Page 1

1

ANASTASIA

I ’m going to kill them.

A drastic but singular option.

They never questioned my father the way they question me, never tore apart every idea he had simply because they respected him.

That same respect didn’t pass to me after his death, although confronting the issue head-on would open me up to a worse problem because I know they’re just waiting for an excuse.

My father’s generals have always looked at me with disdain.

Being the only heir to the Remizova fortune should have meant I was raised to glide into my father’s shoes the second he kicked the bucket, but I never was.

Not exactly.

The generals who were supposed to aid me held out for my father to remarry because the very idea that I, Anastasia Remizova, could take over the Remizova Bratva empire one day was absurd.

I’m a woman.

I’m only suitable for marrying off and pumping out babies for the next archaic man in line for power.

But those same old laws that kept everyone looking down on me are the same laws that put me in power the very night my father was assassinated.

It just didn’t come with the respect and guidance I had hoped for.

Everyone eyed me with suspicion, expecting me to play the role of the grieving daughter until I passed on my power to someone else.

But I didn’t.

I kept it and started working on setting right everything he'd set wrong.

The only problem is, in the two months since I stepped into my father’s shoes, I have accomplished nothing. Meetings dissolve into tense back-and-forths, and my ideas and orders are met with unhappy glares or vocal disagreements. Everyone has a different idea of how things should be run, and more and more things happen behind my back.

I’m sick of it.

So tonight, it’s all about to change.

A flash of thunder from the passing storm lights up my room in a burst of brilliant white, sending a ripple of glitter across the sparkling emerald fabric of my bodice. An array of mismatched makeup lies scattered over the top of a dresser carrying the scars of age. My reflection ripples slightly in a warped mirror that’s undoubtedly seen a million different faces peer into it.

I’m told the antique furniture was my mother’s love, but having never met her, I will never know.

The green bodice tightening around me with every breath feeds into a deep velvet skirt that sweeps out from my waist and lightly kisses the floor each time I lean closer to the mirror to add just an extra swipe of concealer. The men I’m about to meet will roll their eyes and turn their noses up in disgust that I dare appear before them in a dress, despite the theme of tonight’s dinner being black tie. It’ll remind them undoubtedly that I am a woman, and I am the one in charge of their dusty, backward asses.

I’ve scooped my hair up on top of my head and it’s held in place with a handful of pins. Two thin, long strands curl from behind my ears and tickle my bare shoulders as I add sparkling diamond earrings and adjust the silver pendant around my neck. A dash of dark red lipstick to complete the look, and I’m ready.

Another flash of lightning turns the room into a glaring white square for a few seconds, and my heart jumps at the following roll of thunder. The weatherman talked about this storm for weeks as if his entire yearly paycheck relied on it, and now it thunders overhead as if preparing to cover up my actions tonight.

Most go about killing with a plan to never get caught, but in this world I won’t be keeping it a secret.

I’ve tried playing nice. I’ve smiled and shaken each wrinkled hand shoved my way, nodded and thanked each glaring face for their useless opinion, and sat at the head of the table while the family business is discussed like I don’t even exist.

Tonight, everyone will listen.

Stepping into black heels, I force a deep breath and as I reach for the handle, hesitation pulls at my limbs. In my room, when it’s just me, I feel safe. It’s my only port in a sea filled with snakes. The moment I step out that door, I have to slip on a mask that will never be taken off again.

Can I really do this?

My fingertips lightly cling to the door handle. I glance back and stare at my gorgeous reflection in the mirror. They say mirrors capture a fragment of every soul that holds its gaze. Is it crazy to hope that some fraction of my mother, a woman I’ve never met, exists in that glass and is staring back at me with pride in her eyes?

Maybe even love?

Deep down, I know it’s wishful thinking born from a child who grew up without her mother and existed under the cold, cruel eyes of her father.

I choose to believe it’s true. Only for tonight.

Another crash of thunder rolls over the top of the manor, and I grip the handle tightly.

Showtime.

No one greets me as I head downstairs. Many of the staff who work here have been berated into quiet submission over the years, and they’re the only ones who don’t look me in the eye. I suspect it’s misguided fear cloaked as respect. I’m a Remizova, after all. As a family, we’re incapable of a kind word.

The subtle scents of roast chicken, buttery mash, and something sweet drift through the halls as I head toward the dining room. Each step that carries me closer sends a fluttering pulse of anticipation through my chest. I’m not allowed to show weakness, knowing that the second I do, I will be met with cold glares of satisfaction and a mutter of I told you so .

Women can’t lead.

Women are weak.

Emotional.

They don’t understand how things are supposed to work.

The very thought of the excuses fired my way makes my stomach tighten, and I lift my head high as I reach the dining room.

A man dressed in black dips his head, eyes averted, and reaches for the door. I raise one hand, and he pauses, waiting for my signal.

Beyond these doors are my father’s eight generals, each as old as he was. Their laughter is thick, their spirits high. They think they’re being treated to an exquisite meal before my announcement, and I know each of them hopes I’m about to tell them that I’m stepping down. They’re likely sharing plans on how to get one of them into power and the glory they’ll take this family to.

I let them think that for a few more seconds. At the next clap of thunder, I nod my head and the doorman pulls the white sliding doors apart.

Rambunctious laughter slowly fades to snorts, huffs of amusement, and awkward throat clearing as eight pairs of eyes slowly lock onto me. A few contain a sickening hunger as they look me up and down in my expensive dress. Others carry open disdain as if seeing me as a woman for the first time. Only one man moves forward, and he nods briefly while his grey mustache twitches back and forth.

“Anastasia,” he greets me without a smile. “You’re late.”

“My apologies.” I smile as sweetly as I can. “You don’t want to know how long it took me to get into this dress.”

At the far end of the room, beyond the long table laden with green flowers, crystal glasses, and fine China, are two of the senior generals in charge of finance. The look they share is open and obvious.

A woman doing womanly things takes up time that is better spent furthering the business.

My smile doesn’t waver.

The mask doesn’t slip.

“I trust you have all been well entertained during the wait?” I lock eyes with the only general to greet me, and he struggles not to roll his eyes as he nods.

“Indeed. Can’t pass up a free dinner even if the hostess is late.”

“I’m sure.” As I smile, I catch some of my inner lower lip between my teeth and bite down as I walk further into the room and head toward my chair. “Please,” I add. “Sit.”

“You aren’t serious?” pipes up a deeper voice. One of the men who regularly sits near me grips the back of his oak chair and frowns at me. “You really expect us to sit here and eat, share a meal with you when more desperate things require our attention?”

“Your attention?” I reach my chair, and as I’m about to pull it out for myself, one of the servants melts from the shadows along the wall and does it before me. He holds the back until I’m seated, helping me adjust my posture to my dress, and then returns to the shadow. “Surely, it’s up to me where your attention goes, and if I recall correctly, we have no pressing matters. None that will crumble if you pause to eat for a few hours.”

“Security is a very serious matter,” the general continues. “It never rests. Never sleeps. While we’re here eating, heaven knows what our enemies could be up to.”

“Our enemies?” With a flourish, I remove the napkin from the placemat in front of me. The cotton is silky-soft against my fingertips and I toy with it momentarily. It’s oddly warm compared to the coolness of my dress against my bare legs. “Who do you think is choosing to move against us tonight? The Irish?” I lift one brow. “No, it can’t be them. With a storm this intense, they’ll be busy securing their ranches since we all know they tend to care about a lot more than their selfish desires on a night like this.”

The storm backs me up with several claps of thunder, and the room lights up like God has taken a picture of us all with the flash on.

“The Italians? They have more to be concerned with than us. After all, most of the other families are trying to act as unsuspicious as possible so we don’t accuse them of my father’s assassination. So I think we can afford ourselves one dinner.”

“Only she would think the Irish give a shit about their animals,” mutters a voice to my left, but it’s unclear which general said it.

I ignore it the best I can and smooth out the napkin on my lap. Then, I extend my hands to either side of the table and lift my arms. “Please. Sit. Tonight is important.”

That catches the interest of every man around the table. One by one, the eight generals take their seats. Napkins are unfurled, chairs creak under the weight of men who’ve eaten one too many pork rolls, and the storm rumbles through the world like a simmering rage the clouds can’t control.

I know the feeling.

“What is so important, then?” asks one general. He wears a flat cap to hide the hair he’s been losing in handfuls due to age, and I’m slightly amused that it matches his suit.

“Yes,” speaks up another. “You told us nothing, only that we were to be here tonight.”

“If I’m honest, I’m surprised any of you even heard that order,” I reply, resting back in my chair as I observe them. “I seem to remember telling you” —I point one long finger down the table to a bulky man with a thick, black beard— “that we were to stop distributing those sex tapes because I’ve closed down the website.”

He fixes me with a blank stare. “I did.”

“Did you?” I tilt my head, resting one hand on the table while the other adjusts my dress as I cross my legs. “Because I saw the newest video, the one I ordered to be scrapped, circulating on social media.”

“Someone must have downloaded it.”

“From where?” My eyes narrow slightly. “We never uploaded it because as I said two weeks ago, we are done with that shit. It was never up loaded, so how could someone have downloaded it?”

He shrugs. “Things like that don’t happen overnight.”

“Things like what?”

“You think you can just shut down all seventeen of our websites?” He scoffs sharply and leans forward in his seat. “Do you have any idea how much money we were making off those?”

“I do. I saw the numbers and I asked you to show me the contracts for all the actors you used to film that porn. Because I understand roleplay, I understand safe words and what people will get up to for the right kind of cash. Trust me, I do. But you couldn’t show me contracts confirming that every model is over the age of eighteen or that we were paying them fairly.”

“It’s the porn industry,” says another voice across from the bearded man. “No one gives a shit about that. People just want to get their rocks off.”

“I care,” I say coldly. “The people we’re exploiting care.”

“So?” remarks another in a tone that suggests my desires are as ridiculous as if I’d just asked for every attack dog to be dyed pink. “We aren’t some shitty corporation. People can’t sue us. Hell, they can’t do shit. So who the fuck cares? Those actors do what we demand and we make money. That’s how it works.”

“It’s not a hard concept,” another pipes up. “People still want the product, so why are we shooting ourselves in the foot?”

“Do you think I’m being ridiculous by seeking contracts for these people?” I ask.

“It’s porn,” says another. “You see a woman getting choked and think something sinister is going on.”

“The lack of a contract would suggest so, sure,” I reply. “I did say I had no problem just hitting pause until we made sure all of our actors were being paid fairly and taken care of, but every single one of you had a problem with that, which loops us back to the original concern that hardly any of them are over eighteen. None of you sees a problem with that?”

Glances are exchanged, shoulders roll, and one man buries his face in a glass of water.

No one speaks, but their answers are clear.

“Then the sites stay down. And if I see even a hint of another movie making the rounds, there will be hell to pay.”

Another round of glances makes its way around the table, all carrying the exact look I know too well. No one believes me. My threats carry no weight. They don’t respect me enough to care.

They will after tonight.

“Enough business talk,” I say, standing suddenly. “A toast.”

“With what drink?” scoffs a general.

Just as the words leave him, servants melt from the shadows of the room and approach the table. I study each man in turn as his drink order is taken and within two minutes, everyone has a glass in hand. My own is red wine, a simple classic, but it feels exceptionally fitting for tonight.

“Well, gentlemen, I have an announcement I feel like you will all be eager to hear.”

That gets their attention. They watch me like a pack of hungry cats cornering a little mouse, waiting for the first sign of life before they pounce.

“For two months, I have tried to fill my father’s shoes. His death left us all shocked, and while the culprit of his assassination remains at large, one thing became very clear to me.”

I meet every pair of eyes that gazes my way, seeing a mix of hope, greed, and satisfaction in each of them.

“I can’t do this. I can’t fill my father’s shoes. I can’t exist in his shadow because our morals and views on the future clash too harshly. We’re simply too different. Perhaps if I had been raised with a drop of love, then I would be more like him, but that’s the kicker. I wasn’t. So I’m not. It’s hard to even call him father because the only thing we shared was our eye color.” I chuckle humorlessly. “So, from tonight, I will no longer be in charge of any of you.”

“You’re stepping down?” three voices ask in unison.

“I will no longer be your boss, that’s correct,” I reply carefully. Thunder rolls above as each man glances at his neighbor with greedy delight. “So I ask that you all raise your glasses with me one last time and drink to the cold, calculated memory of my father. May he rest in peace and without shame for the different path I walk.”

Eight generals raise their glasses.

A mix of bourbon, whiskey, and vodka is gulped down past each parched man’s lips without a second thought. They’re far too caught up in their glee for the future. Free from a woman lording over them with judgment and the wrong morals, free from having to abide by archaic laws forcing them to accept me as the Godmother of this family.

They are free.

I retake my seat and very slowly sip my wine.

Lightning flashes brightly, illuminating the room, and for a moment, every single general looks as white as a sheet, like ghosts caught in a snapshot. As the room falls dark, a flurry of rain suddenly lashes against the tall windows lining the wall. The skies have cracked. The rain pours as the room fills with the wet, gurgling noises of choking, dying men.

The poison on the rim of each glass is fast-acting. One second, they’re savoring the taste of their desired drink. The next, their throat swells shut and cuts off all ability to breathe. Only mouthfuls of blood spurt past parted lips as each man claws at his neck and fights for air around me. Crystal glasses shatter on the floor, and the precious China plates are swept from their mats by flailing arms. Chairs tip over as men stand and try to flee the room, or even reach me, but they don’t make it more than a few steps.

Blood pours from the lips of dying men as rapidly as the rain lashes against the window. Thunder cracks, and the next snapshot of lightning in the room illuminates the dying moments of cursed men. I lock eyes with one man as he crawls toward me on the floor.

I drink my wine slowly and sigh deeply.

He makes it another inch, and one claw-like hand stretches out toward me with generations of malice flooding his eyes.

“In case it wasn’t clear,” I say softly, locking eyes with him as he takes his last breath, “I’m not stepping down. You’re all fired.”