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Dimitri Volkov

The pines dance in the wind as thunder rolls over the hills. Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the rocks peeking through the lush vegetation of Russia’s taiga in summer.

I loom over the opening of the abandoned well and relish the wheezing gasps of my victim.

The sound of water splashing carries clearly up through the hole despite the storm raging overhead. I drop into a squat and take a pull off my cigarette, letting the burning tip show my face before flicking the ashes into the hole.

“Pull him up,” I demand in Russian as I stalk over to the warped slab of concrete a few meters away.

The two men I brought with me rush to follow my command, eager to impress me and prove their loyalty to my family.

“Strap him down only by the throat. I want to see him flail,” I snarl with a gesture to the concrete.

Beaten beyond recognition, the man still tries to spit at me from the bloody, toothless gaps in his mouth as my men cart him past me. I lift my lips in an evil smirk and praise the gods of the sky as lightning flashes as though on my cue, giving him a clear view of my cold, dead eyes.

Fear clashes with the man’s foolish stubbornness.

I will break him. He will tell me everything.

Only then will I put him out of his misery.

When my men step away from him, anger shines from his swollen black eyes.

I bend down, pick up the handle of the axe from the pile of tools, and let the head scrape along the rocks as I approach him. His empty nail beds ooze blood as he claws at the iron shackle around his throat.

“I will ask you only one more time,” I warn as I step up onto the concrete slab.

His pupils shrink as lightning backlights my silhouette as I stand over him.

“Where is my worm of a younger brother?” I ask.

He stutters out a pathetic denial. I step on his thigh, pinning his leg to the slab, and swing the axe. The jarring crunch of splitting bones travels up the handle and into my shoulders. His foot rolls into the grass. Blood gushes from his leg. He screams and thrashes.

I lean more of my weight on his thigh and motion to the man closest to me. He grabs the shovel from the burn barrel and offers me the handle. I press the glowing metal to my victim’s stump.

Without a word, I give the shovel back to my assistant, walk around the asshole’s head dragging the bloody axe, and step on his other thigh.

He groans and whimpers like the stray dog he is. With a frantic shake of his head, he blurts, “America!”

Too little, too late. I chop off his other foot and cauterize the wound before stepping on his elbow.

“New York City,” he cries.

I swing. His severed hand spasms against the concrete.

The fool spits out part of his tongue and gags on his own blood.

I step on his sternum and cock my head to meet his glazed eyes.

“Which family?”

I don’t need to elaborate. My brother wouldn’t have crossed the ocean without a target.

“Vivaldi,” the man croaks.

I lift the axe with both hands high above my head. Relief and terror war within the man’s eyes. I bring the blade down with my entire body, but it stops an inch shy of severing his spinal cord, so I yank it free and repeat the motion.

His features, twisted in agony, roll away from his jerking body. Gore splatters on my shoes and pants. I sneer and toss the axe back toward the pile of tools before stepping off the concrete and glaring back at the twitching body.

“Feed him to the pigs. Let the ravens take his eyes,” I snarl.

I stalk through the trees and over the hill to the cars parked on the other side. Not bothering to check for prying eyes despite the farmhouse further down the hill, I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial my father as I open my trunk.

He answers on the second ring.

“Feliks is in New York City,” I snarl.

Although in his early seventies, my father’s mind is as sharp as ever. His silence relays the depths of his fury. My brother’s curse carries over the line.

Boris, my younger brother by five years, will take his place as head of the family when our father passes, but neither of us wishes him a premature demise. He is a wise and loyal man, and we would be stupid to end his days.

I stand by his decision to exile our youngest brother, Feliks. The weasel never knew when to quit, and his conniving put the family at too much risk.

His trip to America isn’t coincidental either. He wouldn’t have been able to weave so many strands of his web if I hadn’t been mourning my late wife.

I would stay in mourning for several more years if he wasn’t forcing me to clean up his messes.

Our families may have arranged my marriage with Anastasia, but she was a strong and devoted partner.

I wanted so many more years with her, so ending my mourning merely twelve months after her death fills me with rage.

I put the call on speaker, open my trunk, and shrug my suit coat off my shoulders.

“You must go to America, ubiytsa .”

My father’s voice carries the weight of our family’s entire empire as he invokes my role of assassin.

“As you command, Pakhan ,” I respond.

We have heard rumors of discord between New York’s founding mafia families but had no reason to intervene without proof my exiled brother was involved.

I unbuckle my belt, place my gun and holster in the trunk, and slip the leather free of my waistband. Bittersweet memories flow through me as I pull the tiny travel case of colorful bandages out of my pocket. This was the gift my wife gave to me to announce our first pregnancy eight years ago.

You must learn the art of healing others now, ubiytsa, just like how I must learn to share you.

I shove my emotions away and toss the bandages into the trunk.

“You will take five men with you,” my father commands.

I sneer at the phone and begin unbuttoning my shirt, but my father speaks before I can form a respectful response.

“Do not argue, moy syn . Your mother visited me in my dreams last night,” he says.

Although my mother died over a decade ago and my father is happily remarried, no wise man in the bratva would ignore a warning from their lost loved ones.

I pull my shirttails out of my trousers, shrug my button down off my shoulders, and pull my undershirt over my head before I speak.

“I will not argue, Papa ,” I promise.

“Good. Stop by the manor before you leave. Your children ran off another nanny,” he says.

He hides his frustration behind an indifferent tone, but I hold the same worries in my soul.

Even with my exiled brother on the other side of the globe, his influence continues to sneak past our defenses.

Vetting caretakers was never a simple task, especially since the Volkov family has so many enemies, but with Feliks’s vow to destroy us from the inside repeating in our thoughts, the process is nearly impossible.

My children do not help with their pranks either. This is the third nanny they’ve scared off.

I bite back a growl and shove my trousers down my legs.

“I am done here. I will be there in a few hours,” I say.

After a curt goodbye, I end the call and grab the plastic bag containing a bar of soap and washcloth and stalk to the old water pump. Despite the tepid summer wind, I wash and dry quickly, my bones forever chilled from the extreme winters of my homeland, and stride back to my trunk.

I don a fresh all-black suit, complete with a bulletproof vest under my coat, and slip the bandages into my pocket before I check my weapons, slam the trunk closed, and slide behind the wheel.

After checking my reflection in the rearview mirror, I shift the car into drive and take the bumpy single lane road toward the nearest town.

Once I hit the main road, I settle deeper into my seat and push the gas pedal to the floor.

Four hours and one stop to refuel later, I pull up to my family manor. I toss the keys to my attendant and get halfway up the stairs before the front door opens.

“ Papa , you are home!” Maksim exclaims.

His joy warms my heart. I scowl even as I open my arms, prepared for his enthusiastic greeting even though he should show better control at six years old.

Not long ago, I feared I would never see his smile again.

His golden curls bounce atop his head as he launches himself down the stairs at me. I catch him and cherish his slight weight, knowing all too soon he’ll be too big to carry.

“Maksim! You’ll bring dishonor to the entire family if you cannot behave.”

Artur’s childlike timbre does not match his stern tone as he repeats the words my father spoke not long ago as he exiled Feliks. I step onto the front landing and set Maksim on his feet next to his older brother.

Both sets of tiny shoulders curl forward as I cross my arms over my chest and don a stony expression, reminding them of their misdeeds, but when I deepen my scowl, Artur straightens his spine and lifts his chin. Maksim follows his older brother’s lead.

Raven hair in a lopsided ponytail and wide blue eyes peek out from behind Artur.

A tiny, younger version of my late wife, Zoya’s features send pain through my soul.

The fist blocking the bottom half of her face as she sucks her thumb never leaves.

In her other arm, she hugs a small stuffed animal to her chest.

She looks me over with wary eyes before ducking back behind her brother.

I long to hear her voice, but she hasn’t made a single sound since Anastasia died a year ago.

Funneling my emotions deep into my chest, I meet my older son’s eyes and let him feel my displeasure.

“You scold your brother, Artur, but you still have much to learn,” I say.

“I did nothing wrong! That evil woman brushed Zoya’s hair too hard and made her cry. She could not stay here, Papa ,” he hisses.

I hide the softening of my heart with a scowl. My eldest carries many responsibilities on his growing shoulders but lacks the experience and the maturity to see the broader picture.

I have failed him.

“Come here, Zoya,” I command.