1
KIRA
“He’s dead.” There may have been words after that. A half-assed apology that couldn’t make up for what I can’t prove they did to him. My twin, the only person I truly trusted in this fucked up world, is gone. Disappeared into nothingness, and I was supposed to be okay with it all. Supposed to take it like the strong girl I am.
It’s what’s expected.
The sky has seemed cloudier ever since I heard those two words uttered in the darkness of my half-opened door. Their delivery was disingenuous at best. And the deliverer, a random member of the Russian Bratva family (I think his name was Igor). I say family with caution because it isn’t just a random family. It’s mine. Every Russian Bratva member— excluding the boss— lives in this old hotel calledThe Magdalinoff King Street downtown.
The community in this hotel is overwhelming, taking up every free room on every floor. Everyone eats together, trains together, and lives together– the togetherness is inescapable. I’ve grown to hate it now that Koa is gone— especially now that he’s gone. I can barely breathe on my own, let alone cry, without the room next to me hearing. Why did they design hotels so flimsily in the 70s?
Despite the thin walls and emotional brutality, I still find myself wanting what I’ve pined for since I could speak. To rule over them all. To be the head of the Russian Bratva. I can’t tell you why that’s what I’ve wanted or who gave me the whimsical loftiness of such a dream, but I can’t shake it. I think I can really change things and make a difference, so that no one will ever again have to be killed off in order to “retire” from this hellscape.
Most days, I feel like two versions of myself are fighting each other. The rational one that tells me to get the fuck out of here and the dominant one that orders me to win at all costs. I’ve stuffed everything down that defies that dominant side, even the emotions I know are necessary for normal people to feel. But I don’t have the luxury of being normal, so this is where I stay.
Of course, I’ll have to marry into the Mikhailovs— the reigning family of the Bratva mafia. Odessa, they call it. So, perhaps my ambition to rule Odessa is barricading any grieving I should partake in. No one would blame me for it, though— falling apart. The expense of all of my losses should naturally cause me to melt into nothingness. But, if I want to be the best, be on top, be the one to win the Mikhailovs’ affection, I must stay strong.
That doesn’t mean I don’t lay in bed at night, imagining the snores of Koa in the empty bed next to me. Or hear the echo of his laughter that fell scarce after our parents' disappearance six years ago. I guess it was less of a disappearance than a willful departure from parenting and, of course, the Russian Bratva. I get it. They grew tired of their roles, the lifestyle, and the danger around every corner. I just wish they wouldn’t have allowed themselves to grow tired of Koa and me.
The lights are on as I turn over in my bed, feel a tear sneak out of the corner of my eye and run down to my silk pillowcase. Even though I allow this to happen, I still feel guilty. Maybe I’m broken, but people who win rarely have it all together. That’s why they win. They forget about everything else but the goal they have to reach, push towards it at all costs, and never look back.
“Kira Volkova.” A grumbly, muffled voice calls from outside my door, followed by a round of knocks. I inhale deeply through my nose, catch one last tear with my finger and flick it away in spite as I approach my ivory wood door. With one more breath, I open up to see Patrov. Sandy brown messy hair pulled back into a bun and sun-freckled skin that’s far too pale to be on a man who’s always outside. He’s just about as tall as I am. I can’t call him short when I’m 5 '10. If anything, he’s an average height, and I’m the abnormal one.
“Yes?” I ask politely because he’s a higher rank than me. His gray eyes trail me up and down before finding mine again. I know I’m attractive because this is how most men look at me. Charm isn’t a weakness of mine, either, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t flirted with Patrov to get added to a few special missions.
“You’ve been summoned to attend an exclusive meeting.”
“Exclusive?” I repeat with a half-grin.
“Yes, it’s in the top suite.” Mikhailov brother territory only. He hands me a card before I can ask anything else.
“Be there in an hour. This is a one-time access key, so make sure you hit the button for the right suite.”
“Which is?” I flip the shiny card over in my palm, arching an intrigue-filled brow.
“Suite 0.”
“Got it.” I nod confidently, and he nods back. “Thanks.” I begin to close the door, but he stops it with his boot. My brows rise questioningly, and he sheepishly grins.
“It’s good to see you.” He gives me a sympathetic smile, so unnecessary that it makes me cringe, but I force a grin.
“You as well.” I shove the door closed before he can stop it again and turn to the sliding mirror doors of my closet. I don’t own many fancy clothes. Mostly just uniforms. Did I mention we have uniforms? Yeah. All black clothes, always. So, I guess not so much a uniform, but more of a dress code.
I only own one tight black dress, shorter than I can wear in any practical situation, but for this, I can make an exception. Sex appeal is a must. I don’t care what the meeting is about. The oldest, and next in line to take over, Kias, will be there. I’ve got to impress him.
I’ve only done one mission with him. It was a year ago, and I honestly don’t remember much about it except that he touched my thigh at one point, and I nearly screamed. I thought it was the beginning of all of my dreams coming true. But we didn’t talk much after that. At least he says hi to me every time he sees me. Makes the guys on my team jealous and makes me more desirable when I need a favor.
I slip on the silky black dress that ties on either side right at my thighs, pull over the spaghetti straps, and adjust my cleavage in the slightly scooped, square neckline. I own a handful of shoes, one pair for every occasion. Work, training, dinner parties, and on the off chance I get a day without work, comfortable shoes. I choose the occasional dinner party boots that go just past my knees. They are a soft black material that zips up the back with a three-inch heel. It’s a good thing Kias is tall because he prefers his women shorter than him.
The only jewelry I have is a set we stole from our last car bombing. Heavy diamond earrings, matching diamond necklace, and diamond chain bracelet. I pull my auburn hair out of my face messily, tying my long tresses back and letting the front section of my grown-out bangs fall on either side of my face.
My makeup is a soft smokey eye with a mauve lip, and I think I look hot when I’m done. I forget how well I can dress myself up. It feels like I become a different person when I do, compared to my everyday self. That’s not to say I’m not attractive in my usual clothes, but tonight I feel put together. It’s just the confidence boost I need going into the Mikhailov suite.
For a final touch, I spray my mother's perfume on me. It’s a small amount of sentiment I allow myself—by now, the fragrance has all but worn away anyway. It makes me feel close to her, which is foolish, becausesheleftus. But I think, considering everything else, I’m allowed a small foolishness.
By the time I’ve finished, I’ve got about fifteen minutes to spare, so I leave my phone on the charger, grab the key card from my desk and rush out of the door. Down the hall, there’s a commotion between two brothers that live across from the elevator. They’re known as the model brothers. Not just because they are exceedingly good-looking, but because they are the yes-men of our family. Any mission they’re given, they exceed expectations. They’ll do everything, be anything, and try anything to get the job done. They’re my competition. If I can’t look better than them, I won’t ever be considered to do more missions with Kias. And if I can’t do more assignments with him, I’ll be stuck in this low-rank position for the rest of my abysmal life.
They are yelling at each other, faces red, veins popping, eyes narrowed in accusation. I try to slip past them quietly as they continue to spew at each other in Russian.