VADIK
I knew those bastards would show up.
It’s not enough that my parents are dead, burned to crisps in a house fire that flamed so fast and hot they couldn’t even reach their bedroom door.
It’s not enough that my Uncle Mikey—formerly Misha, before he fooled himself into believing people would think he was American with a more Anglo-sounding name—is gloating in the corner, face wet with crocodile tears, counting the money he’ll make taking over my father’s club. And his wife in a brand-new fur coat even though it’s too warm outside for a light jacket.
Nor is it enough that the two shots of whiskey I threw back to help me get through the day are churning in my stomach like toxic sludge.
To make matters even shittier, the Yegorov faction had to show up, as if they care that my parents are in closed coffins because they’re burned so badly they can’t be put on display. As if they’re mourning that the head of their biggest rival faction—the one led by my father—is now dead. As if they give a shit about expressing their condolences to my brothers and me.
They’re having their best day of the year on what is undoubtedly the worst of mine.
My parents deserve to be honored today, not surrounded by a bunch of greedy, gloating bastards.
Hell, Papa was not my favorite person. He was volatile and selfish. And my poor mother put up with more of his shit than any woman should have to.
And then there were the mistresses, one of whom is making her way through the receiving line toward my brothers and me, rivers of thick, black mascara running down her fake tan face.
All faults aside, he was still my fucking Papa.
“Told you they’d show up,” Kir says, not bothering to lower his voice.
The receiving line, a hideous formality the funeral director recommended, twists out of the room, the end nowhere in sight, leaving my brothers and me to robotically shake hands with the throngs of people who’ve come to pay their respects.
I have no doubt most of them owed my father money and are stopping by only to ensure he really is dead.
I’m half-tempted to open his coffin so these fuckers can see his charred remains.
Yup, he’s dead, folks. But that doesn’t mean your debts are released.
“Oh, Vadik. I’m so very sorry.”
I’m eye-to-eye with the manager of Papa’s club, Dominika Federova, a ‘friend’ from the old country who came to the US around the same time my parents did.
A coincidence?
Hell no.
When he was alive, Papa never admitted Dominika was anything to him aside from his formidable club manager—and I will give the woman that much—she’s always run things with an iron fist. But it would take a fucking idiot to not see there was more there.
But, as much as she would have liked to, for all the years she was his mistress, Dominika was never able to displace my mother, a Mrs. Grigory Alekseev. She might have fucked my father six ways from Sunday, but it was never enough to drive a wedge between him and his real wife—Mama. That’s because, in our world, marriages are business transactions. And Mama’s family connections are what helped my parents come to the US and finance Papa’s rise to the top of our Bratva faction. In fact, if he had lived long enough, he would have become the Pakhan. Not that he wanted to be that high up in the organization. He was quite happy managing the day-to-day in his own local faction.
That was Papa. Ambitious, but not enough to make enemies.
Or so we thought.
While Dominika never had a chance at becoming Papa’s wife, she was given the opportunity to have a career. To make money. Which was probably better for her, in the long run.
After all, if she’d been in bed with Papa the night of the fire, she’d be lying in the coffin right next to his.
“Nice of you to come, Dominika.”
She wipes her tears, smearing more mascara across her cheeks. Why do Russian women of her generation wear so goddamn much makeup?
“Vadik,” she says, lowering her voice and moving closer to my ear, “what… what will become of the club?”
Fuck all. She’s no different than anyone else here. Looking out for herself, and damn the Alekseev brothers who are burying their parents.
I steady my voice to temper the explosion simmering behind my insincere smile. “Dominika, all that will be settled soon. Today is not the day.”
Her head snaps back at what she no doubt perceives as a slight. She’s always been temperamental. Hell, if I were the one in charge, I’d have fired her ass years ago just to get her out of my face. But Papa was loyal. He knew a good worker when he saw one. And a good lay.
But it’s clear that today, more than anything, Dominika has her livelihood on her mind. Not her dead lover.
I suppose I’d want to know my future too. Guess I don’t blame her for that. But at the fucking funeral? She can’t wait a few days?
She can piss right off.
To let her know she’s dismissed, I turn to the next person in line, a little weasel of a man who always tried to be part of Papa’s social circle, but for a variety of reasons, remained on the sidelines. This man, I know, owes Papa money. Not as much as some others, but if he doesn’t watch himself, he’ll fall into a pit of debt from which he’ll never recover. He’s heading for trouble, and is here to ingratiate himself to my brothers and me.
However, that’s not my problem. He’s a grown man and needs to handle his own shit.
“I’m so very sorry about your father, Vadik. He was a good man,” he says.
I shake his clammy hand. “Thank you, Mr. Gates. I appreciate that.”
“I… I…,” he stumbles.
Is he actually going to try to talk business too? I’m so over these insincere assholes.
“Not the time, Mr. Gates,” I interrupt, and look at the receiving line, the end of which was still nowhere in sight.
God help me.
But one thing does catch my eye. Standing near the doorway, alone, with her back to the wall, is a young woman in a slim black dress and scuffed shoes. Her hair is in a long brown braid pulled over her right shoulder, and she’s looking down as if she actually appreciates the solemnity of the occasion. She might be the only person here who does.
As if she can sense my gaze, she looks up at me, her plump red lips a contrast to her milky white complexion. For a moment it’s as if there is no one else in the room. Everything gets quiet—the low murmurs, the sniffles, the glad-handing.
She tries to look away out of respect for my grief, unlike the other jokers and looky-loos who are glad my old man is dead, but she doesn’t. Her head tilts the tiniest bit, and for a moment, I want to take her hand and lead her out of the funeral home, away from the hypocrisy and self-interest surrounding me, and pretend it’s just another day where my rage is under control and I’m not dreaming of taking a machine gun and emptying this room of all the assholes in it.
As if our connection is too intense, she gasps, bringing her hand to her mouth. She turns and runs out of the room, and the noise surrounding me returns, that of a funeral for two murdered people.
My parents.
