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Walking through my rose garden is a habit of mine. There’s nothing here but the sky above and green leaves from every angle. Free of distractions, it’s my favorite place to go when I need to think. I’ve come here a lot lately.
Why did Ulyana send me away? I was pissed at the audacity of her command. But one look at the severity in her eyes, and I knew there was a reason for her to throw me out. Thinking back, I recall the way that Galina was acting. The dimple at the base of her throat was flexing madly as she stared at the dresses. She can act strong all she wants, but I know what fear looks like. I was raised around it.
“—incredible tits!” a male voice cackles.
“I know, man, I saw them,” another replies.
The voices come from just ahead of me, where the garden circles a small water fountain. I recognize two of my soldiers. Slowing down, I peer around the corner, confirming it’s Kostya and Niro. They’re leaning on the weather-worn stones that make up the vase shape of the fountain. There’s no uniform for my soldiers; Kostya is dressed in faded jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt. His shaved head exposes a small scar by his right temple, where a bullet fragment skirted his flesh.
Niro has opted for black slacks with an ankle-length tan jacket. The outfit hangs off him; he’s one of my lankier men. The only thing they share in common is their weapons. Both have a pistol strapped to their hip.
Kostya sneers, giving Niro a shove. “Nah, you didn’t feel them though. When she was pushed into me, I got a good feel.” He pantomimes grabbing the air.
“Yeah, and then she made you cry like a bitch with her little kick.” Niro laughs.
Tension creeps along my spine, sending veins of suspicion through the nape of my neck. Are they talking about …
“She may be a bitch, but she’s a sexy bitch,” Kostya says. His hands fall to his sides as he shrugs. “She didn’t hurt me. Besides, with her being stuck here, I’ll get my chance at paying her back for that little stunt.”
“Will you now?” I ask.
Both men stand straight, jerking around to openly gawk at me. Their fear is palpable. Keeping my hands in my pockets, I walk calmly toward them. They straighten even further, like their backbones have become crowbars. “My pakhan!” Niro sputters. “We didn’t know you were there!”
“Did I hear the two of you right? Were the two of you speaking lecherously about my fiancée in front of me?” I smirk, cocking my head.
Kostya is gleaming with sweat, his Adam’s apple rocking up and down with every swallow. “Your—fiancée? But I thought … You know a woman like her isn’t …”
“Isn’t what? Good enough?” I’m almost upon them. “Would you like to finish what you were telling Niro, Kostya?” I loom over my men. “Tell me how you intend to pay her back. Use detail.”
“Pakhan, please,” Kostya says. He’s no longer rigid, his knees going soft as butter. “I meant no offense. It was just talk.”
“Did you forget what I told you last night about not harming her?”
Niro and Kostya share a wary look. “You swore you’d break every bone in our hands, Arsen Kirilovich,” Kostya says.
“I didn’t touch her. I didn’t!” Niro insists. “Kostya was the one who felt her up!”
“Svoloch,” the other man growls. “It was an accident!” He appeals to me with wide eyes and a nervous smile. “Arsen Kirilovich, I didn’t hurt her. I only did as you ordered.”
I notice they always resort to using my patronymic when they think they can get me to forgive them. Even though I’ve long disregarded that archaic custom in my life.
“That’s true,” I admit. “But I also remember ordering you to respect her.” Rubbing my jaw, I ponder my men for a minute that stretches on, agonizing them. “I won’t break every bone in your hand, because you only touched her on my orders. I’m a man of my word.” Kostya slouches as his terror melts away.
In that split second, I grab his throat, slamming him into the dirt with all of the force I can. He cries out, but it’s a weak sound—the air has been knocked out of him.
Standing over him, I watch how he stretches his arms in front, trying to get his bearings. He’s attempting to crawl away. Pathetic. Lifting my foot, I aim carefully. Kostya screeches when my heel crushes down on his left hand, shattering at least three of his fingers.
“There,” I say, my voice dwarfed by his cries of pain. “I only broke half the bones in your hand instead. Let that be a warning.”
Kostya rolls over, writhing as Niro watches in despair. I lock eyes with him; he snaps to attention. “Arsen Kirilovich, what should I do?”
“Take him to a hospital.”
Niro bends down, guiding Kostya, heaving and cradling his broken fingers, to his feet.
“Kostya,” I call out to him.
He looks at me anxiously.
