Page 4 of Lord of the Underworld

"Of course."

***

Vtoroy - Russian for the second in command

Chapter Two

In which we learn that best friends and cookies can make almost anything better.

Oksana…

My heart sinks when my phone buzzes angrily. It's my father. There's no question about not picking up right away. The house here in Chicago is wired with security cameras, even here at the stable where I keep Zlo, my mare. He could be watching me right now.

Or Yefim is, I think with a shudder. Yefim is my father's Sovietnik and he's a pig. Always standing too close, watching me too long and finding an excuse to touch me. Nausea is coiling up my throat as I take a deep breath and answer.

"There you are," he snaps before I can get a greeting out. "You do not keep me waiting, do you hear me?"

The phone rang twice.

"Prosti menya, Otets, I'm sorry, Father," I say numbly.

"I received word from Viktor Volkov that his daughter had to be picked up from a stranger's house when she slipped her security," he says, getting angrier with each word. "Were you with her, you little shlyukha, you slut?"

"N- no Father. I was here at home last night. In bed."

"So, you did know about it or you would not know when it happened!" he roars. "You let your friends make whores of themselves?"

"I wasn't with her, I didn't know what happened." I drop my head, sweaty with shame. So cowardly that I make excuses instead of telling him it's not my responsibility.

I'm twenty-four years old. And yet, I still curl inside myself like a potato bug every time my father screams at me. Am I going to be a coward forever?

"Viktor is sending his jet to bring his daughter home. Tonight. I want you on that flight with her," he barks.

"What? I... I have two meetings set here for the charity, Father, and I-"

"You're interrupting me." I can hear his fingers tapping on his desk.

"Of course, I'll be on it."

"See that you are," he snaps, and hangs up.

I rest my forehead against Zlo's soft neck, her mane tickling my cheek. She's warm, and the dusty scent of straw is comforting. I wish I could stay here forever. My hand strokes the brush over her flank without really seeing it. If I'm going back to Moscow, it won't be for anything good.

Anka is clearly still hung over by the time I join her on her family's jet. Her lips are pale, and she's wearing sunglasses. Inside. At night. There is a noticeable hickey on her neck right where it meets her shoulder. The bruise is so clearly defined that I can see teeth marks.

"Please tell me it was all worth it," I ask, as I settle into the black leather seat across from her.

The Volkov jet is strange. The interior is charcoal gray, with black seats, a black bar, and black tables. Even the lighting is dim and makes me feel like I'm being swallowed down the throat of Hell when I fly with her.

"Oh, it was worth it," she agrees. "I've got his number in my pocket." She pushes her sunglasses just down enough for me to see her poor, bloodshot eyes. "And as soon as I've placated Dad, I'm flying right back."

"Good idea to not put it in your phone," I agree. "You know they're going to go through it."

She frowns at me. "You don't have a burner phone? What is wrong with you? You know your father has to be tracking your activity. Every call, every social media interaction."

"Oh, he is," I say bitterly, fastening my seatbelt. Irina, our sympathetic flight attendant, comes over, offering ice water and coffee to us both.

"Thank you," Anka whines. "Would you happen to have ibuprofen on board? Oh, and maybe some of those cookies you had last time?"