Page 4

She peeks out from behind her brother and studies me for a moment before shuffling out to stand beside him. With her thumb in her mouth and her stuffed animal clenched to her chest, she watches me with wary eyes. I lower myself into a squat and point at the space in front of me.

“Stand tall, moya docha . Come to me,” I say.

I will never raise a hand to Anastasia’s cherished babes, but physical affection isn’t something I can give.

The filth and power I carry as ubiytsa for the family prevents me from coddling them.

I’ve created too much darkness and seen too much of the brutal side of humanity to infect my children while they are so young.

Zoya looks up at Artur. He guides her forward with a hand on her back. Her loose ponytail flops lower on her head.

My patience never wavers as she puts one chubby leg in front of the other and stands hesitantly in front of me.

I study her round face and clear eyes before brushing her hair back and gently lifting her sleeves to check her arms for bruises, mindful of her grip on her doll.

When I turn her around, she cranes her neck to keep watching me, and I note her lack of pain as she twists.

I run my hand down her back and pat her bottom, checking her training pants for wetness, then lift her skirt just enough to check her legs for bruises before quirking an eyebrow at her mismatched socks and her shoes on the wrong feet.

I turn her back around and hold my hand out, palm up. She looks between my face and my hand a few times.

“Give me your hand, Zoya.”

She tightens her hug on her stuffed animal.

“I will not take your doll, kroschka . Let me see your fingers,” I say.

She looks behind her as though she needs support from her brothers before she tucks her doll under her other arm, never removing her thumb from her mouth, and places her tiny hand onto my palm. Her pudgy fingers fill me with wonder, but guilt tightens my chest as I realize her nails need a trim.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” I ask.

She shakes her head and sucks harder on her thumb. Her ponytail flops about.

I release her hand and nod for her to return to her brothers. She hesitates, searching my face for a moment, before scampering back to hide behind her big brother.

I stand and meet Artur’s eyes. He lifts his chin, preparing to stand his ground.

“You did well, Artur.” His eyes widen. “I will never scold you for protecting your sister, but your technique needs work. Tell me, how did you get your nanny to quit?”

Maksim shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but Artur remains firm.

“I think putting Frog in her soup was the final straw,” he says.

“And what do you think she will tell the other nannies about your stunt?” I ask.

“She will tell them not to come here,” he answers without hesitation.

I cross my arms over my chest.

“That is what you want?” I ask.

“Yes. We don’t need a nanny. I can take care of my brother and sister,” he says.

I take a deep breath.

“Zoya still needs a nanny, and after today, it is clear to me both you and your brother still need an adult to teach you basic manners. What should you have done if you had concerns about the nanny?”

With fire in his light blue eyes, he opens his mouth, but then my question registers and he falters.

We spoke about this already. I do not repeat myself. His anger deflates and he looks around as though he might find the answer in the grass.

“I should have told either Babushka Tatiana or Tetya Katya,” he says.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, driving home my message. “Did you think they wouldn’t protect Zoya?”

He shakes his head and blinks, but tears shimmer in his eyes. I harden my features.

“You knew you were overreacting, didn’t you, moy syn ?”

He takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders back, and opens his mouth, but no words emerge.

“You screamed and flailed every time tvoya mama changed your diaper when you were a babe. Should she have left you to sit in your filth?”

He shakes his head.

“You will take Zoya to Babushka Tatiana’s room every morning and wait outside the door until she is ready to brush your sister’s hair until we hire a new nanny. Understood?”

He grinds his teeth, but nods.

“While I am gone, you will mind Babushka Tatiana and Tetya Katya.”

A wave of unease rolls through Artur and Maksim.

“You are leaving?” Maksim asks.

“I am. I expect only excellent reports until I return. Understand?”

Maksim’s lower lip trembles. Artur clasps his hands behind his back and tilts his head up to look at the sky to hide his tears. Zoya sucks on her thumb.

“Understand?” I repeat.

“Da, papa . We understand,” Artur responds.

I step forward and place my hand on his bony shoulder. He will grow into a fine young man. I give him a gentle squeeze before repeating the motion on Maksim’s shoulder and patting Zoya’s head on my way past.

Less than thirty minutes later, I slide into the driver’s seat of a large black SUV.

My father’s second wife, Tatiana, agreed to maintain Zoya’s hair while I am gone, and Katya, Boris’s wife, will include my trio with her five children as often as possible.

Guilt and worry gnaw at my guts, but my family will ensure my children are safe as I hunt my exiled youngest brother.

My chosen five men join me in the vehicle and ride in silence for the first half an hour as I run through every possibility in my head.

“We will split into three teams of two and cover as much ground as possible as soon as we arrive,” I instruct.

After assigning each group a New York family to investigate and relaying what little information I have, we fall back into silence for the rest of the drive.

The hours drag on as we bypass the inside of the airport and head straight to the commercial overseas flight.

No one blinks an eye as the captain ushers us to our seats.

Near the end of the flight, we change into street clothes—jeans, shirts, and New York style jackets—and exit the plane before the rest of the passengers.

When I shake the hand of the pilot for our connecting flight, I slip him several extra bills to ignore the weapons strapped to our bodies and settle into my seat for several more hours of travel.

The travel case of bandages digs into my hip, but I refuse to move it to another pocket.

After watching the sunset through the smog of New York City as we land in America and coordinating new phones, extra weapons, and several days’ worth of supplies, we break into our teams and begin what we came for.

Yerik, my junior by eight years but whose brutality and loyalty rivals my own, walks on the opposite sidewalk as me. Keeping a low profile isn’t easy with the American population, since most lack our height, but he blends in as much as possible.

Even as the nightlife roars to life and jet lag weighs down my entire body, I remain alert and focused on gathering as much information as possible, which is dreadfully easy.

The rumor mills in bars and clubs offer access to information my father and brother could not find from Russia.

All it takes is leaning against the wall in select hallways, and you hear so many damning things.

In less than a day, we learn enough to have a decent grasp of my brother’s recent history.

He began by gaining supporters in smaller cities, which earned him attention from Narciso Vivaldi, who was the consigliere of the Vivaldi family, but he is apparently dead now.

Matteo Vivaldi, his brother and don, is still alive, but he no longer holds power.

His son, Giorgio, took over—peacefully, which is no easy feat—and made Fiero Capito his consigliere.

Serenity Vivaldi, his younger sister, married Nico Russo, the most feared mafia don in NYC. His older sister, Camilla, was supposed to wed the Russo heir, but my exiled brother stopped them somehow.

Mid musings, I glimpse a familiar head in the crowd.

I’ve seen him with Feliks before. His blond hair and crooked nose are hard to forget.

With fury simmering in my veins, I push off the wall and follow the man until he slips out the back door.

I borrow a local cigarette from a woman with her tits halfway popping out of her dress and turn her toward a bouncer when she proves too drunk to keep her balance in her sky-high heels.

The bulky man gives me a nod before fending off her pathetic advances and leading her toward the booths where her friends squeal like stuck pigs.

I meet Yerik’s eyes, flick a glance toward the back, then tilt my chin toward the front door, silently directing him to exit through the front and sneak his way into the alley. He nods as he smiles down at the curvy blonde giggling and squeezing his bicep.

These Americans have no control. No respect. No sense of propriety. They wander around like feral beasts in need of a swift kick.

I join a group of men who smell of cloying body spray, hair gel, and tequila as they stumble out into the smoking area and disappear into the nearest shadows to creep toward the familiar head and shoulders lingering near the dumpster. Another man, one I have never seen before, joins him.

When they speak in Russian, I know my instincts led me to the right place. After greeting each other, they talk without filtering their words or lowering their voices, overconfident in the language barrier between them and the Americans.

“Remember that Vivaldi bitch we destroyed a few months ago?” the new man asks.

My stomach sours. Now I know why Camilla Vivaldi didn’t marry Nico Russo. Feliks sicked his men on her.

I light my cigarette and lean back against the brick wall as though I’m with the group of rowdy smokers to my left.

“ Da . She was a fun one to break. I still jerk off to the memory of her screams. What about her?” asks my brother’s henchman.

I fill my lungs with weak cigarette smoke and grimace at the menthol taste but prefer it over the queasiness from listening to Feliks’s goons. Men who hurt those weaker than them for pleasure deserve a long, excruciating death.

“I found her.”

Ice runs through my veins.

If Camilla Vivaldi can no longer marry because of my exiled brother, then I am partially responsible for her, even though I was on the other side of the globe.

I shouldn’t have allowed Anastasia’s death to distract me for so long.

My late wife would never forgive me if she knew I failed so many people.

The man’s crooked nose gleams in the streetlamp as he perks up, but after a moment, he tsks and leans back on the brick wall.

“So what? We already used her up,” he mumbles.

“No one else knows where she is,” the first man says in a suggestive tone. “It could be just us. No waiting for a turn.”

Fuck.

These men die today.

I should reach out to Giorgio Vivaldi, the head of Camilla’s family, and let him know I’m in town before I intervene, but I don’t have time.

Plus, if she’s as traumatized as these men’s words indicate she is and Giorgio is as honorable of a man as he seems, then he may not let me meet her. At all.

It’s my responsibility to clean up after Feliks. My father will not allow loose ends.

I don’t need a wife, but my children need a mother.

After clapping each other on the back and snuffing out their cigarettes, the men saunter to the mouth of the alley.

I follow their lead and meet Yerik on the next street over.

We have a broken woman to rescue. My broken woman.

I’ve never met her, but Camilla Vivaldi will be my wife. She’ll have no choice but to marry me after I save her and reveal my identity.

She may fight me every step of the way, but it doesn’t matter.

Camilla Vivaldi needs my protection. My children need a mother figure. I will marry the shattered mafia princess, no matter what it takes.