Luka
My body ached from lack of sleep, but I forced myself out of bed. Kirill, the Pakhan, had told me I had to be in his office this afternoon. He was meeting with the Five Families of the Cosa Nostra, the Italian Mafia here in New York. Kirill wanted me to meet all the bosses at a neutral location; he wanted to introduce me as the Bratva’s future leader. He said he wanted them to see me in person. He’d smiled when he’d informed me of that. Said he couldn’t wait to see the fear on their faces when they saw the future of the Volkovs enter the room.
Walking to my side of the closet in the bedroom I shared with Kisa, I pulled out one of the damn designer suits I had to wear whenever I was on Bratva business. Minutes later, I looked in the bathroom mirror as I straightened my tie and my hands dropped to my sides. I felt like I was going fucking crazy. Every nightmare was of me killing 362, of his brown eyes glazing over with death. Most of my days were spent trying to find out who he was, where he’d come from, and so far I’d come up with nothing.
Turning from the mirror, I made my way downstairs to find Mikhail, my personal guard, and head of the byki, waiting in my town car.
Without speaking, he drove me straight to Kirill Volkov’s house. I stepped out and strode into the huge hallway, heading toward his office. When I was just outside the door, I heard my father and Kisa’s voices coming from inside. But just as I was about to enter, their hushed conversation brought me to an abrupt halt.
“Have you discovered something about 362? Have your leads brought in new information?” Kisa asked.
There was silence in response, and my heart began to pound. My hand tightened on the doorknob when my father cleared his throat.
“We’ve known for several months about 362’s identity, Kisa.”
“What?” Kisa whispered in shock. “Months? Yet you haven’t told Luka?”
“It’s a delicate situation, Kisa,” my father spoke, “one that’s recently arrived at our door. And we can’t make an already bad situation worse”—I heard a chair creak—“especially not for him. Not for 362.” My father spoke “him” and “362” like they were poison in his mouth.
“I don’t understand. I don’t … what?” Kisa mumbled. “Who is 362?”
My father then replied coldly, “He was a Kostava.”
Kisa must have reacted to that name, as my father then added, “It’s true, Kisa. Of all the people, of all the families in the world, the one man who finds my son in hell and befriends him, is a fucking Kostava.”
The conversation came to a stop, but all I could focus on was that they knew. They’d known all this time who 362 was. And they’d fucking kept it from me.
Feeling a surge of anger rip through me, I slammed my shoulder into the door and burst into the room. Kirill was beside his desk, my father and Kisa sat before him.
All three turned to me as I stood in the entrance of the office, my nostrils flaring with the intensity of my erratic and rapid breathing.
“Luka—” Kisa whispered, her face white. But I ignored it, my gaze fully focused on my father.
“You’ve known all this time?” I thundered. I stormed forward until I towered over him. I almost cooled when I saw a flicker of fear run through his brown eyes, but then I reminded myself he’d kept information from me. Information I desperately wanted.
Kisa touched my arm, but I wrenched it free from her light grasp. “No! Don’t!” I snapped at my wife, and looked back at my father and Kirill. “I want to hear this from their fucking mouths! I want to hear why they kept this from me. Why they didn’t tell me the only fucking thing I’ve ever asked of them!”
My father held out his hand. “Luka—”
But I was too far gone. A pained roar ripped up my throat. Moving to the desk, I gripped the edge with both hands, and flipped it on its side.