I’m sure it’s related to some basic primal wound of having my mother abandon me at a very young age. Who could blame her? My father was a monster.
But I’ve never known why she didn’t take me with her.
Chelle walks over to praise Leo and asks him how he’s doing while Nikolai leans against the counter and eats one of the toothpicks loaded with fancy olives from my plate.
“You hate this, don’t you?” Nikolai asks me as Maxim and Sasha join us.
“Every second,” I confirm.
“So do I.” Maxim’s watchful gaze sweeps the newcomers. He, of all of us, hates outsiders in the building most. His wife, Sasha, is the daughter of Igor Antonov, the now-deceased Moscow pakhan, who arranged her marriage to Maxim before his death last year. She inherited his interest in oil wells worth over sixty million dollars, which put her in the crosshairs of every mudak who dreams of taking her black gold from her. Igor chose Maxim to be her husband, deeming him the best able to protect her.
Maxim will probably spend the rest of his life anticipating threats to her safety.
“But we do these things to make life as normal as it can be for the women. As much as I’d prefer to keep them locked in the penthouse and never let out.”
Sasha chuckles and wraps her arms around him and kisses his cheek. “Such gallantry.”
Maxim’s lips curve. “I try.”
Chelle returns to Nikolai’s side, and the two couples head back into the pottery studio. As I watch them retreat, I try to ignore the niggle of jealousy that fills me every time I see one of my happily-married brothers with his wife.
Kira
The crack house is exactly what the name suggested. It’s in a decrepit neighborhood. A side of America I didn’t know existed. Streets are littered with garbage. Ramshackle buildings are covered with graffiti. The front windows are boarded up at the address Officer Green gave me. I climb the steps, which are littered with cigarette butts, trash, and a couple of hypodermic needles. I bang on the door. When no one answers, I try the handle. It opens.
There are people inside. It smells of stale smoke and rank bodies. There are several dirty mattresses littering the floor, and trash covers every other inch of it. Someone sits up on the couch. A woman, I think. Her matted hair falls in her face. She’s nothing but skin and bones like Anya, her eyes hollowed out and dark.
“Who the fuck are you?” She reveals rotted, stained teeth when she speaks.
“My name is Kira Koslova.”
“Another Russian.” The woman lurches to her feet, staggering when she arrives. She ignores me, searching the floor for something.
“Did you know my sister? Anya?”
“You got a cigarette?”
“No. Did you know Anya?”
She shoots me a disgusted look. “Yeah, I knew her. She’s dead.”
“I know. I came from Russia when the police called.”
“So? What do you want?”
“I’m looking for her son, Mika. Is he here?”
The woman stops searching the floor and swivels. “She didn’t have a son.”
My hands clench into fists. A white-hot rage floods my chest, heats my face. It’s irrational, but potent just the same. “She did,” I snarl. “He’d be fifteen now. Her son.”
“No. No son. I’ve known her a long time. She never had a son.”
Panic flares, but I try to tamp it down with my anger. “How long?” I speak through clenched teeth. “How long have you known her?”
The addict shrugs. “Few years.” She shakes her head with a sneer. “Definitely no son.”
I want to attack the stupid addict and tell her she’s wrong. I want to scream. To throw things. Burn down this wretched building.
But none of those things will help me find Mika.
If I were honest, I’d recognize that the person I’m really angry at is myself. For not stopping Anya from leaving. For not insisting Mika stay with me.
If I hadn’t had my heart broken so many times by Anya. If I hadn’t been angry with her for the kind of mother she was, for her addiction and her continued association with the men who’d ruined her, if I hadn’t given up on Anya, maybe she’d be alive right now. Mika wouldn’t be missing. The idea that he may be completely lost to me terrifies me. I have absolutely no way of knowing if Mika’s alive or dead. Where to begin to find him. What happened to him.
But that guilt is far too painful. It’s easier to blame the bratva. They started this road to destruction by taking Anya as payment. A few months later, they killed our father, anyway.
It’s time I figure out how to pay them back for the evil they bestowed on my family.
I get back in my rental car and program the map for the address of the bratva stronghold. Then I dial the number of my supervisor in Moscow.