by RC Boldt
Papa’s eyes glitter with distaste. “He’s an entitled punk, always trying to throw his weight around. Even worse, I believe he killed Mikhail to take over.”
My eyes grow wide. “What?” Who the hell does that?
Papa’s expression gentles a fraction. “Ah, my sweet Alex. You are so pure-hearted. But people like Sergei, Mikhail’s son, are power hungry and will stop at nothing to satisfy it. I worry that someday, he will seek me out.”
“You think he’ll come after you”—the words get clogged in my throat—“and kill you?”
Papa answers only with a nod.
Terror floods my veins, and my voice turns high-pitched and frantic. “Then we’ll move again. We haven’t moved in a while. I’ll pack right now.” I shift to rise from my seat, but his hand squeezes mine.
“Stop. Please.”
I worry my bottom lip, and Papa sandwiches my hand between his two. “Look at me, Little One.”
When I release a slow breath and meet his eyes, he lowers his voice, and I can’t help but wonder how the hell he’s so calm about this. “You need roots. That’s why we’re here. But you’re leaving for the university soon, and we both know you’ve been looking forward to that.”
I can’t deny it because it’s the truth.
“If he sends men after me here, at least I’ll know you’ll be safe at school.” I start to protest, but he shakes his head. “I will leave this earth with no regrets except that I didn’t get more time with my beautiful daughter.”
Unshed tears burn my eyes, and I swallow hard. “I love you, Papa. I don’t want anything to happen to you—”
He pats my hand, those lines at the edges of his eyes crinkling affectionately. “I know, Little One. I know. But death is imminent. It’s intertwined in life. One should not fear it because fearing death is akin to fearing life itself.”
He leans in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “All I ask is that you never forget that I loved you.”
Eyes growing misty, his voice turns hoarse. “Should I pass, be sure that I will always be watching over you, proud of the young woman you’ve become.”
Chapter 62
ALEXANDRA
I awaken abruptly, my entire body jolting with awareness and a cold sweat beading along my skin.
Liam’s steady breathing greets my ears, and I vaguely recall him coming to bed at some point, accompanied by the strong scent of liquor.
My chest heaves with labored breaths, and I’m grateful Liam isn’t privy to my current state. Staring blindly into the dark bedroom, I feel my heart thundering so wildly it echoes in my ears.
Then a barrage of memories comes filtering through. I wince, my brain overwhelmed, and place my fingers at my temples to assuage the radiating pain. But it does no good. My mouth turns bone dry as I recall how I arrived in that situation and how I ended up on that yacht.
They killed Papa. The man who had saved me and had given me a better life. The man who could’ve easily discarded me at any moment.
The man who raised me to always want to better myself, who encouraged my thirst for knowledge and molded me into the woman I’ve become.
Anguish lances so deep in my chest that I press my palm against it, half expecting to encounter a bloody wound. But there’s none.
Gingerly scooting upright, I warily regard a still-sleeping Liam, and when he doesn’t stir, relief unfurls within me.
The dark confines of the room act as a sort of barrier to my current reality and my past. It’s as though the absence of light within the bedroom serves as a backdrop to my returning memories.
Papa isn’t expecting me home since I’ll be tackling final exams for this term and have only one more term to go before graduation.
He doesn’t know it, but I’ve planned to surprise him by arriving home over the weekend to celebrate his birthday. I’m giddy with excitement, anticipating his reaction to the gift I’d purchased for him.
Being at the top of my class and in my final year has its perks, and one of my professors allowed me to take my exam early Friday morning instead of its scheduled time in the late afternoon. This enables me to catch an earlier train back home.
It’s a lengthy walk from the train station to our property, but I never mind it. I dressed accordingly, my backpack strapped snugly to me and boots on my feet.
I expect to make it to my cabin by dusk, but even if I slow my easy pace and nightfall hits, I know our woods like the back of my hand. Could navigate them with my eyes closed—and had, on occasion, as a silly challenge from Papa.
I stop by my cabin first to quickly freshen up before venturing to Papa’s. A thick copse of trees surrounds my small home, disguising it from view from the nearby road and even from Papa’s cabin.
A gunshot rings out before I make it past the outer barrier of trees bordering my cabin. A swarm of bats flees frantically, squeaking in the night.
Standing frozen at the edge of the dark woods, I hear more gunshots fire, echoing in the stillness of the night.
We’re isolated here with no one around for miles. I stand frozen in the shadowed, dense forest. When the men emerge from Papa’s house, laughing as though they’d just had the time of their lives, my blood turns to ice in my veins. Especially when I hear them speak.
I know Russian–Papa had taught me his primary language. Just like I understand the men, I instinctively know who they are.
They had come for him, just as my father had predicted. The Bratva—under Sergei’s rule—had murdered him.
“Couldn’t have made it any easier if he tried.” The first bastard says this, smugness dripping from his tone as he lazily steps down from Papa’s porch.
The man trailing him is silent, but he suddenly scans his surroundings as if he senses my presence. Even though I’m immersed in the forest’s disguise, I hold my breath until his surveying gaze lifts from my spot.
“Nobody’s going to find him anytime soon.” The third asshole snickers as they head to their expensive four-door sedan. I curl my fingers into fists, wishing I could kill them all this instant.
“Yeah, not before the animals get him.” More laughter erupts from the final bastard’s remark, but it quickly dies off the instant they climb inside their vehicle and slam the doors shut.
I focus on the license plate, committing it to memory. I’ve already committed their faces to memory.
There’s no way I can let this go. I refuse to let these bastards get away with murdering him.
I will avenge his death. I’ll take the lives of those who stole my father from me. The man who’d rescued me in my darkest hour—who infused color back into my world and made me feel loved.
These bastards have forced me down a path my father would never have wanted me to venture down.
I’ll become what he once had been.
A murderer.
I feel numb as I stand at the edge of the woods, the silence deafening. I force my feet to move, one in front of the other, toward Papa’s house. Even though I know I’ll find him dead, nothing could have prepared me for the sight.
Papa lying in a pool of blood on the living room floor has everything inside me drawing to a screeching halt. A large part of me shuts down, and my motions are robotic as I clean him free of blood and brain matter, pressing his eyelids closed.
I’m unsure how I manage to get his body outside to bury him, but I do. Now, with the living room cleaned free of any traces of what had occurred, I roll up the area rug and toss it into the burn barrel, lighting it on fire.
There’s no telling how long I stare sightlessly at the burning rug until the fire eventually recedes. I curl up beside the freshly packed dirt where Papa now lies and rest my head on my hands, finally allowing my tears to fall. I remain here until my tears run dry.
Once dawn arrives with the sun peeking over the horizon, I drag myself upright, unable to tear my eyes from the earth covering his grave.
I reach into my pocket and withdraw the gift I’d bought for him, the tiny bow st
uck to it. Running my thumb along the engraving on the switchblade, I let my eyes fall closed as bone-deep weariness vies with anguish and fury within me.
He had taught me how to handle a knife, how to ensure I had a proper stance when throwing a blade, and how to control my breathing and aim at my target. Papa had been the best teacher, never reprimanding me but showing me how faulty form could pose a danger.
His knife had been on its last legs, and I knew this would be the perfect gift for him. Not simply for functionality but for sentimental value, too, because I knew that he missed me while I was away at school. This way, he would have this special gift he could carry with him always.
The engraved words on the knife’s handle pour salt on my already bloodied and wounded heart. He had spoken those near-exact words to me many times.
He often placed little hints here and there, alluding to when he eventually passed and I was alone.
“Please don’t mention that,” I’d protest. “I don’t want to think about being here without you.”
He would respond the same way. “Once I die, I may not physically be with you, but my heart will. I will always be with you, Little One.”
Now, as I force my eyes open and peer at the knife, I lovingly trace each letter of the message I had carved especially for him.
“I will always be with you.”
I went through the motions of finishing the last few months of school, graduating because I couldn’t bear to disappoint Papa by quitting. It was a joyless, mechanical process, day in and day out, but I made it.
Heartache and anguish at the loss of my father fueled me to do whatever I could to make those fuckers pay. I didn’t care that I would be taking on the Russian Bratva. I only cared that they met the same fate as they delivered to Papa.
For being part of a criminal organization, they sure didn’t hide their tracks well or attempt to disguise their whereabouts. I used their license plate and did some digging using my forensic accounting skills to locate them.
I went in with nothing but the goal of vengeance in my mind.
I went in as an idiotic amateur, a lone wolf attempting to triumph over a pack of lions.
The old saying about not bringing a knife to a gunfight rang true, but I didn’t care. I used that knife—the gift I was robbed of giving Papa—to kill each of the four men responsible for his murder.
And I barely made it out of there alive. They’d broken me—literally—but I’d choose physical brokenness over the emotional kind any day.
It wasn’t until I lay in a pathetic bruised and battered heap on my couch, my body radiating so much pain that I could barely stand it, that something caught my eye.
A piece of paper half-tucked between my little coffee maker and the canister holding the ground coffee.
Curiosity had given me the strength to power through the agony of each movement and reach for the folded paper. When I opened it, a small business card had fallen out, but I didn’t pay it any attention. My eyes were locked on the sight of my father’s handwriting scrawled on the paper.
My legs gave out, and I barely caught myself, my hands clutching at the kitchen counter long enough to ease my body to the floor. Pain blurred my vision, but I forced it back to read the note.
My dearest Alexandra,
If you’re reading this, it is likely that I’m already gone. I’m not sure how it will be done exactly, but I hope that you do not bear witness to my death in any way.
I ask that you not mourn me so much that you forget to live. That it blinds you from the joys in life that still await you. They may have taken my life, but they do not hold the power to rob me of my spirit and love. I shall watch over you from wherever I go in the afterlife.
Though you may not have been born a Yurchenko, you are one, through and through. Never allow anyone to challenge that. You are my daughter in every way that matters, and I have never been prouder of anything before.
There will always be evil in this world, Little One. No matter how much we fight against it, it will continue to be present in some way. That does not mean we are helpless, but that we must remain vigilant and always aware that the battle of good versus evil is never-ending.
We may win some battles and lose others, but the most important thing is not to lose hope.
I used to be a murderer, working to eliminate those more evil, those who could tip the balance of power from our direction to theirs. I am ashamed to admit it took me decades before I realized my faulty path in life. But, as if the fates wished to reward me for my revelation and life change, they gave me you.
You are everything good in this world, and you showed me what had been missing from my life.
Being your father has been the greatest gift I could’ve ever been granted. I will miss our morning coffee chats and our walks through the forest, but I hope that we will be reunited once again in the far future.
You are loved beyond measure, Alexandra Yurchenko. Forever and always.
—Papa
I had discovered this note far too late. The damage had already been done. I waged a war against evil and had nearly lost.
Tears spill down my cheeks, dropping onto the note, the wetness smearing some of the inked words.
Would he still believe I’m everything good in this world? Or would he be ashamed of me?
Agonizing pain in my jaw prevents me from even managing a whispered cry. Oh, Papa. Please understand why I did it. Please, please, please.
As I lie curled up on the floor, my tears flow freely, pooling beneath my cheek until I lose consciousness.
It isn’t until much later that I discover what that business card had entailed. Because Papa had left me with far more than just a lifetime of memories and love.
He had left me a bank account filled with an obscene amount of money.
Chapter 63
ALEXANDRA
PAST
I hold a great sense of relief and accomplishment now that I’ve recovered from my injuries and no longer have to rely on ice packs, pop ibuprofen like an addict, or restrict myself to eating only soft foods. Attempting to find joy in my life is far more challenging, however.
I ventured to a coffee shop two towns away, and even here, as I try to do what average females my age do, it feels awkward and unnatural. Other young women busy themselves taking selfies or photos of their coffees, or scroll on their phones instead of holding conversations with the people at their table.
Staring down at my latte with the heart drawn in foam, I use my fingernail to mar it. My heart is broken in two, so why shouldn’t this one be the same?
As if on cue, my father’s voice echoes in my head from when I’d returned home one weekend from college, bemoaning a boyfriend. Or former boyfriend, more aptly.
“Little One, there are men, and there are boys. Sometimes, it’s challenging to distinguish the two. Do you recall the Bible’s mention of a wolf in sheep’s clothing?”
When I nod, he continues. “That is how some boys work. They disguise themselves well, and it can take learning through your mistakes to finally recognize them.”
Anger surges in me, mingling with shame, as I admit in a hushed murmur, “I did something stupid with him.” I gave the asshole my virginity. I can’t bear to come out and say the words nor meet Papa’s eyes in fear I’d witness his disappointment—or worse, his disgust—in me.
I’ve been tracing the handle of my coffee mug nervously, and he settles a palm over my hand, stilling my movements. “Alexandra, look at me.” His tone is calm, giving me the bravery to meet his eyes.
“You fell for his tricks. As long as you learn from your mistakes, you need to let this go. Berating yourself continuously does not serve you in any way.”
Exhaling a breath of relief, I nod silently.
He tips his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “You did not give this piece of shit your heart, did you?”
A smile nearly breaks free at his use of a cuss word. “No, Papa.” He does his best not to swear aroun
d me. He always says, “I have only one daughter to try my best at raising. Therefore, I must strive to be a better man for her in every way.”
He visibly relaxes at my answer. “Good.” He affirms this with a nod. “That is very good.”
A man slides into the empty seat across from me, jarring me from my memories. Startled, I glance around, wondering if he’s mistaken me for someone else.
Dressed in a dark-gray button-down shirt and black slacks, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. His voice is hushed, causing me to strain to hear him amidst the bustling activity in the coffee shop.
“I’ve got some information you might want.”
Every molecule in my body goes rigid because there is no mistaking this man’s accent. Russian.
I strive to remain calm, maintaining a casual air. “About what, exactly?”
His smile is sharp. “The man who gave the order for your father’s…mishap.”
I don’t immediately respond, and by the flicker of confusion on his face, it catches him by surprise.
He glances around before leveling me with an intense stare, his eyes boring into mine. “Look, you have the opportunity to eliminate the person responsible for giving the order.” He pauses to let that sink in. “I’d think that would be important to you after dealing with a loss like this.”
I mash my lips together so hard they ache. It eats away at me when people cavalierly mention how hard dealing with loss is when they’ve not dealt with it themselves. Otherwise, they wouldn’t mention it in such a casual manner.
“Why are you telling me this?” My skepticism can’t be missed. “What’s in it for you?”
“My boss is a man who doesn’t like loose ends…or loose lips.” His gaze bores into me, giving me the impression he’s trying to delve deep into my psyche. “This benefits my boss, the head of the Orekskaya Bratva, and you, if you decide to do it.”
