by A. C. Bextor
“Share at what cost?” Gleb reprimands. Turning to me, he pleads, “This isn’t a good idea. You’ve heard the rumors, I’m sure. Killian doesn’t take kindly to those who speak with a foreign accent.”
“You mean to say he doesn’t take kindly to Russians,” I clarify, amused at Gleb’s sidestep of words, always so careful not to insult his own. Namely me.
“Dawson doesn’t trade in flesh or drugs, Gleb. He’s only ever dealt in guns. We’ve never been a threat to his family’s operations or livelihood,” I aim to calm my high-strung guard. “Abram has a point. Ciro is into everything.”
“He is,” Abram concurs. “He’s a greedy bastard, too.”
Gleb still doesn’t agree. “Killian’s youngest son, Patrick, was married to Ciro’s kid sister! Before they died, they had a child together. Liam Dawson is a twenty-five-year-old man now, not to mention he’s also part-Irish part-Italian. You can’t tell me those two families aren’t working together. Not when they share blood.”
Years ago, I had heard what happened to Patrick and Gina Dawson. On the way home from a night out together, their car was struck by a drunk driver on a dark road. Gina and Patrick were pronounced dead at the scene. The driver lived, only to later die at Ciro’s order.
Liam, as I’ve come to understand, still lives with Ciro and no longer has contact with Killian or anyone of the Dawson name. This could all be unfounded truth, but it’s something that could work in my favor nonetheless.
“The families aren’t working together,” Abram tells me calmly. “Killian is a smart man who loves his grandson. And loved his son. Patrick Dawson had no ties to the family business. None. He worked their legitimate businesses, as did his wife, Gina.”
“And what about Cillian?” Gleb clips. “He’s the oldest son and now the only. Technically, he’s next in line.”
“Then what better time than now to introduce ourselves formally to Killian. Getting in with his good graces could lead to getting into his oldest son’s, as well,” Abram suggests.
Turning to Gleb, I point out, “The idea has merit.”
“You’re both wrong,” Gleb accuses. “Ciro didn’t conveniently give his sister away to the Irish all those years ago without a plot or agenda.”
“I’ve personally done the recon on this, and I’ve been thorough,” Abram reassures. “Ciro and Killian don’t speak—in personal matters or business. If anything, Killian is livid that Ciro took Liam away.”
“That makes sense,” I state.
“No, that is insanity,” Gleb utters. “Neither of them should be trusted.”
Abram, rarely ever losing patience, turns his determined gaze to mine.
“Ciro’s main source of income is drugs. Ciro is after Killian’s lion share in the black market gun trade. If he expands, he’ll have added means in an attempt to overrun us.”
Gleb speaks his next piece with renewed calmness. “I think this is a bad idea. Until we have a handle on this, I vote we let sleeping dogs lie. Approaching Killian could be considered an open threat to Ciro.”
“Any family such as ours could be considered a threat to anyone,” Abram charges. “But if you want my opinion, I’d say contacting Dawson is worth the risk. If Ciro Palleshi is preparing for something with Klara, and he could tell us what it is, we should chance the risk.”
“Agreed,” I reply. “Contact Killian’s right hand. Feel him out. If the Irish are willing to talk, I’ll call him and offer a meet. We’ll go north and meet in the old Temple Square.”
This time Gleb doesn’t object—he audibly gasps. “Temple Square lines against Ciro’s backyard!” he exclaims. “What are you hoping to accomplish by not only marching directly into his territory but doing it to conspire against him?”
Standing, I take the pictures of Klara from his grasp, squaring them to a perfect pile before laying them next to the lamp that adorns my desk.
Before directing my intent, I wait for both men to stand straight at attention. They need to hear this, to understand my reasoning. Their duty is to do as I say; however, the power of blatant honesty goes a long way when calling on a man to put his life on the line for the cause.
“Ciro Palleshi runs no more than a wounded circus. The men he has at his back aren’t trained men. They’re weak. If I’m going to bait Ciro into chasing me, I have to stand in his ‘backyard,’ as you put it.”
“You want him to come after you,” Abram deduces with a small smile. “You want Ciro to make the first move.”
Looking down to another picture of young Klara, this time holding a book in one hand and using the other to twist her hair, I nod in confirmation.
“If Ciro wants my territory, to include anyone who lives inside it, I want him to admit what he’s after, and not by sending some random idiot out to take pictures.”
Nodding to the pile of those on my desk, Gleb gives up and asks, “What do you want me to do with those?”
Turning my gaze to the same, I state, “Nothing. Let me know what Killian’s contact has to say about my offer to meet. The sooner the better.”
Parting with a pensive look, Gleb bids a nodding, wordless good-bye before disappearing from my office.
Abram, as I knew he would, still has things to say.
With one arm across his chest, his opposite elbow resting on top of it, Abram uses his hand to hide his smirk. He fails miserably.
“This is funny to you,” I start, pointing to the black chair and urging him to sit again. “What do you find so amusing?”
Never bowing to my stern tone, he sits back in the chair and rests his arms on its edges. He kicks his ankle to his opposite knee and gets comfortable.
“I knew this day would come,” he comments. “God knows I’ve prayed for it.”
“What day is that?”
Still smiling, he asks, “You really have no idea?”
“No, Abram. I don’t.”
“I prayed for the day you realized your true purpose.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dropping his amused expression, he directs, “When your father told me that I’d be coming to the States and that I’d be with you, I admit I had doubts.”
He and my father both.
“When he told me I was supposed to help you build what he expected from you, I admit I had more.”
My spine stiffens at his blatantly noted skepticism. I’ve always been doubted, but it never kept me from trying to prove myself. The longer I’ve been at this, the more effort it’s taken for me to stand down and agree with all my father’s orders. However, in challenging my father, I risk the consequences I’m sure he’d bury me under. Faina, Veni, even Klara and Maag would suffer those consequences the same.
“You think I’m going after Ciro to gain my father’s respect? I’ll assure you I’m not. You, of all people, know how I feel about Vory.”
“He wasn’t much of a father, Vlad. I know this.”
“Then tell me what you think you know. Why do you think I’m going after Ciro?”
Shaking his head slowly as if aiming to calm me, he states with sincerity, “I think you’re going after Ciro for reasons you obviously don’t yet understand.”
“And what reasons are those? Enlighten me, please,” I prod, unfortunately curious.
Pointing to the pictures on my desk, Abram voices carefully, “One of your own is in harm’s way. You don’t like the possibility that Ciro, for whatever reason, has his eyes on the girl.”
“Klara,” I clarify, if only to myself.
“Klara,” he repeats on a whisper, sitting back to get comfortable again. “Yes, the girl.”
At his tone, I snap, “Enough.”
“You’re angry because you’re looking at her in ways you never have before and you don’t know what to do with her.”
I assume no man under my roof would touch my property without permission.
“Enough,” I clip again, this time louder and for the first time wishing I didn’t allow Abram as much leash t
o speak his mind as I always have.
“And you’re curious about her in ways you never wanted to be. I see it when you look at her.”
“Abram, I swear to—”
“She looks at you the same,” he notes. “She admires you. She always has.”
You came to this country when you were still a young man. You didn’t bend to fit into your new world. You forced your new world to bend and fit to you.
Shutting him down completely, I return, “I’m angry because Ciro is an imbecile. He’s a loose cannon with an agenda to serve himself. He’s an idiot without an army, but if given the chance or opportunity he’ll surely build a new one.”
“She’s beautiful, Vlad,” he says, ignoring all I’ve said.
“If I had a gun, I’d shoot you where you sit,” I smart.
While outright laughing, my friend further baits, “Klara’s really getting to you. I’m so glad I’ve lived to see this day.”
“I could change that.”
“Don’t be an ass.” He smirks. “This is good.”
The part of me that’s unavoidably curious questions, “Why now are you suddenly so interested in my relationship with the girl?”
The part of me that didn’t want to know regrets asking when he returns, “I don’t think there’s another woman on this earth you’ll ever trust enough. Klara’s been here, in this life, since hers began. She’s loved by everyone and has already been exposed to everything you are.”
“She’s young,” I reject. “I don’t consider her anything more than that.”
“You’re either blind or you’re trying to lie to me.”
“I killed her family,” I admit through his incessant meddling, though he knows what I did. It’s no secret, being that he was the one who followed through on my order.
“Klara’s father was a yellow-bellied traitor. He was also an adulterous liar who repeatedly took his hand to his wife. He wasn’t a good man, much less any kind of father.”
“My own father raised his children as he would his soldiers, Abram. Even Faina lived under his combative thumb for years until she came here,” I retort, again with something he already knows. “But does that make Vory less my family? Any less my blood to avenge if someone were to kill him?”
“The two instances don’t compare.”
“In your God’s eyes, and in the eyes of Enzen’s child, it should.”
Conceding to my point, Abram gives in and I choose to not push further.
“I’m heading to Recherché in a couple of days,” I inform. “I haven’t been there in a while.”
“Probably a good idea to check in,” he comments. “Want me to go with you?”
Shaking my head, I deny, “No. I’ll go alone. Katrina asked me to come see the progress she’s made. If I need anything, I’ll call.”
“That woman has no interest in you checking out her progress, Vlad. The vulture wants you for herself.”
“We’re not discussing that.”
“We’re not,” he agrees. “I’m tired of trying to convince you. You don’t listen anyway.”
A sudden and surprising movement crosses the door to my office so fast I nearly miss it. Abram turns his head where he sits, then brings his eyes back to mine. The ever-observant man misses nothing.
“We have company,” he says low, using his hand once again to hide a smirk.
“Klara.” I sigh, exhausted by his efforts to rattle me. “Come here.”
Peering her head around the corner, her eyes widen as she takes in Abram and me sitting at my desk.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were with—”
“Hello, sweetheart,” Abram states, cutting through her nervousness.
Ignoring him, I raise my hand. Since my time alone with Klara this week, my discomfort with her has lessened. I don’t want to reexamine the reasons why—least of all in front of Abram.
“I said come in.”
With a tray in her hands, Klara heads our way. A stainless steel pot, as well as a single white cup is balanced with each and every step.
“Maag said you take your coffee this time every day. I told her I’d bring it on my way to go see Veni.”
Abram, uncharacteristically speechless, sits still. His eyes scan the tray before his focus moves to the back of Klara’s head.
She places the tray on the edge of my desk, where she begins to pour coffee in the cup. Her hands shake, leaving the steel to hit against the porcelain in small taps.
“Are you nervous?” Abram surprisingly questions her directly.
Klara’s head stays lowered, but under her lashes, her eyes shift to mine and her face blushes.
“No,” she utters.
“Then why are you so flustered?” he pushes.
Once she’s finished with her task, she stands straight, wipes her hands on her thighs, and turns to Abram. I can’t see her face, but he does and he smiles. I deplore the bite of jealousy that strikes as I watch him take her in.
Abram is religious. A married man with a young child of his own. Yet he’s reveling in the beauty of Klara as I’ve recently found myself doing, neither of us having the right.
“I’m fine,” she excuses.
Having no desire to continue watching Abram with Klara, I instruct, “Tell Maag I’ll take lunch in here today.”
Without offering me a response, she keeps hold of Abram’s gaze. Once satisfied she’s been dismissed, she takes two steps toward the door. Before she reaches it, I notice her steps are steady.
“Your foot is better,” I comment, looking at her long legs beneath the white dress she’s wearing.
Klara turns in place, offers me a knowing glance before replying with a quiet and simple “Because of you. Thank you for that.”
She turns to walk through the door.
Abram’s eyes widen. His arms fall again to rest on the chair at the same time he clears his throat to pull my gaze from the empty office door.
Seemingly no longer unable to do as he’s told and rein in his sarcasm, Abram curiously, but forcefully, questions, “And you’re telling me you’ve missed the fact that you find her as intriguing as you should?”
“Oh, my Lord in heaven!” Maag shrieks in sudden horror as she stands frozen at the door of the kitchen. With her hand clutching her chest, she threatens, “Veniamin Zalesky, get out of there this instant or I’ll call your father in here to remove you!”
Maag’s an older woman, but no one knows exactly how old. She refuses to share. She’s completely gray, utterly wrinkled, and adoringly round. She’s been employed by the Zaleskys since before I came to live with them. She acts as an exhausted stand-in grandmother to Veni, a never-listened-to fill-in mother to Faina, and Vlad Zalesky’s in-charge housemaid, at times also serving as the bane of his existence—or so I’ve heard him say.
To me, she’s just Maag. The woman I assist with the housework from time to time, but also a woman I’ve come to adore as much as I do the others.
Maag’s eyes come to mine where she rolls them with exasperation.
Veni, whose body is bent low with his head buried deep into a bottom kitchen cupboard, had already told me he’s in search of a box of goodies he’d stashed there weeks ago without Maag knowing. Hearing her enter, he turns in place and looks around the room for me. Then he smiles wide, always happy to get a rise out of Maag.
“Veni, why don’t you go outside and find something else to do?” Maag suggests, now standing behind him, on guard in her kitchen as she always does. “Don’t you have some friends from school to hang out with? A girl? Anyone but me to pester?”
I’m sitting at the small kitchen work table, sorting the batch of cookies and cupcakes that have already cooled. We’ve spent the morning preparing boxes for Abram’s wife, Lucienne, to pick up. She insisted Maag make her best so she could deliver them to a variety of businesses throughout the city—specifically those who care for the sick and poor.
Veni stands straight and wipes his brow. “I can’t go hang with
friends today. Dad’s taking me shooting this afternoon.”
Maag’s gray eyebrows knit together, and she frowns. “Shooting? Who are you shooting?”
Due to the questionable business this family is involved with, her question stands to reason.
With a huge smirk, Veni shakes his head and assures, “We’re not shooting people, Maag. Sheesh.”
“At least not today,” she murmurs.
Veni doesn’t miss her reaction and moves in to inform, “Dad’s taking me back to the open range for more practice.”
Turning to me, Maag sighs, this one heavier than the last. She mumbles to herself about children needing to be children, and that being sixteen, Veni shouldn’t have to be learning the ways of becoming a man in this family.
The problem is Veni has been learning what it means to be in this family for years.
“Klara,” Veni calls, walking toward me.
He snags a cookie from the box I just finished packing, then takes a seat in the chair across from mine.
Before taking a bite, he asks, “You want me to see if you can come with us today? Dad could teach you how to shoot.”
“I don’t think—”
“Woman, you’re gonna be twenty-one and you still don’t know how to protect yourself,” he notes.
“Protect myself from what?”
Veni’s face grows hard. “You know what I’m talking about.”
Ignoring the obvious, what we both know is true, I reply, “I have you to protect me, Veni.”
He’s either flattered or dismissing my half-truth. Veni would protect me if he could and at all personal cost. I just hope he’s never given the chance.
“I have work here. I’ll be around when you get back. You can teach me another time.”
Snatching the uneaten cookie from his hand, I start to lay it back in the box where it came from.
My arm is caught.
Veni’s eyes widen, as do mine before they move to the large tattooed hand covering my wrist as Veni looks up to the man holding it tightly in his grasp. When he swallows hard, I follow suit.
