by A. Zavarelli
I smile at him through gritted teeth. “As merciful as you were to my mother? You remember her, don’t you?”
He blinks, unsettled, and I can see the gears turning in his mind. He is trying piece together which one she was, but I’m content to remind him.
“Irina Lemeza.”
The color drains from his face, and his palm comes to rest on the glass, sticky and desperate. “No.”
“Yes, Manuel.” I lean toward him. “You know the Russians are fond of an eye for an eye. I know you worry about your daughter, but there’s no need. She won’t be the one to pay the debt. I think for once in your life, it’s time to do the honorable thing, don’t you?”
“Nikolai is here to see you,” Magda says.
Alexei is slumped against his desk, drunk again. And though I have spent the past four weeks helping him slaughter every man he deemed remotely responsible for his wife’s death, it has done nothing to ease his pain.
It has, however, come as a welcome distraction while I seek out Nakya.
“Send him away,” Alexei murmurs.
“Too late.” I step into his office so that he can see me. “I have something I believe you will want to see.”
His eyes move to the drive in my hand, and for the first time in weeks, there is a spark of life inside him. He takes my offering and rouses the computer from sleep, bringing up countless images of his wife on the wall-to-wall monitors.
Alexei glances at the images, haunted, and breaks down all over again. I take it upon myself to bring up the surveillance video from the club. The same video of the day he was humiliated in front of his Vory brothers. When it begins to play, he makes an effort to watch.
“I had Mischa look at it.” I bring the cursor to a time stamp on the screen and click on it. “It’s on a loop. Whoever it was knew what they were doing. They were fast, and they came prepared.”
“How long?” he asks.
“Thirty seconds maximum. You couldn’t have noticed it, Lyoshka. It was very well edited.”
He falls back into his office chair as reality settles over him. Someone wanted him to believe it was Talia who betrayed him, but in truth, it was one of his own Vory.
I take a seat across from his desk. “There is something else.”
“What is it?”
“Katya’s guard mentioned that she visited a security store a few months back. He didn’t know what she purchased but found the trip out of character for her.”
“Then we need to talk to her.” Alexei nearly stumbles over himself as he tries to stand.
I signal him to sit back down. “I already tried. She was found dead this morning, bratan. Hanging from a rafter in her ceiling.”
Alexei flops back into his seat and reaches for the bottle of cognac, only to realize that it’s empty.
“She wasn’t working alone,” I tell him. “Someone is cleaning up loose ends. Katya is not smart enough to set up that slideshow, and she was not in the building that day.”
My words settle over Alexei like a dark cloud, and it doesn’t take him long to draw the same conclusion I have. He sinks back, eyes darkening as he utters the name we have both come to hate.
“Sergei.”
41
TANAKA
“NIKI.”
Gianni takes a seat on the park bench beside me, tapping out a message on his phone before he turns his attention to me. I grab another handful of oats from the plastic bag in my lap, carefully dividing it among the ducks as I throw it.
“It’s a beautiful day,” he remarks.
I look up at the clouds, clear and blue. The sun warms my face, and I think that it’s always a beautiful day in Florida. It’s a different kind of heat, though. Muggy and thick. It’s hard to adjust to, just like everything else about my new life.
“How are you doing?” Gianni asks. “Anything new to report?”
“I’m fine.” I shrug. “Nothing new to report. Every day is the same.”
And it is. I go to work, and I don’t talk to anyone over the age of eight. When I’m finished, I go straight back to my apartment and turn on the television or the radio just to avoid the numbing silence. My life in witness protection is not all that different than it was before. It’s still a prison, just a different kind.
“It’s an adjustment,” Gianni insists. “It takes time, but things will get better.”
“I thought it would be different.” I crumple the empty bag in my hand and toss it into the bin beside us.
“Everyone has an idea of what it will be like, but it’s important to follow the rules. They’re in place for a reason, and they keep you safe.”
“I’m not talking about the program,” I mutter. “I’m just talking about the world.”
Gianni takes a sip from his travel mug. Coffee black, just the way he always drinks it. I’ve come to know that about him. Recently, I’ve come to know a lot of things about him. For example, he chews with his mouth open. And he still wears a gold chain, even when he’s not pretending to be a gangster. But the most obvious thing I’ve learned is that he really just wants to be a hero.
He sighs and leans back, drumming his fingers on the park bench. “I suppose it’s a grass is greener on the other side sort of situation. In your case, though, the grass really is greener. But it’ll take time to see that.”
I don’t know if I believe that. My new world is everything I imagined. I have the freedom to come and go as I please, within reason. I can choose my own meals. I can dance whenever I want. I have a job, and I have a purpose. But I had to sell my father out to get here. Something that when I was at home, suffering at his hands, seemed like a good idea. Gianni approached me when he knew I was at my lowest. He saw my vulnerability, and he struck like a python, squeezing until I caved in.
Does my father deserve to go to prison? Undoubtedly. But do I want to be the one to stand up and testify against him? Absolutely not.
I’m empty inside, and the worst part is that I feel like everyone I’ve ever loved has betrayed me.
“We need to talk in private,” Gianni says.
I already knew that. It’s why he’s here, after all. But he’s impatient and determined, so we make the walk back to my apartment to put him at ease.
After unlocking the six deadbolts on my door and keying in the alarm code, we’re in, just like that. Gianni is familiar with the space and makes himself at home on the Ikea sofa, while I opt for the kitchen.
In truth, I’ve done very little with this space. I don’t see the point when he says I might have to move again after the trial. I might have to move again any time they say for the rest of my life. That’s how it works. I am a tree without roots. A flower that cannot bloom where its planted.
“Do you want some tea?” I reach for the kettle.
He declines with a shake of his head.
I busy my hands with the preparation, so I have something to do while he talks. Already, I expect the worst every time he comes here. I expect him to show up in the middle of the night to say they’re coming for me.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” I tell him.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”
“No. I’m good where I’m at.”
He sighs, but reluctantly agrees. “Tanaka, I don’t know how to tell you this. But it’s about your father.”
“He’s dead?”
“Maybe,” he ventures. “But probably not. The judge released him on bail, and he’s gone.”
“How could that happen?” I demand. “You told me they wouldn’t give him bail.”
“I don’t know,” he admits, frustrated. “But if I had to guess, someone bribed the judge. Or threatened him. Regardless, it is what it is. I have an obligation to let you know.”
“That’s it?” I stare at him. “Just an obligation to let me know?”
“It isn’t just him,” Gianni adds. “Half of his crew was killed in prison. The rest have gone into hiding. Something’s going down, and I suspect it’s the Russi
ans.”
The kettle boils, and I remove it from the stove, pouring the water over my tea bag and watching it steep.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?”
His tone is accusatory and slightly hostile, and it pisses me off. He’s been trying to get me to flip on Nikolai since he took me into WITSEC.
“How could I?” I reply. “I’m not there, am I?”
“This changes things,” he says. “You won’t be going to trial now, obviously. And the DOJ will likely determine you’re no longer at risk, considering the circumstances. You’ll be left to fend for yourself.”
I drop the tea bag in the garbage and suppress the urge to slap him. In truth, I owe Gianni a great deal. My life, actually. But he hasn’t done any of this for my benefit. It’s about his name. It’s about being a hero and what that will mean for his career.
“You can save your breath,” I tell him. “I don’t know anything about the Vory. I’ve told you that already. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that.”
“Tanaka, you lived with him for months. You must know something. I don’t know what sort of misguided loyalty it is that you have for Nikolai Kozlov, but I can assure you that he has none for you. If he finds you, he will kill you. Do you understand that?”
“I do,” I admit. “I understand it better than you ever could.”
He comes into the kitchen to demand his answers. “So why are you protecting him?”
“Was that all you came to tell me?” I ask. “That WITSEC might dump me from the program?”
“Tanaka.” He reaches out in an attempt to soften me by touching my hand. “If you don’t do this, they will kill you.”
“Then maybe I will finally be at peace.”
His lip curls, and I know he resents me for not doing this for him. He’s a federal agent, but I’m honestly beginning to wonder if I can really trust him. But then I realize it doesn’t really matter either.
I’m done running.
If any of my father’s men want to come for me, they will. And if Nikolai or Viktor want me dead, then there isn’t a place on this earth I can hide.
I am tired of living a life where I worry about survival every day. And if there is not a place safe from that in this world, then maybe it is not the world for me.
42
NIKOLAI
“TALIA’S DEATH WAS QUICK,” Alexei murmurs. “But I can assure you that yours won’t be.”
Sergei’s lips twitch at the corners, offering his firstborn son a bloody gruesome smile. Even on the verge of death, his ego lives large.
Alexei gestures to the Irish Reaper, and Ronan hands him the small black case that will inevitably end Sergei’s reign of terror. Already, he has been waterboarded, suffocated, and brought back to life with shock paddles several times. His eyes are cloudy, and his face is sallow, but he won’t admit defeat.
If either of us expected an apology, it isn’t coming. But I don’t want Sergei’s wasted words. I only want his death.
Alexei’s fingers clamp onto the black case, and I know he wishes that he could be the one to end our father’s life. Rightfully, he probably should. Though Sergei is responsible for the death of my mother, he has taken much more from my brother.
In the end, he hands me the case. “You can do the honors.”
It isn’t an honor at all to end a dishonorable man’s life. But there is a purpose for everything, and the purpose of this is that it will hurt Sergei the most. He doesn’t care for Alexei, and he never has, but he does care for me, on some level at least. I’m the son he was proud of. The one who he claimed.
And I’m the son who will lay him to rest in the brutal fashion he deserves.
There is no reason to draw it out when I have a busy schedule ahead of me. I remove the syringe from the case without fanfare, and for a split second, there is fear in Sergei’s eyes. Not equal to the fear my mother felt as a consequence of his actions. And not equal to what Alexei’s wife must have felt before her death. But it’s there, and it’s enough.
Ronan assists me, instructing me where to inject the snake venom in Sergei’s arm. It’s too quick, and it isn’t as intimate as it would have been to flay him in half with a blade, but it will be a long, painful death.
As the neurotoxins flood Sergei’s body, he begins to convulse and foam at the mouth. When paralysis sets in, Alexei leans over him to whisper in his face. “It is only the beginning.”
We sit, and for hours, we watch our father die. The room is quiet, save for the thrashing of Sergei’s body on the table. Viktor is at Alexei’s side, and Ronan is at mine. The event is entirely too short, and it doesn’t bring my brother any peace when Sergei finally gasps his last breath.
In truth, it does nothing for me either.
I leave Alexei to process his grief, and Viktor follows me into the hall, shutting the door behind us.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Kol’ka.”
“It’s not a loss.”
“But it does not bring you relief as you had hoped, does it?”
“It doesn’t bring my mother back,” I tell him. “Nor does it bring Alexei’s wife back.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees. “Shall we get on with the next one then?”
I nod, and we walk upstairs together. Alexei’s home is vast and well secured, but for this particular occasion, the event will take place in a secluded thicket located on the back half of the estate.
The walk is not a short distance, but the air is refreshing and despite the gruesomeness that awaits, it’s a beautiful day. Already, Ronan has set everything up, and we find him waiting on a bench while Manuel squirms on the ground in front of him. This is just another day for the Irish Reaper, and there is none more skilled in the art of human torture than he is. It’s why I’ve asked for his assistance, and because of our alliance, he was inclined to provide it.
Before I spare Manuel a second glance, my attention is drawn to the fifty-five-gallon barrel in the center of the clearing. A short distance away, there’s also a fire roaring beneath a cast iron kettle straight from the history books. These items are Manuel’s future, and not too far away is his past—a plastic tarp littered with bloodied power tools. In truth, I don’t have the stomach for torture, but over the past twenty-four hours, I’ve checked in often to witness Ronan’s work.
Like my canvases, he approaches every piece differently. While he stuck to the tried and true methods of torture for Sergei, he got a little more creative with Manuel. Specifically, he seemed to have some fun with a power drill. I watched him drill into Manuel’s knees, which was enough for me, and I took his word for it that he also made some new holes in his hips and elbows.
That wasn’t the extent of it. A sandblaster made quick work on half of his face, and a staple gun has been put to good use on the fleshier parts of his body. But I couldn’t forget my Nakya in all of this. I couldn’t forget the ways he made her suffer. For that part, I was the one to shatter his ankles with a hammer.
Manuel has reaped what he’s sown in this life, and for that, I have no regrets. I can’t bring my mother back, but I can send her tormentor to hell.
“Are you ready?” Ronan asks.
I nod in the direction of the large black cauldron. “What’s the kettle for?”
“I wasn’t particularly sure how you’d want to go about it,” he says. “We could boil him or light him on fire. Your choice, really.”
I look at Manuel—hogtied, dirty, sweaty, and covered in blood. Already he is unrecognizable. If Nakya knew the extent of what I did to him, she would never forgive me.
“Which one hurts the most?” Viktor asks.
Ronan scratches at his chin. “Ahh, I’d say they’re about equal. Boiling takes longer, of course, but fire is as effective if it’s pain ye want.”
Viktor looks at me. It’s my decision, and it’s an easy one. I’m done with this pig, and it’s time to bury him. “Let’s make some stew then.”
Ronan nods
and gestures for some help. Between the three of us, we lift Manuel’s mangled body easily enough. He can’t move. He can’t fight. But he can look at me with his one good eyeball, and he does.
“She’ll rat you out too,” he slurs. “Just watch.”
I’m tempted to dunk his head into the boiling oil and hold him there for a few seconds before Viktor stops me.
“That’s what he wants.”
He’s right, of course. Manuel would do anything at this point to end his suffering in the easiest way possible, including taking his daughter down with him.
“Easy does it,” Ronan says as we lower Manuel into the kettle, legs first. “We don’t want to splash, might hurt a wee bit.”
As it turns out, he’s quite comfortable with this method, and I’m almost positive it’s not the first man he’s boiled alive. On Ronan’s instruction, we all pull away at the same time, and the natural weight of Manuel’s body sinks him into the kettle.
His face bobs up and down in the oil, mouth split open in the shape of a silent scream. It’s an image I won’t ever forget, and a smell that will haunt me for eternity too. A price I’m willing to pay for vengeance.
Unlike Sergei, Manuel’s death is much quicker. It feels like no time at all until his head disappears completely into the roiling liquid, and there’s nothing left to do but watch the flames flicker beneath.
After enough time has passed to be considered appropriate, Viktor clears his throat.
“You’ve had your vengeance because I’m a man of my word. Are you ready to prove that you are a man of yours?”
“Yes,” I answer.
I knew it would come, and I’m prepared to face my sentence, whatever Viktor determines it should be. Today, he will deem me worthy of my stars or worthy of the grave. It’s the Vory way.
Viktor nods. “Very well. It’s been a long day already. Let’s go to the club. The brothers are waiting.”
43
NIKOLAI
VIKTOR TAKES his place at the front of the room, face solemn as he glances into the collective audience of my Vory brothers. Already, my offenses have been laid bare, and for the past five minutes, silence has entombed us as they’ve considered every possible punishment. Some of which include the removal of my tongue, fingers, hands, or other appendages. Other options are carving the stars from my skin, flogging, beating, burning, branding, and if that weren’t enough, the room is always open for suggestions.
