. So he didn’t try to flee. Perhaps he’s braver than I thought—or stupider.
As they come into view, I see that he’s been gagged. He’s struggling hard against the flexicuffs that bind his hands behind his back.
I pull out the custom-made blade that Otets gifted me on my thirteenth birthday. I tap the tip between my fingers as Vlad and Nikolai force Oleg into the empty space in front of me.
Then Nikolai kicks at him from behind, and Oleg collapses to a kneeling position at my feet.
“Remove the gag,” I order.
Vlad cuts it off immediately.
“Isaak, what is this?” Oleg gasps, his eyes bulging and whirling in their sockets.
“This is the day of judgement,” I tell him coldly. “It’s time to own up to your sins.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand…”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “You know how my uncle Yakov died, don’t you, Oleg?” I ask.
He just stares at me.
“Of course you do. You were there,” I continue. “It was heart failure. That’s the story.”
“Someone murdered him,” Oleg says. “It was just made to look like a congenital heart defect.”
I nod. “Correct. And who got the blame for it?”
Oleg’s expression wavers. He’s not sure whether to own up to his true allegiances or make me beat it out of him. “Isaak…”
“You will address me properly,” I interrupt harshly. “In the manner owed to your don and master.”
Don. That’s what I am now. It feels right.
His face falters. He’ll break sooner rather than later. He’s already on the cusp of falling to sobbing pieces. “Yes, Don Vorobev,” he murmurs.
“Good. Now, back to the story. My uncle’s widow Svetlana spread the lie that it was my father who killed Yakov. She—”
“She didn’t lie,” Oleg spits out, dropping the pretense.
I notice a shadow on the staircase. Bogdan emerges. He doesn’t announce his presence. Simply walks around Oleg, until he’s standing next to me, just behind my chair.
Oleg’s eyes flit between the two of us, wondering what this new appearance might mean for him. I know my brother had shared a friendship with the man.
But I also know Bogdan. Disloyalty is not a crime he will ever forgive.
If I hand him the knife, he’ll cut Oleg’s throat without so much as blinking.
That’s true loyalty.
“Your father wanted to be don,” Oleg snarls. “So he killed his own brother and took what was never meant to be his.”
“A strong don takes what he wants,” Bogdan intones.
“And a weak one bleats about what he feels he’s owed,” I add. “Claims mean nothing. Strength means everything. Svetlana filled Maxim’s head with lies.”
“She was the wife of the true don,” Oleg snaps. “And Maxim is Yakov’s heir. You’re sitting on his throne, mudak.”
“So this was his revenge?” I ask. “He wanted to murder our father and he used you to do it.”
Oleg’s lip curls. “Wrong.”