Day eleven…

I gulp painkillers brought to me by a nurse and huddle in my armchair. I’m wearing clothes that cover the vicious stripes on my back, and I’ve caked makeup on my face and throat to hide the bruises. I wear long sleeves to conceal the marks of the cuffs on my wrists.

If I move too suddenly, it hurts. I can’t even wear a bra right now, because the rub against the wounds on my back is pure agony.

I told Anastasia that I pulled a muscle while I was working out and I’ll be lying low for the next few days. She looked at me as if she knew I was lying, but she didn’t argue. She just said, “I’ll tell Lukas you have a cold.” He’s been coming around every day now, timidly, with a worried look, afraid to get too close in case I vanish again. He does love to play with Yuri though.

Of course, Sergei hasn’t come near me.

I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to feel.

I want to hate Sergei, and yet still, no matter how hard I try, I can’t. The beating with the bullwhip was vicious and cruel. He choked me until I thought I’d die.

But there’s a little treacherous voice inside me, whispering, arguing for him like a lawyer. It tells me that it’s my fault. I trespassed into a place I have no right to go. This game he’s been playing with my family – to him it’s not a game. It’s his whole life. His religion, his higher calling. I am the infidel who threatens to tear down the church of his vengeance.

He’s a sick man. He’s a terrible man. But underneath it all I see glimpses of the moral code that drives him. The way he cares for Lukas, the way he’s protecting my aunt and cousins and training them daily to be stronger and safer.

And every time he’s brutal to me, afterwards, he opens himself up to me even more. It’s almost worth it. No, it’s definitely worth it. I’d let him beat me a thousand times, cut my flesh, break my bones…if it would tear away his armor piece by piece, until he’d let me all the way in.

I know what that says about me. It says I’m sick and sad and full of self-loathing. I must be, to want a man like him. But my craving for Sergei is a bonfire that burns away reason. The end of the thirty days is like a date with the executioner.

There’s a rap on the door, and I wince. It’s got to be one of my family members, because Sergei and his men never knock. I pretend I don’t hear it; I want at least a few more days to heal before I see them.

The knocking grows louder.

“Willow, it’s me! Are you all right? I need to talk to you!” Anastasia’s voice is insistent.

Damn it. What’s happening now? Any news is likely to be bad news.

“I’m here!” I call out. She walks in and comes to sit in the chair next to me. She’s wearing a track suit, but it drapes elegantly across her curves. She somehow makes it look like haute couture.

“Jasha just informed me that Edik is dead.” Her face twists in a grim smile at that.

I manage a weak grin in response. “Well, thank you for telling me. That makes my day.” I shift in my chair and try to hide my grimace of pain.

The Toporov men have been dropping one by one. A couple of months ago my uncle Latvi disappeared, but when police arrived at his house they found so much blood that there was no way he could still be alive. I’d read the horrible details on the news when we were on the run. And I know Sergei was behind it.

“That’s…that changes things. So now we only have to worry about Vilyat.”

“Vilyat’s flying to New York to hold a memorial service day after tomorrow. My guess is, he’ll come here next.”

Shock ripples through me. I swivel my head to stare at her, my muscles tensing. She looks serene and unworried.

“With Sergei’s men on the hunt for him? Why would he risk that?”

She doesn’t look anywhere near as worried as she should. “He’ll probably surround himself with media because he thinks that will keep him safe. Nobody is going to try anything when the cameras are rolling.”

Icy fingers of fear crawl up my spine. Whatever Sergei is planning to do to him, I wish he’d hurry the hell up. God, how much he must hate Vilyat, to have dragged this revenge scenario out for so long. “The cameras won’t roll 24/7,” I say hopefully. “Surely Vilyat must understand that? And he’ll crawl back into his hole once the funeral is over?”

Anastasia gazes out of my window, tucking a golden strand of hair behind her ear. “I expect he thinks he’ll be able to accomplish what he needs to, which is to grab the kids and disappear, before Sergei has time to take him out.” Her voice is calm and measured as she describes my worst nightmare. And her worst nightmare.

Why isn’t she freaking out? She should be freaking out.

“Aren’t you worried?”

“No, not at all.”

I look at her suspiciously. “Why not? Are you relying on Sergei to protect you?”

She shrugs, brushing the question aside. “Has Helenka talked to you lately?”

“No. I mean, not about anything important. She came to ask me if I felt any better this morning. She brought me some pictures that Lukas drew. She told me that Yuri’s working on a death-ray. Why do you ask?”

A shadow crosses Anastasia’s beautiful face. “She’s just getting quieter. I feel like she’s keeping secrets from me, and she never did before. We were a team, us against Vilyat, and now she’s pulling away from me.” She worries her lower lip with her teeth. “Maybe she’s just going through that moody adolescent thing.”

“Most girls do, don’t they?” I try to reassure her. “In America, anyway? I mean, I didn’t, but that’s because I grew up with a stone-cold psychopath for a father, and my rebellions were all quiet ones.”

My aunt stiffens, and her gaze loses focus. She’s staring at something that only she can see. “I wouldn’t know a thing about what a normal adolescence looks like.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “All right, I’m going to rejoin the kids in our daily game of Kick Jasha in the Nuts. I’ll see you later.”

* * *

Day eleven…

Edik took twenty-four hours to die.

He was burned over ninety percent of his body, and lingered in agony at the hospital before he gasped and wheezed his last breath this morning.

Somewhere, the souls of his victims are surely smiling. Resting a little easier.

Jasha, Maks, Slavik and I gather in my office to drink a toast, as we do every time we cross a name off the list.

Something beeps on Maks’ tablet, and he reads a message and then shakes his head.

“That piece of crap!” He spits out the words, his eyes snapping with fury. “Vilyat is coming to the funeral. He’s only staying in the U.S. for the day, though, then he’s flying right back to Russia, leaving from New York.”

Slavik lets out a stream of curses, and kicks a chair so hard he snaps the arm.

I narrow my eyes. “I call bullshit. He hated Edik. He wouldn’t risk coming to the U.S. just to play the doting brother, or to spit on his brother’s grave for that matter. Step up security until he’s gone, and it goes without saying that we need to know where he is and what he’s doing at all times.”

Maks nods vigorously. “Yes sir. I’m all over that stinking pile of shit.”

I shake my head. Vilyat’s a fucking moron, and soon he’ll be a dead moron. And in a few more weeks, our building in the Russian countryside will be open for business. And the last domino will fall.

My men file out of the room.

I throw myself into my work, so I can stay away from Willow. If I see her in the garden, I stay inside. I eat dinner with my men instead of with her.

When I’m not near her, the pain is with me always, and that’s what I deserve. The sharp, steady ache of longing torments me all day and all night, and I revel in it, because I’m an animal who hurt the only woman I’ve ever cared about.

And worse, she doesn’t even hate me for it. I wish she’d hate me. Her love, her loyalty…they’re like salt rubbed into my self-inflicted wounds.

* * *

Day thirteen…

Two days later, my men and I gather in my media room to watch the news coverage of Edik’s funeral in upstate New York, arranged by his wife. Edik was a wealthy, well-known businessman, and the news of the shocking and tragic accident that took his life is getting a lot of coverage.

Vilyat is surrounded by security, but we catch a few good glimpses of him. I’m happy to see that he looks like shit. He was a vain, handsome man once upon a time, but my terror campaign has chewed away at him. Now he has dark circles under his eyes and his skin is sagging. His hair is thinning. His suit hangs off his diminished body.

On the surface, Edik’s funeral is a dark, somber affair. To those who know what’s going on behind the scenes, it’s a hilarious farce. Every single person there is not just glad, they’re overjoyed that Edik is dead. His wife. His kids. His “friends” – all rival mobsters or former co-workers who will move in and take over his territory.

I glance around the room at my men, who are glued to the TV screen. I suddenly realize, for the first time ever, that I’m lucky. If I died, there are people who would miss me and mourn me, fiercely. There are people who would avenge me if I was murdered. I’ve never stopped to think about that before.

As for Edik? His funeral is a fucking celebration. Everyone’s circling, planning on how they’ll carve up the pieces of his fallen empire. His wife, with her face stretched into a plastic sheet by too much cosmetic surgery, is chewing her rubbery, inflated lips and glaring at his former business partners, hoping that she’ll have something left after the piranhas swim through her finances.

His thuggy kids look sullen and bored. They’ve worn sweatshirts and jeans to their father’s funeral. One of them is violently bobbing his head in time to music on his headphones, the other one is texting.

“Sir,” Maks says, an urgent note in his voice, looking at his phone.

“Yes?”

“I just got a message that Cataha has been spotted near Pevlovagrad. Today.”

A small of explosion of rage flares inside my chest, but I contain it. “You’re sure?” I bite the words out.

“Positive. So Cataha can’t be Vilyat.”

I kick the chair in front of me.

“Fuck. Well, I guess he’s not our problem, then, unless he tries to interfere with my business.”

Jasha makes a sour face. “Odds are that he will. Since he sees us as competition.”

I snort at that. Men like Cataha don’t deserve to draw breath. “I hope he makes a move against us.”

But Cataha is no longer number one on my list. Vilyat is back in the U.S., and if I can, I’m going to take him out. We’ve drawn out his torture for well over a year now. We’ll strike at the first opportunity.