ANTON
I don’t know what I’m doing with Jessa. I’m certain she’ll keep her mouth shut about Benyamin’s death. I have my phone back. So with all that in place, letting her go should be the easiest decision in the world.
And yet…
I drive back home, lost in thought and suppressed memories. I still remember the day that my father told me that I was going to marry Rodion Ivanov’s daughter.
“She’s beautiful and young. She’ll make a fine wife. More importantly, a fine Bratva wife," he said. "Make her happy and she will deliver you children and an empire.”
It was an impressive little speech at the time. I nodded once and that was the end of it. I resigned myself to the fact that I would not have the freedom to choose my own woman.
At the time, there wasn’t any disappointment that accompanied the realization. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard the two old men plotting my future since I was a teenager.
And he was right. Marina was beautiful. She had a powerful father. She'd grown up in the Bratva; she knew the life.
It made sense.
Then again, everything always makes sense on paper. Plans are beautiful because everyone assumes nothing can ever go wrong.
I drive through my rolling black gates and park right in front of the entrance. There are a few lights on throughout the house, but it feels empty. Deserted.
I walk into my office and close the door. The lights are off, but the blinds are open, ambient light from the garden adding just the tiniest bit of visibility. It's all I need.
Before I turn the television on, I walk to the matte black cabinets against the wall and grab the silver combination lock. I turn the dial until the code is complete and the door pops open. There’s a neatly organized line of video tapes inside. I don’t have to read the labels to find the one I want.
I pull it out, shut the drawer and head back to the television. A minute later, the screen flicks on and the video rolls.
The last time I watched this video was maybe a day or two before I met Jessa. But it feels like it's been ages. I don’t know why I want to see it again tonight. Probably just masochism, plain and simple.
An image flickers into life. A conference room. Men sitting around an oblong table. The meeting starts the same self-important way that all Bratva meetings start. We were welcoming a new faction into our ranks. They’d been vying for the privilege for some time. It was an alliance I needed, but I’d been playing hard to get to make them come to us.
And of course, they had. Just as I’d intended.
The footage is clear, the pixels small enough that you can pinpoint details. Like the fact that the leader of the group, Horus, was wearing gold cufflinks. He'd dressed to impress. So had his men. Another reason I knew I had it in the bag.
That is, until…
“You fucker!”
Her voice is quiet now only because I have the volume turned down, but in the moment, her words sliced through the air like a blade.
I watch my expression onscreen twist to darkness for a flash before past-me composed myself. Lev was standing behind my right shoulder. The moment he heard her, he moved for the door.
But he wasn’t fast enough.
He was only halfway there and I was only halfway to my feet when the door burst open and Marina stormed in.
I stared at her face, trying to remember what I used to find beautiful about the woman. Her blonde hair was as immaculate as ever, but her eyes were cloaked in rage.
Lev likes to make fun of the fact that I have a “type.” And in truth, there are a few similarities between Jessa and Marina. The hair being one.
But right now, all I can see are their differences.
Marina’s hair was long and thick, a bright, sunshine blonde that was closer to yellow than gold. Jessa’s hair is shorter, thinner, and darker. A rich honey blonde with dark roots.
Marina’s face was thinner, harsher, more aristocratic. Jessa’s face is softer, more prone to smiles and laughter. If Marina ever smiled, there was something twisted in the way her lips curved. Something maniacal in her features. A shadow in the corner of her smirk.
“Marina.”