by Tillie Cole
Rising from the huge bed, I stared at my reflection in the gold-plated ornate mirror. I hardly recognized the girl before me anymore. She got lost somewhere over the years, hiding away, running for her life. Her blue eyes were dead, her usually tanned skin, pale, and her long light brown hair, limp.
I was a shell of the girl I’d once been.
Small bruises were already forming on my neck. This meant I would be wearing turtlenecks for the next few days, in summer. Since my teen years, turtlenecks had been a staple of my wardrobe—a necessity after being “owned” by Alik and all-too-quickly learning of his brutal sexual practices and high expectations of me as his girlfriend.
Dressing quickly, I ran my fingers through my hair, making sure I looked presentable. Alik wouldn’t like it if I didn’t look perfect.
Moving to the living room, I sat on Alik’s great-grandmother’s antique chair, which dated back to the Revolution. There, I waited dutifully to say good-bye.
I surveyed the mostly early twentieth-century opulent furnishings in the room. This place screamed status and wealth. My stomach clenched in dread. In under twelve months’ time, this would become my home. I would be queen of this penthouse, gaoled in a cell of Tsarist luxury. Bratva convention demanded I couldn’t live with Alik until we were married. Ordered directly from my deeply traditional and faithful Russian Orthodox father. I thanked God every single day for that fact.
My father approved of the marriage. It suited our way of life. He didn’t see the bad side of Alik, and if he did, he ignored it. He only saw the strong and ruthless man Alik had been molded to be by his father. To my father, Alik’s stern and violent side only proved he was a perfect soldier of the Bratva, the perfect man to take the reins and be a good leader to his daughter. My mama died when I was fifteen. My papa had fallen apart, and Alik became my crutch, the boy to look after me when everything had gone to hell. Papa loved him for that.
I clung to the thought that I still had a year until we were married, which offered fleeting moments of freedom, before, of course, adopting the mantle of the perfect Bratva wife to the sole remaining heir of the Bratva. Alik, before long, would control all of the Russian underground, a position he thirsted for, something for which he’d been groomed his entire life.
Hearing the shower turn off, it didn’t take a minute for Alik to boom out my name and rush through the living room’s double doors to search for me.
His tense face slackened as he saw me sitting, dutifully waiting, in his grandmother’s chair. His head cocked to the side as his eyes narrowed.
“For a minute there, I thought you’d left before I gave you permission. For a minute there, I thought you had defied me, Myshka … For a minute there, I thought you’d lost your fucking mind.”
Standing, I switched on a smile. I strolled over to stand before him and ran my finger slowly down his chest.
“Never, baby,” I purred to appease him. “I’d never defy you. I never have and I never will.”
Alik wrapped his arms round my waist and pulled me to his damp chest, the impact robbing me of my breath. He held me in place by the back of my head.
“You’re gonna make the perfect wife, Kisa. I’ve been wanting you in my bed, sleeping beside me, for too fucking long. I hate sending you back to your father every night, not being able to fuck you for hours, tying you to the bed, making you scream, making you bow down to my every command … fuck you until you can’t walk. Been wanting to fully own you, to possess you, to release you from the Pakhan’s grip and have you under my complete control … for too fucking long.”
“Soon, baby,” I soothed.
Alik loosened his grip on my hair, his harsh blue eyes losing their anger for the briefest of moments.
“Yeah,” he replied. Slapping me hard on the ass, he pressed a bruising, owning kiss to my swollen lips. Alik swiftly broke away and, walking back to his bedroom, shouted over his shoulder, “Serge is downstairs. He’ll take you to church.” I relaxed but stiffened when he ordered, “Only after you change. Don’t you dare go out looking like that. I’ll seriously lose my fucking shit if you do!”
“I won’t. I love you, baby. Always,” I blurted. This stopped Alik in his tracks.
He turned, jerked his chin, a flicker of a smirk curling his upper lip, and he said, “Myshka, I love you too.”
My shoulders sagged with relief at his show of affection. I calmed. It was during these tender moments that I glimpsed the small amount of humanity in Alik. These were the moments I cherished. Even as children, Alik was uptight, always angry, always wanting to inflict pain on others; he frequently did on other kids. His papa had raised him to be this way. I understood it; it was how Brava men had to be raised. But years of fighting and killing in The Dungeon had hardened him to the point where the kinder side of his personality grew weaker and weaker, the dark steadily and surely blotting out any light that remained. In this Bratva life, and with what Alik did for a living, it was essential he be this way. However, I wished his softer side would linger a little longer.
It was stupid of me and, to others, inexplicable. But I loved Alik in my own way, well, as much as my shredded heart would allow. I wanted him to have peace. He was so tormented … so dark inside that I just wanted to help ease that.
Lost in Alik’s light, beautiful smile, my heart soared, floating on a loving hope that I would see some good in him, that I’d finally got through to him, but my reverie soon dissipated when, as always, his brief moment of gentleness was overwhelmed by harshness.
Alik’s insane desire to possess me came to the fore as he warned, “Anyone even looks at you tonight or even speaks to you, you tell me. And act appropriately. Don’t speak to men … only Father Kruschev. Don’t want my woman looking like a whore.”
I nodded dutifully. His eyes narrowed as they drank in my body. “Wear something that covers you, all of you. I don’t wanna have to kill some fucker for staring at your tits. You’ve got to think about these things, Myshka. When you’re my wife, when I own you completely, there’ll be no mistakes. I’ll whip you into shape soon enough. You’ll be an example to all the Bratva wives.”
“Okay, baby,” I whispered in trepidation.
Alik ran his teeth over his bottom lip, eyes leaden, his cock hardening and bulging under his towel.
“Get out of here, Kisa, before I fuck you against that wall and make your papa even more pissed at me for being late.”
With this dismissal, I turned on my heel and fled down the stairs into the waiting black Lincoln Navigator. Serge, the driver and my papa’s most trusted Byki, bodyguard, glanced back at me in the rearview mirror and politely asked, “Where to, Miss Volkova?”
I loved Serge. He was like an uncle to me. He’d been driving me everywhere and protecting me my whole life. He’d never married or had any children. I think he regarded me as his daughter in some way. I could tell him anything and he’d never tell another soul. He was an old man now, in his seventies, but I knew he would be with my papa until he died.
“Home to change, then church, please,” I replied.
Serge stared at me for a fraction too long in the rearview mirror. I could tell he was concerned. Of course he wouldn’t dare say it aloud, but I knew he disliked Alik and that I was worried about my duty, my fate, to be Alik’s wife. His silent fear for me seemed to grow every day.
Stowing his concern, Serge pulled out into the always bustling traffic of Brooklyn. I watched the bright lights glare through the darkened window.
At least for tonight, at church, I would taste a few hours of much-coveted freedom.
2
KISA
“Kisa, you’re distributing the care packages on the street tonight, okay?”
I smiled enthusiastically at Father Kruschev, but inside, my stomach rolled. I hated distributing the food on the streets, preferring to serve it from the safety of the truck. It was too humid outside. I hated walking down the dark alleys and narrow streets of Brooklyn—they were clogged with the homel
ess, not all of whom had good intentions.
The food truck halted, and I moved next to Pavel, a graying, short, fat man from our church.
“Looks like we’re buddying up tonight, Pav.”
Pavel’s pale, crinkled face smiled at me warmly. “The Lord will provide you with his gratitude, Kisa. You are doing His work after all. You are doing a good thing. An honorable thing. It is good for you.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes and tell him my life was so fucked up that I didn’t think the Lord gave a damn about me. Instead, I nodded in fake agreement. Pavel had emphasized the words “good” and “honorable” because of my papa. The word “good” and Kirill “The Silencer” Volkov didn’t normally feature in the same sentence. Pavel had been around a very long time and witnessed, many times, the destruction the Pakhan and the Bratva had wrought upon their enemies.
But as much as people feared my papa, I loved him. I always wanted the best for him. I made sure I attended church and gave alms because: (a) my papa ordered me to do so, to appease Father Kruschev—my papa was eternally worried about the brutality of my family’s business and its effect on our souls. And (b) if there was a God, I needed to rack up some good deeds on behalf of my family, to bargain with on our respective judgment days. By my reckoning, as it stood right now, our scales were heavily imbalanced on the side of bad, and we were all completely damned and looking at a long stretch in the flames of hell.
Call me optimistic, but I was hoping these small weekly acts of charity would bring us all one step closer to not being completely unsaveable and labeled “evil sinners” for eternity. Plus, I actually enjoyed helping the needy. Not only did it give me a break from the twenty-four-seven surveillance by my papa’s thugs, or Alik’s ever-watchful eye, but it also served to remind me that, although I was trapped in a life I didn’t want, I never went without food, I lived in the best of houses, I wore the best of clothes … I was blessed in this life of material needs, and I felt good helping change someone else’s life.
“Okay, we’re ready to begin,” Father Kruschev called out.
All of us volunteers unbuckled our seatbelts. Sighing, I zipped up my ill fitting unshapely thin turtleneck and loose jeans.
I stood and headed to the small kitchenette at the back of the truck. Father Kruschev handed me my first round of care packages and smiled at me in thanks.
“Stick to your group tonight, Kisa. Dangerous people come out when this kind of heat hits the city.”
Returning a comprehending smile, I turned and stepped off the truck into another boiling summer’s night.
The first truck had already pulled in and my best friend, Talia, made her way toward me. She was Ivan Tolstoi’s—the third boss in the Bratva—only daughter. I watched her walk my way, all tall with blond hair and bright brown eyes. I had to smile at her four-inch heels. Even distributing cold cuts and blankets to the homeless was an excuse for her to wear her knee-high leather Gucci boots.
“Kisa! I thought you were giving tonight a miss to go out with Alik? Or has he let you off his short leash for a while?”
I shrugged off Talia’s pissy comment, trying to act all nonchalant. “He had business to attend to with our papas, so I decided to come here tonight. Father Kruschev asked me at church on Sunday if I could help.” I gestured to the care package in my hands. “So here I am.”
Talia’s eyes softened and she pulled me into her chest, careful not to crush my bundle of food and blankets. I winced as her shoulder pressed against the large bruise on my arm from last week when I’d displeased Alik at a business function. I’d been talking to a male business associate of his father’s “too long,” and he’d warned me of his “displeasure” with his vise-like grip and hushed, harsh words in my ear, but I held back my reaction and accepted the pain. I would never question Alik; my life wasn’t worth the strife.
When Talia pulled back, she eyed me skeptically and asked, “Are you okay with that, Kisa? You always seem a little distant when we talk of Alik. Wedding jitters? Or is it something more?” Her brown eyes dropped to scan my outfit. “And what the fuck are you wearing? It’s like an oven out here and you’re dressed for the snow!”
I threw on my six thousand-dollar veneered smile and batted my hand in front of my face. “I’m cold, so I wrapped up. I think I might be getting flu or something. Giving charity isn’t a damn fashion parade, by the way, Talia. And I’m fine, just sad not to be spending the night with Alik. Instead, here I’m again.” I rolled my eyes. “For my family’s sins…”
Not once did Talia’s eyes leave mine, but eventually, she let it go and linked arms with me. “For all the sins of our families! Well, let’s get this done so we can hit a bar and get drunk! Father Kruschev has put me in another team. He knows we talk too much and neglect our duties if we’re together. So move fast and meet me back here soon. I need alcohol!”
“We’ll see,” I replied, knowing I would be making my excuses to bow out of Talia’s invitation. Alik would go berserk if he thought I was hitting the bars. He would think I was picking up men. And with Talia, of all people. Alik hated her, thought her a slut for actually living a normal life. He also hated who her brother was to me, and he hated that she kept his memory alive. The last thing my papa and the Bratva needed was for Alik to flip and kill someone else. Once Alik’s temper switched into gear, there was no stopping his inner killer from raging forth. My father was fast running out of favors within New York’s judicial system to keep him from being locked up.
Pavel waved me over and, giving Talia a kiss, I quickened my step toward the band of volunteers and began trying to save some lost souls.
* * *
“God bless you, child … God bless you … You always take such good care of me.”
I smiled at the old man as he delved into his care package, immediately eating the ham sandwich that was tightly wrapped in saran wrap. He had been here at this spot for years. Well, I corrected myself, at least the three years I’d been serving with the church. Pav said this old man had probably been living on these streets for at least three decades. He always hid down here in this small alley, like a scared mouse afraid to leave his hole. I’d snuck away from my group against orders, but I couldn’t leave him without his food parcel. Something about this old man spurred me on to save him. He always looked so … broken, so sad.
I could relate.
“Kisa? Kisa, where are you?” A distant voice attracted my attention. I instantly recognized it as that of Pavel.
Glancing down to check on the old man, I smiled when I noted he was wrapped up in warm blankets and buried under a mass of boxes hiding him from view.
“Kisa?” Rolling my eyes, I groaned when Talia’s frantic voice joined that of Pavel.
Great.
Glancing toward the growing gathering of volunteers at the end of the long alleyway, I started to jog their way, when suddenly, a scruffy, bearded man ghosted out of the darkness, tripping me to the cool, wet ground with a deliberately outstretched foot.
With no time to scream, I hit the ground, my palms scraping against rough asphalt. Suddenly, my attacker’s weight pressed down on my back as he tried to snatch my purse. He stank of alcohol and stale body odor. I fought back a retch. I didn’t recognize him as one of the homeless who frequented this alley. And he had absolutely no idea whose daughter he was fucking with!
“No! Get off me! Help!” I tried to scream, but the man’s weight on my back stole my voice from sounding out in the empty alley. The volunteers hadn’t seen me here, being attacked, too far out of sight in the darkness to witness the crime.
My attacker kept yanking on my arm, making me see spots. I tried to free my arm from its place underneath my stomach, to release my purse, but it was trapped.
Then I abruptly stilled as I felt a sharp blade caress the side of my neck.
“Hand over your purse, bitch, or I’ll cut your fucking throat,” the low-toned voice ordered, but I couldn’t free my arm. Fear spread through my whole being.
The blade pressed farther into my neck, and I closed my eyes, expecting the worst. Suddenly, I heard a deep roar and my attacker was hauled off me, his strangled protest muting mid-wail as a crunching sound echoed around the towering walls of the alley.
Frantically crawling forward to escape the noise, I scrambled to my knees and flipped over on to my ass … and immediately stopped breathing at the scene before me.
My attacker was pinned against the wall as a huge hooded man pounded his face and stomach with clenched fists. I couldn’t take my eyes away. The hooded man was relentless, each punch delivered with precision, his chest heaving in excitement and his feet rocking from side to side as he relished the outlet for his aggression. He was enjoying the fight … He was getting off on violence …
I recognized the signs from watching Alik rip apart his victims in the cage.
Crawling to the wall of the alley, I used the damp brick to stumble to my unsteady feet and whipped my head to the hooded man … who now had his hands on my attacker’s jaw.
As I realized what he was about to do, I lurched forward and shouted, “No!” But with a sharp jerk of his large hands, a loud snap ricocheted off the walls. My attacker’s lifeless body dropped to the ground at my feet—neck broken.
I stared at the unmoving body. Death didn’t usually faze me. I’d seen many dead bodies in my lifetime, more than most undertakers see in their whole careers, but the ease with which the hooded man killed filled me with fear and dread. It was obvious he had killed before; no first-timer was that smooth in the kill.
My eyes drifted up to the hooded killer, who was eerily still. He faced his victim, fists clenched at his sides, his packed chest rhythmically rising and falling under the sweatshirt that clung to his heavily muscled torso.
He was close to me. So close that I could feel the heat radiating in waves from his body. My breathing was labored and I wanted to get the hell out of here. But I couldn’t move, caught in hypnotic rapture as I stared at the strange man who loomed menacingly before me.
