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I met Andrei, and we roamed the streets on our own after dark, picking fights with anyone who needed a reminder of who ran the city. It wasn’t us back then, but we liked to think we were setting an example, even at a young age.
People noticed. Tolkotsky noticed, the pakhan himself, appearing at our doorstep before we’d even turned sixteen. Every child the Baranova Bratva claims as their own is given a choice once they come of age: pledge themselves to a life of service within the family or accept a lump sum to try their luck elsewhere.
I haven’t known a single soul to turn down their pakhan’s offer of a forever family.
When Tolkotsky formally gave us a choice, my answer was immediate. So was Andrei’s. Both of us were men committed for life, no matter what was asked of us.No matter the years it shaved off our lives or the dangers it pitted us against.
For the first time in our lives, we were given a purpose. We were given a home.
To this day, I never say no to a job. It’s how I transitioned from a simple errand boy to bodyguard within a few years. It’s how Andrei moved up from gun running to tactical negotiations, and eventually, up to the top. He brought me with him the entire way up the ladder, making room for me where others turned their noses up at two orphan boys playing at becoming something bigger.
Tolkotsky recognized something in each of us, and for that vote of confidence, I owe him my life.
By extension, now that Tolkotsky is gone, I owe Valentina my life.
I scowl at Valentina’s phone in my hand. If Andrei wasn’t so obsessed with her, I wouldn’t be here right now, playing errand boy for the first time in years. She’d be gone, a distant memory of a woman fleeing the scene in a wedding gown, nothing more than a blip on our radars.
Women come and go. Andrei could have easily replaced her.
But the man’s been obsessed for all these years, and his obsession knows no bounds.
I check Valentina’s phone again, the address for work in her maps app clear as day. I’m standing right here, inside Valentina’s workplace. An office of sorts, as far as I can tell from its architecture.
But the building is empty. Whatever used to be here has been packed up, and quickly, if the scuff marks on the faux wood floor are anything to go by. Not a single rolling chair remains. No partitions. Cubicles. Brochures. Not a single scrap of paper that might hint at the business name or type.
Closing my eyes, I fight an oncoming headache. I left as soon as Andrei gave the order, going on a measly five hours of sleep over the past thirty-six hours.
I’m tired, but I never turn down a job, especially not one involving Valentina.
I walk the building, checking every nook and cranny for any scrap of evidence. The building’s large enough to hold at least one hundred employees, probably double that. Triple, if you count the warehouse adjacent to the office.
Making my way around the perimeter of both buildings, I scan for anything I might be able to bring back. Security cameras. Trash. Buried treasure.
I end up with nothing, other than the biggest fucking headache in existence.
Pulling up a second address on Valentina’s phone, the one labeled home, I hop on my bike and drive the short eight miles to my destination. The house is dark. No cars in the driveway. No porch light on. A single-story ranch home can’t hold too many secrets, but I keep my wits about me as I pad up the front steps and try the front door.
Locked, but that’s no surprise.
I check the windows, then the creaking screen door out back, and pick the best point of entry. Wrapping my fist in my jacket, I punch through a pane of glass on the back door and flip the latch to let myself in.
Any smart homeowner would have an alarm system or a guard dog, but Valentina has none. A nerve in my neck twitches at how stupid that is. Does she want to get killed by some rando?
I drag a hand down my face and listen for any signs of life, but a quick sweep of the kitchen and living room proves that Valentina doesn’t have roommates, or if she does, they’re immaculate and like funny little crocheted doilies on end tables.
This can’t be Valentina’s house.
I check the address again, and just like with her workplace, I feel like something’s off. This is the right place. It doesn’t feel like a twenty-something’s home, though.
I pick through the home, room by room, and though it has all of the typical objects and furniture one might expect, it lacks personality. A single, half-gone bottle of vodka is the only indication that someone of taste actually lives here.
I grab the bottle and unstop it, take a quick sniff, and swallow a few mouthfuls. The burn sends welcome heat through my chest and into my gut, and I end up carrying the bottle with me from room to room.
The master bedroom is just as pristine and perfect as the rest of the house, with little in the way of personal effects. No picture frames. No jewelry. It’s almost like a staged home. Even the linens are all folded and put away. I can’t find a single lost sock or dust bunny anywhere, and a sinking feeling hits me the longer I stay in the house.
The office was gutted by a professional, and the house was staged much the same way—professionally.
It’s something we might do to throw casuals off our scent. Make things look boring. Scrub every scrap of DNA off every surface imaginable.
