Page 6 of Lord of the Underworld

I've told Anka the little I know, that I was kidnapped when I was ten but I have no memory of it. Just of waking up in the hospital, my mother holding my hand. Father stormed into my room and demanded they discharge me immediately. That's when the nightmares started.

"I've been reading about repressed memories," I say, reaching for the bottle of ibuprofen that's still on the table. "So far, nothing's shaken loose."

Irina announces that we're about to land and Anka gives me a side eye that warns we will be discussing this later.

***

Zlo - Russian for Mischief.

Devochka - Russian for my girl.

Chapter Three

In which Vadim is ambushed, and Oksana does not remember.

Vadim…

Moscow…

I stand in front of the enormous wall of windows in my parents' mansion, watching the glittering lights of Moscow blaze before me.

St. Petersburg is old world Russia, elegant and a little weary. Moscow is rapacious, eager to gobble up everything in its path. It suits my savage energy. But my mother is from St. Petersburg and the Morozov Bratva territory. I’m the one she’s always asked to accompany her when she's missing home. That's where I learned to love horses, the pleasures of riding something as powerful and unstrung as I am. Galloping, hooves eating up the distance between where I am and something I can never quite reach.

There's something missing in me, a crucial part that got carved out when I was kidnapped. The scars from the torture that shaped my skin and bone made me something different. So, whatever is out there, tantalizing me, will likely never be found.

I take another sip of my vodka, Balkan 176, so high octane that I can feel the heat from the alcohol fumes against my skin as it burns a path down my throat. Most of me feels cold and the heat of the vodka is pleasurable. It keeps me focused.

"There you are, moy syn." Mother crosses the room briskly, giving me the traditional three kisses. She is the only one who is allowed that right. Physical contact is something our colleagues and allies have learned to never attempt with me. Though most tend to recoil from me instead. "Thank you for coming home on such short notice," she says. "I know how focused you get on business. I'm sure it was difficult to pull yourself away."

Her eyes are sparkling, a rich brown color. I have her black hair, and my father and my grandfather's ice blue eyes. She told me once that my gaze could chill the soul. I don't know if she meant it as a compliment, but I took it as such.

"Hello, Mother. Would you like to give me some forewarning before Father joins us?"

She frowns. "You know better than to think that your father is going to try to ambush you. You're not the sort to be easily ambushed, anyway. But we must have a discussion before dinner."

My finger taps against the glass I'm holding. "Tell me what unfortunate Bratva Princess is in consideration to be offered up as a sacrificial lamb."

"Sacrificial lamb?" she says haughtily. "I'll have you know that my boy is a catch." I don't laugh when she does, but Mother has learned to expect that and doesn't seem to mind. Sliding her arm through mine, we walk along the bank of windows. "She's been raised here, of course. But also, partially in Chicago. Her mother persuaded her father to allow it, so she could go to school there. And, I suspect, to keep her away from him, because he is an utter bastard."

"All of the Moscow Six Pakhans are bastards, aside from Father, of course," I say.

"Of course," she winks. "She's twenty-four, very bright. She works with a women and children's charity there. And she loves horses." She says the last word with a bit of a teasing lilt, as if both of us liking horses means this match is foreordained.

"Every proper young girl in the Six Families likes horses," I say, shrugging.

"Your father and hers think that her Chicago connections would be good for you, in order to establish a position of legitimacy. Since she does a great deal of work in the charity scene there, it would be an excellent way to make connections. It never hurts to be established as a patron."

I release the faintest sigh, and she laughs again.

"Not that I'm expecting you to go to fundraisers and shake hands and kiss babies. Bozhe moy, I can just picture you in that position and it wouldn't be pretty. But this is a good time to add a level of credibility to your position. It makes the police and all the little criminal nibblers reluctant to take a bite." She eyes me with some amusement as she smooths my black suit jacket. "Though I do not think that is a real concern, of course."

Father comes out, his dress shoes clicking on the marble floor. "Moy syn." He grips my shoulder briefly before stepping back slightly. He knows I don't like people standing too close. My mother, I endure, but even that becomes unbearable after a while. "I see your mother has already started the conversation," he says, narrowing his eyes at her.

She, of course, narrows hers right back. "I was giving him the basics. Expecting Vadim to walk into a situation unprepared is ridiculous."

"The first issue is her father is an asshole," he says bluntly.

"Oh, we already agreed on that," Mother says.