Thirty Days of Pain

by Ginger Talbot

  30 Days of Pain

  Ginger Talbot

  Contents

  Copyright

  License Statement

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Copyright 2017 by Ginger Talbot

  This book is intended for readers 18 and older only, due to adult content. It is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this book are products of the imagination of the author.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Prologue

  SERGEI

  April 2015… Vashkin, a port city in the Leningrad Oblask of Russia...

  Today is Pyotr’s eighteenth birthday. I’ve bought a present for my younger brother, just as I always do. It’s carefully wrapped in gold paper. I know his taste; I’m sure he will love it.

  My men and I pull up to the curb and climb out of the black, bullet-proof Bentley.

  Me. Feodyr. Jasha. Maks. Slavik. We are the survivors.

  I cradle the present in my arm, and my men and I crunch across the snow-crusted ground. It’s April. Our breaths are puffs of white vapor. The numbing cold speaks to the vast frozen landscape inside me.

  It’s a long, somber walk, and when we finally round the corner and I see what condition Pyotr is in, a supernova of rage erupts inside me, and I go very, very still.

  Pyotr’s grave is choked with weeds poking up through the snow. There is a stone urn next to it; the flowers have withered to brown husks.

  My men freeze on the spot, glancing at me for cues. Should they move? Do something? Do nothing? Their lives may depend on their decision.

  Without a word, I turn and tramp through the graveyard until I get to the caretaker’s hut. He lives on the grounds, and his office is inside the small wooden building. The building is pre-war, but it’s insulated and the windows and roof are new – thanks to me.

  Feodyr is at my heels. The door is locked; one savage kick sends it crashing inward. I storm in. The caretaker is in his office, slumped in his seat, stinking of cheap vodka. His chin rests on his chest. Eyes closed. Snoring loudly.

  With one swift movement, my arm shoots out, and I grab him by the collar of his military-issue shearling coat. I paid for that fucking coat. I punch the side of his head, and he wakes up with a scream of fright and rage.

  He’s still half asleep. He flails as I pull him to his feet.

  The caretaker gapes up at me, and my eyes are hard mirrors reflecting his own death back at him. Now he knows.

  He lets out a shrill, high whimper, and the smell of piss singes my nostrils.

  “I paid you. To keep his grave. Clean,” I snarl at him. “And the flowers? Where are the fucking flowers?”

  “I didn’t…wheeze…know you were coming… Sorry…”

  I just look at him. I let it sink in.

  The caretaker cries, tears streaming from his eyes. He begs, he snivels, he wheezes apologies. “Please, I have children…grandchildren…”

  I grab his throat and tighten my gloved hand very, very slowly. Revenge is my favorite dish, and I am a gourmet, not a gourmand. I prefer to consume it like a delicacy, slowly, luxuriously, savoring its sweet taste.

  Feodyr rocks back on his heels, watching. His face is as expressive as a granite wall, his gray eyes laser-focused.

  The caretaker’s face turns red, then purple. His eyes are wild, panicked. His arms flail, his hands slap uselessly at my arms, and his feet drum on the floor. Finally, I open my hand and he falls to the ground, and his bulging eyes reveal the horror of his final moments

  Feodyr strides up and kicks the dead man in the face, with a curse. Then he leans down and spits on him.

  He was close to Pyotr too.

  We walk back to the grave. My men are frantically pulling up the weeds.

  I set the present down in front of the headstone. I kneel before Pyotr in the snow and talk to him, but only in my head. My men don’t need to hear; this is private, just for us.

  When I am done, I stand up and pull a sterling silver flask of brandy from my pocket, and Feodyr does the same. We toast the dead. “To Pyotr. And to Yakim,” I say, and my men echo the words.

  I see Feodyr’s eyes shimmer a little. If it were any other occasion, I’d kill him for such weakness, best friend or no. But this… I feel my own throat tighten.

  “And now, to America,” I say. It’s time. I’m finally ready. “We leave tomorrow.”

  Chapter One

  WILLOW

  2016, Santa Rosita, California, a coastal town north of San Francisco…Chamber of Commerce building…

  My aunt and uncle stand center stage, so handsome and regal, like gods beaming benevolently down on the common people. Uncle Vilyat is wearing a bespoke raw silk suit, and my aunt Anastasia’s gown glitters like a waterfall of diamonds pouring over her slim body. Her golden hair is piled on top of her head in a carefully woven updo, and nobody but me notices the slightly panicked gleam in her pale blue eyes.

  She’s a Grecian goddess come to life. Despite the terrors and stresses I know she swallows daily, being married to Vilyat, she looks like a fresh, dewy college sophomore.

  I fade to nothing whenever I’m next to her. I’m not ugly, but she’s a voluptuous pinup girl come to life, and I’m skinny, small-breasted, with straight dishwater-blonde hair. I am grateful for my low-key girl-next-door looks; it’s discouraged some of my more aggressive suitors.

  I am in the front row, between my cousins, Helenka and Yuri, who are twelve and eight. News cameras are aimed at us, and at my aunt and uncle. There is nothing in the world more important than making our smiles look real. That is what we Toporov women do. We support our family no matter what. We smile and look pretty for the camera.

  The Chamber of Commerce is presenting my uncle with the Santa Rosita Business Philanthropist of the Year award. During a spate of bad weather last year, he sent his trucks cross-country filled with donated food and bottled water. There were other things on the trucks, too, white powdery bricks wrapped in plastic and cleverly concealed in compartments, but nobody outside our family knows about that.

  It’s a perfect summer evening. The air is cool and sweet. The room is filled with the crème de la crème of Santa Rosita society. Glasses clink, laughter tinkles. I am wearing the blue linen Chanel dress my uncle’s valet selected for me, with heavy ropes of pearls circling my neck. Yuri and Helenka are excited, clinging to my hands, bouncing on their heels.

  For some reason, I am gripped by an odd, dreadful foreboding. I scan the crowd and see no threats. There is no reason for this feeling, and I certainly don’t let it dent the look of pride and happiness on my fac
e.

  “You look beautiful tonight, Willow,” my uncle Latvi says, and I start. My father’s older brother. For a big, sweaty pig of a man, he sure can creep up on little cat feet. He smiles at my startled expression, and I give him a polite smile back, and look away. He would do more if he could, but he wouldn’t cross Vilyat, and since the death of my parents four years ago, I’m under Vilyat’s protection.

  Still, the look that he flashes at my uncle isn’t friendly. I suspect I know why. Most of our family shuns publicity, for good reason. They can’t afford for anyone to look too closely at their various businesses. My uncle splashes out big money on charitable donations, and it has not gone unnoticed. He looks on it as buying respectability, but with his endless need for attention, he could also be exposing our family to needless scrutiny.

  Latvi shuffles a little nearer, and at the same time, Helenka tugs impatiently on my hand. “Willow, I’m really hungry. Can we go to the buffet table? Please?”

  I flash her a grateful smile and nod my apologies to Latvi as I start to move away.

  She knew exactly what she was doing. Helenka’s only twelve, but she’s smart as a whip. I can only pray she’ll be smart enough to escape this life and leave us far, far behind.

  “She’s a strong-minded woman,” Latvi says, glancing at Helenka. In our family, that’s not a compliment.

  I turn and walk away, tugging Yuri and Helenka with me.

  “I didn’t know snakes could talk,” Helenka whispers with a mischievous smile.

  “Shame on you.” I grin back. “That was an insult to snakes.”

  My uncle’s bodyguards, Karl and Mikhail, are standing at the buffet table. Karl offers me a glass of champagne as Yuri and Helenka snatch up tiny pie-shaped canapes and stuff them in their mouths.

  I take the glass with a murmur of thanks and drain it in a few gulps.

  Everything’s fine. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.

  I reach for a canape, but a surge of worry twists my gut and I change my mind. The smile never leaves my face.

  I turn my attention to my nephew.

  “Yuri,” I say. “Five pastries is enough.”

  He pouts. “One more? Please?”

  “No, because you’ll puke on the car ride home.” I ruffle his light brown hair. “And chew your food. You’re going to choke.”

  He sticks his chocolate-pastry-covered tongue out at me, and I laugh.

  “Brat.”

  “But I’m your favorite brat.” He smiles winningly.

  “Maybe.”

  And he grabs another pastry before I can stop him, and stuffs it in his mouth.

  Later that evening, I am standing next to my aunt and uncle, in the center of a thick crowd of sycophants come to offer their congratulations. Women simper and flirt with my uncle, drawn to his dark air of menace, and as he flirts back, my aunt turns up the wattage on her smile and pretends not to see.

  The hair on the back of my neck lifts, and for the millionth time that night, I scan the crowd.

  This time, I see a man standing near the front door, flanked by several other tank-like men who stand easily a head taller than the rest of the crowd. With their square jaws and broad shoulders, they could have stepped right out of a Soviet-era propaganda poster. Bratva. Russian mob. I know the look, because I grew up surrounded by such men. And I can tell at a glance which one is the Avtoritet. The leader.

  His eyes are glacial chips of blue ice. A thick scar bisects his left eyebrow. He glances at my uncle, briefly. A wave of cold rushes over me. My uncle, leaning in to admire a redhead’s cleavage, doesn’t notice.

  The men head for the door. Instinctively, I slide in front of Helenka and Yuri, putting my body between them and the men.

  It is the first time I ever lay eyes on Sergei Volkov. But not, God help me, the last.

  Chapter Two

  One year later…

  My aunt is crying. Helenka and Yuri have sobbed themselves hoarse. Even the heavens weep for me today. The sky is the color of dull lead, the clouds hang low and sullen. Fat drops spatter the sidewalk and dot my silk Versace dress. I shiver despite the damp June heat and hug myself, rocking on my heels.

  My aunt and cousins are inside their faux-Colonial monstrosity of a house, peering out the barred windows at me. Locked away, safely. Where they should be.

  I’m standing outside on the curb, clutching a Louis Vuitton suitcase.

  “I’m sorry about this. It won’t be too bad; he just wants you to work as an assistant. It’s only for a little while,” my uncle mutters, avoiding my eyes.

  When my parents died in a plane crash five years ago, he vowed to care for me. Now he is handing me over to a monster.

  Originally, Sergei demanded one of my uncle’s children, a horrifying prospect. They’re sheltered children whose gilded lives have never known hardship.

  Despite my aunt’s screams, her pleas, her hysterical weeping, Vilyat was prepared to obey Sergei’s command – until I offered to take their place.

  He knew I would, of course. He made sure that their fights took place right in front of me. He raised his fist to my aunt for daring to beg him to spare their children, and I jumped in, like I always do.

  Sergei has had his eye on my uncle’s criminal empire for the better part of a year now, and he has slowly, and with increasing violence, worked his way up to destroying it.

  It started the day after the awards ceremony. He made his intentions clear from the beginning, and he followed through with them. He would tear our family apart slowly, like a cruel boy ripping the wings off flies. He would take everything we owned and leave my uncle a broken man, with nothing.

  Why?

  Who knows why. Because he could. Because that’s what men like him do. They dine on the fear and misery of others, and it sustains them.

  At first my uncle was cocky, amused, confident. He sent his best men to wipe out this new interloper.

  Sergei sent my uncle’s best men back to him. In pieces. The parcels would appear on the front steps of my uncle’s mansion, at places of business that he owned…bloody, dripping parcels.

  Sergei won every war with my uncle, and my uncle’s men began abandoning him. Some even went to work for Sergei. Openly. A slap to my uncle’s face.

  The worst was when the parcels began appearing inside my uncle’s mansion. That meant Sergei had someone on the inside. Or several someones; my uncle has a huge staff, and now he could trust no one.

  I saw the inside of one of the parcels. I threw up and nearly passed out. It was a box containing the head of my uncle’s top enforcer, a brutal, savage killer known as The Wolverine. The Wolverine’s face was distorted in a silent, eternal scream. If the rumors are true, it’s the same look that was on the faces of his victims. Twisted justice, come full circle.

  Uncle Latvi and Uncle Edik didn’t come to Vilyat’s rescue, any more than he would have helped them if their circumstances were reversed. Our family is about as close, as cuddly, as sharks – and shark babies eat each other in the womb. They were disgusted by his weakness, and began distancing themselves from him. They stopped taking his calls. Didn’t answer his emails.

  Now Sergei has announced that my uncle must pay him five million dollars immediately if he wants to be allowed to continue operating in his own territory, and further, my uncle will pay him sixty percent of his profits. That number was not chosen by accident. My uncle is now paying Sergei more than he makes himself; he is working for Sergei.

  And Sergei demanded that my uncle send a member of his immediate family to live with Sergei for one month as collateral. My uncle must deliver the five million dollars by the end of that month, or… The threat hangs in the air like acrid, choking smoke, all the more terrifying because it is unfinished.

  Why doesn’t he just kill my uncle and get it over with? He could, quite easily. Then he’d have a hundred percent of my uncle’s take. What kind of a psychopath is he, to drag this out for so long?

  A limousine glides to
a stop. It is enormous and as dark as a hearse.

  I start to walk toward it, and my feet freeze in place. I have seen first hand what Sergei does to his enemies. What if my uncle can’t satisfy his requirements? Will Sergei take it out on me? Of course he will. His reputation as an ice-hearted sociopath is on the line.

  What kind of “assistant” work will I be doing? Is he going to expect me to help him hurt people? Witness his brutal punishments and take notes? I won’t be able to do that, but if I refuse…

  The door opens, and a big, bulky man climbs out of the front passenger seat. He opens the car’s rear door. Not Sergei. I’ve seen Sergei up close, several times, when he’s come to my uncle’s house. Just walked right in, smirking and unafraid.

  Sergei has never even noticed me, but I’ve certainly noticed him. You can’t ignore him any more than you could ignore a Bengal tiger strolling through the room. It isn’t just his size; at least six four, with muscles that his bespoke suits can’t hide. It’s his presence. He moves like a predator; there is brutality and grace in his stride.

  He is handsome, in a hard, savage way. He has broad Slavic cheekbones and sensual lips. His cold blue eyes pierce my heart like a laser. The thick white scar that slashes through his eyebrow speaks of some violent encounter in his past – an encounter which he survived.

  Whenever he’s come to visit, I’ve hidden in the shadows, trembling. He terrifies me, but I had to know. What did he have planned for us? What would he do to us next?