Page 60 of The Pakhan’s Heir

“What was his name?” I ask Yeva. She glances over at me.

“What?”

“The guy you were supposed to meet up with. What was his name?”

“Martin,” she says. “Martin Hamilton Mitchell.” I arch an eyebrow and look at her. She sighs and says, “Yeah, I know. Not exactly our kind. He’s an intern with a stockbroker company in Astoria. He drives a nice car and has a nice apartment. He’s even got a nice, appropriately sized dick.”

I snort a laugh. “He sounds like a decent guy.”

“Right. Unlike the thugs we grew up around.” She looks down at her remaining cookies, her smile fading. “He’s also boring as fuck. He’s like… Bert. You know, from Bert and Ernie? He likes his whole wheat toast and bran flakes and chardonnay with dinner. He doesn’t like spicy food and only drinks socially. He’s smart with his money and his life is… stable. Nice and stable and boring.”

She eats another cookie, chewing as she blindly watches the action on the television screen.

“But boring… is what I need, I think,” she says. “People with boring lives don’t die in shootouts. They don’t get beaten to death when they’re eight months pregnant because of whatever shady shit their husband does. They don’t have worry about their entire family line getting completely wiped out because one of them pissed somebody off.” She sucks her teeth again, her brow furrowing. “A boring life means you’re safe. And your children are safe. And their children are safe… You’re safe. You live a long, boring ass life and die smelling of piss in some hospital room somewhere around eighty. Not bleeding to death in your son’s arms in your sixties.”

There’s an aura of deep, immense sadness around her. Something that feels dark and long shattered and ground up into powder. She’s mourning her father still, but it’s more than that. I think Yeva’s been in mourning her entire life.

And I can’t help but wonder if this is what will happen to me eventually. Is this what a future looks like if I don’t leave while I can? Or what it could look like for this baby if its father dies? Or if I die because of who he is?

I take one of the cookies and munch on it as we watch the television. My mind is a million miles away, playing out a scenario where Alex and I stay together and I have this baby. Even if we’re happy, what about the rest? There will always be enemies. There will always be deals going wrong. Someone is always going to be killed and Alex will no doubt be called to avenge a death.

This lockdown we’re in isn’t even unusual. It’s just another day in the Bratva. It’s the life, as they all say.

But is it my life… ?

And then there’s the matter of him rejecting this pregnancy altogether. I don’t think I could take it if he decided that he can’t accept this baby. Having to raise it alone will be bad enough. Having to one day tell him or her that their father didn’t want them…

“Maybe,” I say aloud, “Bert’s got it all figured out. Maybe having a boring existence is the goal.”

She reaches down to get her beer, taking a drink from it. “Hear, hear, sister. Fuck ‘the life’ or whatever this is supposed to be. When the lockdown is over, I’m going to find Martin Hamilton Mitchell and I’m going to marry him. I’m going to marry him and we’ll have a bunch of boring kids. Two boys and a girl—no. Two girls and a boy. And we’ll name them Susan, Karen, and… and John. Three boring children with nice, boring names.”

She laughs, and then I can’t help but laugh with her. When it dies down, she says, “Imagine. Me with an average guy and his average dick for the next sixty years. I think I’d go crazy.”

“Maybe,” I say aloud. But you’ll be safe and alive. That’s what I should be thinking about now. All the intense feelings in the world aren’t worth this madness in the end. This baby deserves at least one parent who will be there with them throughout their life.

Alex was right. I deserve my freedom. And I think I’m going to take it.

22

ALEX

Last night, three of the Irkutsk strip clubs were set on fire and two of their whorehouses were flushed out by Rostov Boeviks. All night, I had recurring thoughts of striking Slavik as his businesses burned, late in the wee hours as Slavik was coming home from a long day of dealing with the aftermath and whatever that entailed.

But on Rikki’s request, I waited. “It’s always better to do a hit in the morning,” he said last night. “Everybody’s expecting a bump in the night. Nobody sees a bullet at six in the morning.”

He’s not wrong. Rikki’s usually never had a preference as to how and when to do his hits, but on the times that our father gave him the reins, he always picked the early morning hours and always chose the apartments or houses where they slept. And if I don’t know anything, I know my brother doesn’t keep doing a thing if it doesn’t work. I trust him to take point in this.

Slavik’s apartment is in the lower half of Manhattan in one of the high rises on the more influential side of town. I’m walking down this street, looking at women in their full fur coats as they walk to their cars with waiting drivers holding their doors open, at businessmen rushing out of hotel lobbies, cradling a cell phone on their shoulders as they hail a cab. And beautiful young women with large sunglasses walking by as if to hide their celebrity status in broad daylight.

Strategically speaking, it’s the perfect place to live for somebody like us. There are always eyes around here. Maybe even some of them are his men watching us as we walk up to his front door. Having a place in this part of town is like living on holy ground. Presumably, no one would dare be so brazen as murder a man in cold blood on the daytime streets of upper crust society.

No one except us. If he came out here right now, I doubt I’d be able to stop myself from putting a bullet in his head in front of all these pinched faced WASPS on their way to their brunch appointments. As it happens, however, Rikki’s plan of being incognito is still in play as we walk up to the front doors. We’re dressed in gray jumpsuits marked with fake logos to a fake company who might be seen on any given day in the city. We’re playing the part of exterminators to get us through the door.

The doorman sees us and immediately nods and opens the door leading into the lobby. As we walk in, I’m taken aback slightly by the marble floors and mirrored walls by the elevators. Hard to believe that Nona grew up in this building. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to run through these halls as a child, assuming she was allowed to do so.

I also notice the concierge behind a counter, talking to his coworker and ignoring us. Good. The longer he ignores us, the easier this will be. I nudge Rikki to give him a heads up. He nods, already having seen them. We keep walking toward the elevators.

Rikki waits until we’re on the elevator and the doors close. “Kostya says that Slavik goes running between six and six thirty.” He looks at his watch. “Assuming he’s already left, we’ve only got about fifteen minutes before he comes back.”