Page 3 of The Pakhan’s Heir

“Good idea,” I hear behind him. “I will call you.”

He steps out of the office and spots me. For just a moment, he looks me over, his deep amber eyes scanning me quickly.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says to my father and leaves.

My father doesn’t move or even acknowledge him. We both stand staring at one another as Fedor’s footsteps echo in the hallway… then the front door opens and closes.

Papa’s hand shoots out like a viper, grabbing me by the hair and yanking me to him. “How many times have I told you not to eavesdrop?” he growls in my ear. “You’re not even home a day and here I find you sneaking around like a rat!”

“Please—Ow!”

He slaps me across the face, once, then again. Tears flow from my eyes as he drags me by the hair back down the hall and to the stairs.

“When I want you to know something,” he says as I stumble up the steps, doing my best to keep up with him, “I will tell you. Do you understand me, Nona?”

“Yes,” I say, sobs stuck in my throat as he continues to drag me along down the hallway. We get to my room and he pushes me, tossing me into my room and onto the floor.

“You’ll stay in here until I’m ready to see you.” It’s all he says as the door slams in my face. Panic sets in and I rush to the door to try and open it.

“I’m sorry! Papa! Please!” The door won’t budge. He’s locked me in from the outside.

And now the memories that I keep forgetting come back to me. Times when he decided I had broken a rule. The slaps in my face, the punches, the kicks…

And sometimes, being locked in my room. The worst of them all. He’s locked me in here for days before with nothing but the bathroom water to drink.

“Please!” I yell through the door. “Don’t do this! Papa, please!”

I cry out until the sobs take me over and I slide down the door, weeping into my hands. My father’s rage is always the other part of the sword that I live by, always ready to strike me down at the first chance.

I just hope he lets me out.

2

ALEX

Ihave never liked going to the airport. I like it less now that we’re at war.

Last I heard, the Irkutsks were still pretty hot about our burning down their weapons stash on Staten Island. Word around town is that they’re looking for any opportunity for revenge.

That means that any crowded space I find myself in, I have to keep my head on a swivel, and airports are the worst. Too many people walking back and forth, trying to find their gate or trying to find family. No one’s paying attention. It’s the perfect place to off someone if need be.

The perfect place to ambush two of Fedor Molotov’s children. Wish I could have brought Rikki with me. If Dad didn’t need him today…

I can handle myself. Rikki being with me usually works better from a distance. His size is the best intimidation I’ve ever seen. A lot of people usually back off before there’s a need to stop anything.

Not that I’m any less frightening. At a lean, muscular six-four, I have the tendency to command any room I walk into. I’m not the wall of muscle Rikki is, though, so that means that there are those who will still try me if given the chance.

I’m standing at my sister’s gate, glancing at the time on the display above me. Her flight landed fifteen minutes ago. Why does it always take so fucking long for passengers to get off their planes?

I do a quick glance for the millionth time. Nobody’s around me except civilians. That’s good news. Maybe once Yeva arrives, we can just walk straight out. I’d rather not hang out here any longer than I have to.

Just as I think that, I spot two figures walking toward the gate. They’re still far enough away that I know they probably don’t see me yet, but I’ve already noticed them. It’s just two men, wearing dress shirts and slacks. From what I can see, one of them has long hair tied back into a ponytail and the other is bald.

To anybody else, I suppose they could appear like any other couple of people in this airport. They’re a little taller and a little bulkier than the average guy, but still. Just two people walking through the airport, probably to pick someone up.

To me, however, they are. There’s something about the walk or maybe the way we carry ourselves that always gives it away, even at a distance. It might not even be anything external. I think it’s entirely plausible that over the hundreds of years of Russians in criminal organizations in America, we’ve evolved to be drawn to one another cosmically like magnets.

I look away just long enough to look for Yeva. Hurry up already. Once they get close enough to see me, it’s going to be a problem.