The City

by London Miller

  She pointed in the general direction, her eyes snapping up to his, and if anything, that only made it worse. Valon was used to the way women reacted to him. He’d slept with enough to know, but—like many parts of him—that attraction, that need for another person. He could turn that off in himself as well.

  Heading in the direction she’d pointed, he didn’t stop until he was in the men’s room, the door locked behind him. He went to the sink first, splashing water on his face, over his hands and arms, absently washing away the day as best he could.

  Maybe he had always known that it would come to this, or maybe his life was so dismal that he didn’t have to worry about leaving anything behind back home. Everything he valued, he’d brought along with him.

  He didn’t know for how long, could be a few hours, could be days, but for the first time in his life, he was finally free of the hell he’d lived for the better part of twenty-three years.

  Drying off with the paper towels, he pulled on the clothes, shoving his fingers through his hair to push it back out of his face.

  Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Valon tried to see something other than the monster they created, but with each mark, every imperfection that made up his appearance, he saw the trials he’d endured for a life he never wanted. Valon had never wanted to follow in Ahmeti’s footsteps, knowing what it would ultimately do to him.

  Did…

  Because at this point, he was already that man, even if he didn’t want to be.

  Lighting up a cigarette, he inhaled the nicotine, holding it in his lungs for several seconds before exhaling and relishing the burn. Loki was asleep on the seat, oblivious to the tension inside of Valon.

  He turned the cell phone over in his hands, contemplating what his next move would be and whether it was worth it. He had done some questionable things over the length of his life, more than he had thought himself possible of, but now he had the opportunity to do something good, very much like what he had done for Elena. This was small compared to the damage he had done to some people, but it at least was another way to pay for his sins.

  They might have thought he wasn’t listening, but Valon had retained everything they’d said and knew exactly who to call.

  Valon was not stupid enough to call Mishca Volkov himself. No, he needed to call someone close to him, but one who wasn’t close to the Pakhan. Hunting through the contacts in the phone, Valon found the name he was looking for and dialed the number.

  It rang three times before someone picked up, and the gruff voice on the other end sounded impatient and had a heavy Russian accent.

  “Vlad.”

  “Tell your boss his brother is dead,” Valon said slowly, laying on his own accent to make sure his voice couldn’t be recognized.

  Over the man’s sputtering, he gave him the address repeating it twice to make sure he heard it, then hung up and tossed the phone across the field. That was the thing about people. It didn’t matter that they knew Mishca did not have a brother, but their curiosity would ultimately force them to go and see what Valon had told them.

  Today was the last mistake he would ever make for The Organization.

  For the second time, Valon walked toward the tattoo artist, carefully pulling off his shirt as he tossed it in a nearby chair. This time, she was better at hiding her reaction to the scars that covered his back though there were still questions in her eyes.

  For the past three months, Valon had come to this place, slowly erasing the physical reminders of his life back in Albania. His hair was growing out once more, concealing the “slave” brand on his scalp, and now with the help of the artist, the long jagged scars were being covered in an intricate back piece, complete with color.

  Nicole had done other pieces for him. A week after he left The Organization, he’d wandered into this shop and had a snarling tiger head inked onto his chest. He might not have wanted it this way, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Whether rightfully acknowledged, he was an enforcer as much as Gjarper had been.

  If there was one person he missed from that time, it was him. He had helped him in ways that he hadn’t fully understood at the time, but now that he was free and could truly think back, without Gjarper, he didn’t know where he would be.

  Nicole pulled on a pair of gloves, pushing her glasses up her nose with the back of her wrist. “Ready to finish this?”

  Without a word, Valon climbed on the table, waiting for the first line. It hurt like a bitch, worse than when he was fighting, but he never protested, never took a break, just remained still until their session was up.

  He deserved this pain, needed it so that it could erase the painful reminders already embedded in his skin. The scars would always be a part of him until the day he died, but he didn’t need another visual reminder of the person he had been before he had found his way out of the darkness.

  Epilogue

  Valon took one last drag of the cigarette he’d lit a few blocks from the restaurant he was approaching, tossing it down onto the sidewalk and grinding it out with the toe of his boot. He stood there for a while, blowing out a long stream of smoke as he thought of everything that had brought him to this point, starting with the legacy of a man who had hated him since his birth.

  He recalled Ahmeti raging about it one night, that Valon would be the reason that he became the laughing stock of The Organization. Valon’s mother was not a woman who was seen favorably. She was only meant to be used as a toy and nothing more, not father bastards with her. Having them be his only heirs, Ahmeti hated Valon for that though it hadn’t been something he could control.

  It was funny, really, that while he was a dead man walking, Valon still had all of the fear and respect that Ahmeti had craved until his death.

  But none of that mattered anymore. They were dead and Valon had to forget about them.

  Lowering his hood, Valon walked into the restaurant, already noticing a few of the Russians watching him. He merely nodded to the hostess who was preparing to offer him a menu, heading toward the back of the restaurant where the kitchen was, along with a secret back room that the Pakhan used for meetings.

  Valon could hear the Russians calling out to him, but he ignored them, making it through the kitchen doors before they could reach him, but outside of the closed door of the office were two armed men, hands already on the guns at their sides when they saw Valon coming toward them.

  He held his hands up, trying to appear non-threatening though that was difficult considering he was a good few inches taller than the pair of them. While they wore suits—even standing in the blistering hot kitchen—they assumed he couldn’t have been one of them since he was dressed as if he’d just walked off the street.

  While true, they really didn’t know what they were up against.

  “I’m here to see your boss,” Valon said before they could ask.

  “Do you have an appointment?” one asked in return.

  Valon shrugged. “No.”

  He could already see the man about to deny him, and while he thought about arguing with the man until he was allowed inside, he needed to make sure he got this job. The only way he could be sure he would was if he sent a message.

  Valon smiled, slow and easy, and jerked his head. “On your left.”

  Both of the idiots looked in that direction, giving Valon enough time to disarm the first one, using the butt of the man’s gun to hit him in the temple, sending him to the floor in seconds. The other was still fumbling to free his gun from the holster as Valon reared back, sending his booted foot into the man’s chest, the force of the kick sending the man through the door.

  Valon’s brows lifted in surprise at how easily the door gave way but didn’t complain as he merely stepped over the groaning man’s body into the office where a number of men were sitting around a circular table, all smoking cigars and now looking at Valon as he interrupted their card game.

  He recognized Mikhail immediately from the pictures Bastian had shown him before th
e job. He had the same dark hair as his son, about the same length though he kept his slicked back. Cold gray eyes met his from across the room as Mikhail looked at him without an ounce of fear. Instead, interest lit up his gaze as he looked Valon over.

  While in the two months that Valon had been living off the grid, he’d acquired a number of tattoos that covered the majority of his arms and upper torso, to the trained eye, the marks of The Organization could be discerned. There was no mistaking what some of them meant, a few even crossing with the meanings of the Russians’ own.

  Especially the one Valon had done on his chest.

  Gripping the collar of his T-shirt, Valon tugged the fabric down, just enough so that they could see the beginning of the striped head, and then released his hold.

  A small smile had formed on Mikhail’s lips as he saw that tattoo. Flicking the ash off the end of his cigar, he took a few long puffs, taking his time as he regarded Valon. “Are you looking for a job?” he asked after some time.

  Valon shrugged, answering, “Something like that.”

  He might have had the right ink—it was the only reason that he was still breathing since he was sure that at least two of the six men at the table had their guns aimed at him beneath the table—but even with that, he couldn’t be accepted automatically with them. He still had to prove himself.

  Mikhail nodded, his smile disappearing as he rested his cigar on the edge of an ashtray. His eyes cut to one of the men at the table, one that didn’t look as at ease as everyone else.

  His hand coming down rather harshly on the man’s shoulder, Mikhail smiled at him, giving him a little shake. “This man, my good friend, Vitaly, has been doing business with me for the last twelve years.”

  Vitaly forced a smiled, clearing his throat as though he were uncomfortable.

  “He has made me plenty of money over the years, but he has betrayed the Bratva, and I want him dead.”

  Vitaly started to protest, shaking his head as though that would help his case, but before he could utter a word, Valon unsheathed one of the knives he kept on him, tossing it with unwavering accuracy, watching as it sunk into the man’s chest like butter.

  While Mikhail didn’t outwardly show he was impressed, the others tried in vain to close their gaping mouths. Valon could practically hear their thoughts. He was a lot faster than they originally believed.

  He stepped toward the man, jerking his knife free, plunging it in one last time and giving it a jerk to the right before pulling it free again. The man sputtered for half a second before slumping forward, blood oozing from the wound in his chest.

  Wiping the blade off on the back of the man’s jacket, Valon went back to his spot by the door, rocking back and forth on his heels as he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at Mikhail expectantly. It was pretty clear that no one seemed to know what to think of him. No one had ever just walked in and killed someone without any hesitation.

  For all he knew, he could have just murdered an undercover cop or someone who had significant power in this state, but no one could do to him anything that hadn’t already been done, and there was nothing for him to fear.

  Looking mildly impressed, Mikhail asked, “What is your name, boy?”

  If he gave him his real name, Valon knew that wouldn’t work in his favor, especially since Mikhail had been the one to give the kill order in the first place, though he had never bothered to show at the meetings himself. From this point on, he had to bury his past as best he could. Start over and live as freely as he could until the Albanians found him or they discovered the truth of his identity.

  It was stupid, it was reckless, but Valon had never been one to follow the rules anyway.

  “Luka,” he answered, thinking of his mother one last time, and the name she had always wanted for him. “Luka Sergeyev.”

  Bonus Story.

  Here’s a bonus story that follows Time Stood Still. If you haven’t already read Hidden Monsters (Alex and Luka’s story) then it may contain slight spoilers. Read at your own risk! :)

  Just knowing a baby was growing inside her was already a lot to take in, but as Lauren Volkov studied her reflection in the mirror—a habit she’d picked up the moment she learned she was pregnant—her hands drifting over the swollen bump of her stomach, she couldn’t help but think of how surreal it all was.

  Coming back from her honeymoon, taking the test, and countless visits with a private physician … she couldn’t have ever imagined at twenty-four years old, she would be pregnant with her first child.

  Then again, there was a lot about her life she’d never imagined would actually happen.

  Like moving to New York and graduating from NYU, and marrying Mishca, her very own Russian mob boss.

  For a moment, she’d worried what his reaction would be to the news that they were expecting. They’d never gotten around to talking about children, not before or after the wedding, and the idea of him not wanting them had made her stomach twist and pinch, fear settling over her. But with the truth hovering over her head, she had no choice but to tell him and hope for the best.

  After she told him and saw his reaction, she wasn’t sure how she had ever thought it possible that he wouldn’t be excited for their baby. But, there were still moments, like now as she felt the baby kick, that she wondered how their child would fit into their world.

  Especially if she had a boy.

  Boys were meant to follow in their father’s footsteps—it was the Bratva way—but was it so wrong that she hoped the pain and ruthlessness that came with those footsteps wouldn’t touch him?

  She hadn’t voiced her concerns to Mishca, not yet. Not when he had so much on his plate with his new position in the vory v zakone and the problems surrounding Alex and Luka.

  Had it only been two weeks now that things had changed so drastically? Alex had run off to Paris, accepting a position in a ballet company there to get away from Mishca after what he’d done. Lauren understood why she left, even as she wanted them to work it out—she’d also hated what Mishca had done, but what she felt was undoubtedly a fraction of what Alex did.

  Not once in the years they’d been together had she seen him act so cold, both to her and Alex. For the first time, it had been Klaus that was the voice of reason.

  He’d been the one to practically drag her from that room, out the back door of the club and into his car. He had attempted to explain Mishca’s actions, but nothing he said made her feel any better, and by the time she got home, she was practically in hysterics.

  The hormones hadn’t helped, which only amplified everything she was feeling.

  Luka had been her friend.

  She didn’t care that his name wasn’t really Luka, or that he had come into the Bratva with a past that directly involved both Mishca and Klaus, she only cared about what she knew of him. That person had been like the neurotic, loving brother she’d never had.

  Since then, Mishca had given her space and Klaus had disappeared as only he could do. But today, she had another appointment with the gynecologist, and though she hadn’t seen much of him lately, she knew Mishca would be there. Whether he had to cancel meetings, interrupt a gun deal, anything, he was always there for the baby.

  She had to remember the person she’d seen a couple of weeks ago wasn’t always the man she’d fallen in love with.

  Turning away from the mirror, Lauren headed into the closet, grabbing a pair of yoga pants and a stretchy shirt—her usual uniform as of late—and walked back out the bedroom. By the time she made it out to the living room, the elevator doors that opened into the penthouse were closing, Mishca already walking in, his phone glued to his ear.

  Despite how often Klaus made fun of his phone, Mishca refused to give up his blackberry.

  When he spotted her walking toward him, he quickly ended the call, pocketing the device, but stood where he was. He took giving her space quite literally, at least in the beginning, but she knew it wouldn’t last long.

  A part of her felt li
ke a traitor, wanting desperately to give in and forgive him. Walk over and feel his arms close around her, but she had to make her stance clear now that he couldn’t walk all over her or treat her the way he did his men.

  So if that meant depriving herself to teach him a lesson, she would do it.

  Finally, he was the one to break the silence. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  “Truthfully?”

  Avoiding his eyes, she went to the kitchen, hunting through the refrigerator for the jar of peanut butter she had stashed inside, and then got a spoon from the drawer to her right. Before the pregnancy, while she might not have hated the stuff, she hadn’t been the biggest fan of it. Now? She craved it.

  Her back to him, she might have otherwise noticed his approach, but by the time he was suddenly standing behind her, his arm had already slipped around her waist, his hand drifting beneath the edge of her shirt as his fingers splayed across her belly, it was too late.

  “I can hear you at night,” he said softly, soothing away the discomfort she felt with just a pass of his hand. “You’re restless.”

  Because the baby was most active at night. Usually, with Mishca beside her, he settled, but now it was as if he too felt his absence.

  For just a moment, she allowed herself to relax back against him, accepting the comfort his presence brought. Everything just felt better when he was around.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered next to her, “for what had to be done.”

  Stiffening, she pulled away from him, stepping to the side to widen the distance between them. “Even so, the way you went about it was wrong, Mish. Don’t you get that?”

  He sighed, dropping his hand to his side. “He wasn’t—”

  “This isn’t about Luka. That upsets me too, don’t get me wrong, but I’m more angry about how carelessly you treated Alex, not to mention the way you spoke to me. Yes, the Bratva is yours and I know that I’m your wife and it’s not my place to question you, but sometimes you can be cruel.”