For the first time since I arrived in this country, a shred of hope blooms in my chest. “Thank you, sir. That’s great news.”
“Yes. Listen, Koslova. I expect regular check-ins from you, so I know you’re safe. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll check in twice a day.”
“Very well. Keep up the good work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I end the call and spread cream cheese on a bagel.
They’re looking for Mika. Soon, I hope–I would pray if I were the praying type–I’ll be reunited with the boy I’d do anything for.
And if I take down one branch of the organization responsible for killing my father, then that’s just icing on the cupcake.
Chapter Five
Maykl
Gleb relieves me of my door duties at ten. He’s a seventy-year-old bratva brother with failing lungs, but he’s hard as nails. No less dangerous than any of us. Perhaps more so because he’s old-school. He came to us this year from a cell in New Jersey.
He and another bratva brother, Dmitri, work under me as doormen, and I have another half-dozen brigadiers I utilize for building security as needed.
I tell him I’ll be away for the afternoon, but he should call my cell or notify those in the penthouse if anything happens.
Then I go upstairs to find Kira. When I come in, she’s on her back with her toes tucked under the sofa, doing crunches.
“Don’t stop,” I say when she immediately stops and rolls to her side. “You look beautiful.”
“Doing sit-ups?” she scoffs.
“Da.” I nod and push away from the door. “I like your warrior side. Female strength is captivating.”
She crawls to her feet. “You’re crazy,” she mutters, but I note the tinge of pink that crawls up her neck. I suspect she likes to be revered for something other than that perfect face.
“Are you ready to go to the funeral home?”
“Uh, yes. But Anya is still at the morgue. I didn’t make any arrangements yet.”
I nod. “I already contracted with a mortuary. They are on their way to get her now.”
She goes still, her lovely chin tilting up. “Thank you.” The words are soft with awe like no one has ever been kind to her.
I know how that feels.
It makes me even more determined to come to her aid.
“Come. Let’s go.” I pick up her woolen coat and hold it out for her to slide her arms in.
It’s a gentlemanly action, and I’m no gentleman. I don’t even know how this instinct in me arose, yet it feels so natural to honor her this way.
She slides her arms in the sleeves and knots the tie around her waist. I put on a black leather jacket and take her hand in mine to lead her to the elevators.
We take it down to the parking garage, Kira nervously fiddling with the handrail in the elevator as we ride. I lead her to my Ford Bronco and open the passenger side door for her.
Outside, snow has begun to fall in thick, wet flakes that melt when they hit the windshield. The streets are a mess, but I navigate through them, familiar with downtown and the best routes to take.
“Why are you doing this for me?” she cuts through the silence.
I shrug. “I know what it’s like to be alone in a strange place.”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “You came here alone?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t it. Coming here wasn’t so hard. Not even learning a new language.”
“When, then?”
I don’t know what makes me say it. I have this urge to show her that I understand the misery her sister endured, I guess. Even if I didn’t suffer like her.
“When I joined the brotherhood. It was…supposed to set me free. But it only further enslaved me to a life of violence.”
Now I have her full attention. “Why did you join?”
I shrug. “I was young. My mother abandoned me. Left with me with my abusive father. The bratva put a gun in my hand and told me I could free myself.”
Kira’s head bows and her gaze drops to her hands. “A common story, I’m sure. The promise of a better life. Power and money and freedom from abuse.” She looks over again. “Were you free from abuse?”
I snort. My body is covered in scars from the violence doled out by my brothers and enemies of the brotherhood, alike.
She looks back through the snowy windshield. “Of course not.”
We arrive at the funeral home, and I park the Bronco. Kira hops out, and we walk in.
“Ms. Koslova?” The woman at the front desk greets us when we walk in.
Kira looks surprised. “Yes.”
“Follow me,” the receptionist says, ushering us down a hallway. “The director will be right in to go over the arrangements with you.”
She leaves us alone in a room with a large table in the center and backlit glass shelves along two walls displaying all the various options for the dead.