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Egor Baranov nodded. “How do you expect people to look at you when you say crazy things?” he pointed out. She was confused. He went on, “Miss Claire said you were talking about New York City again today.”
Annika lit up. “I was just telling the girls about how—”
He held up a hand to silence her. He cracked a cruel smile. “I thought it would be easier to lie to you, and it was. But I can see now that I’ve confused your delicate mind.”
“What?” she asked, suddenly going cold all over. “Lying to me about what?”
He sighed, fixing her with a cruel stare. “You were never going to New York, Annika.”
“What are you talking about? I-I’m going in the fall,” she replied.
“Good lord. I’ve let your pipe dream grow out of control,” said Egor. “You’re starting to believe it, too.”
Annika felt dizzy. Suddenly, it was as if gravity was pulling on her harder than ever before. Like all those years of buoyant dancing had caught up to her in one instant.
“No,” she murmured, shaking her head in denial. “You’re lying.”
“Come now, my daughter. Surely you understand that your duty isn’t in New York, surrounded by strangers. Your place is here, with your community. With your family, and all the responsibility that entails,” he told her.
“You’re messing with my head,” Annika whispered, tears burning in her eyes. “The gap year. The plans. Everything… It was real.”
“To you, perhaps.” Egor chuckled. “But how could I have told you the truth? You weren’t ready to hear it yet. I had to make certain you wouldn’t fly away, little bird. Not until the date was set, at least.”
A wave of nausea washed over her. “A date for what?” she breathed, her mind already teeming with horrific answers to the question.
Egor stood up, towering over her. He placed a heavy hand on her cheek, but it was more of a vise grip than a caress. Annika trembled, looking up at him. No matter how many birthdays passed, she always felt reduced to a helpless child before him. He smirked down at her.
“For your wedding, of course,” Egor answered.
CHAPTER3
MIKHAIL
Palm trees swayedin the rolling breeze along the upscale residential streets of Summerlin North. The neighborhood, located on the western side of Las Vegas, boasted lot after lot of elaborate properties. Along the periphery of the area were upper middle-class houses made of adobe, coated in stucco for the traditional Southwestern desert look. As one traveled into the center of the neighborhood, the properties only grew in prestige and value. The standard driveways expanded and elongated. Picket fences gave way to meticulously pruned square hedges and high composite walls. Front lawns were a masterpiece for the eye, if you were fortunate enough to have a way through the gated entrances. Curb appeal was off the charts. Elegant luxury vehicles sat shining in the driveways or preciously guarded inside of multi-car garages. The comfortable family homes inflated to mansions with enough space for several families. Ceilings arched higher; the landscaping grew more exotic. But the more magnificent the home was, the more fiercely hidden it was from the road—and the world in general.
The shining gem of Summerlin North was the Sokolov Estate. It was by far the biggest and most extravagant house on the quiet block in the gated community. It was at the end of the street, a dead end that was difficult to reach or even find specifically on a map. The Sokolov legacy demanded secrecy at all levels, so it only made sense for the most influential, powerful family in Las Vegas to take up residence in a veritable fortress. The home was massive, with five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a formal dining room, full chef’s kitchen, multiple sitting rooms, and a home library with books filling countless shelves.
It was designed like a romantic Tuscan villa, blended with a more modern Vegas architectural twist. The desert sun was hanging high in the sky just after noon on that radiant Tuesday and glittered along the edges of the clay barrel roof. The light brown stone walls loomed high and mighty over the cul de sac, dwarfing even the other large properties around it. Balconies jutted out from the back of the house and overlooked the elegant grounds. A large rectangular pool with an adjoining hot tub shimmered clear blue, surrounded by imported tile. The grounds provided plenty of room for strolling, sitting in the sunshine, relaxing on a bench swing, or lounging by the pool. There was an outdoor entertainment setup with a kitchen, bar, and covered patio rimmed with all manner of plants. A lovely pergola draped in flowering vines provided shade for a backyard dining space and a barbecue pit. The mountains loomed in the distance, looking like a mirage on a particularly sweltering day.
One would never guess that the house was located in the middle of a desert judging by the lush green lawn. The gardeners who worked on the property were the most highly skilled in the area, the best that money could afford. They could coax delicate flowers out of the least hospitable soil. They turned thorny, prickly patches into swaths of soft green grass. Butterflies and bees bobbed around, happily pollinating the vibrant ecosystem of Summerlin. For them, at least, the privacy fences were not a problem.
But as welcoming and inviting as the Sokolov Estate appeared—for those lucky enough to even get close enough to see it from the outside—it was as guarded as it was beautiful. Even if one could get through the neighborhood gate, activated by a code and serviced by a rotating twenty-four-hour staff in official uniforms, the house was nigh untouchable. The front gate locked with the touch of a button. There was an alarm system, or rather multiple alarm systems, installed within the gates. Surveillance cameras monitored every inch of the property’s exterior, as well as much of the interior. Security staff were permanently positioned on the estate, the same highly trained Bratva officers working the job for decades. The staff outnumbered the residents by an overwhelming amount, seeing as the only resident still there was an old man named Vasili Sokolov.
There was a time when three lived there: Vasili and his wife, Irina, along with their son, Mikhail. Nowadays, only Vasili remained. He was the man of the house and the head of the Russian mafia in Las Vegas. His name and visage struck fear into the hearts of his enemies and inspired the loyalty of his followers. But his power reached much further, out to the far borders where Nevada met California. Whispers of his cruelty could be heard all across the country, and the world at large. Back home in Russia, Vasili Sokolov was a celebrated figure. He maintained strong ties with the motherland and kept as many traditions as possible from the old world.
He had risen to power at a young age, with responsibility and privilege thrust upon his shoulders early on in life. He’d always been a sharp learner and an even sharper fighter. Vasili Sokolov did not bend a knee for anyone. He did not show mercy, unless it was on a whim, and even then, it was more like a cat toying with its prey. Sometimes, he delayed death only to antagonize his victims. He knew the value of hope, and how devastating it was to give it and take it away. Pity did not factor into his decisions. Empathy was a laughable concept. Sentencing a man to death was as simple as a wave of his meaty, ringed fingers.
Vasili Sokolov had years and years of blood on his hands, but he always made sure to wash them clean. No matter how blood-spattered his work became, he was fastidious about cleaning up after himself. At first, when he had still been green enough to have to prove himself, he had done his own cleanup. He kept missions quick and to the point and never left a trace for the uninitiated cops to find. He had garnered a reputation for tidy work. He delivered every time, no matter the mission. He was unstoppable and unimpeded by things like laws and rules. Vasili lived within the law only so much as to keep it from turning its critical eye on him. But even if he was caught, he had the charisma and clout to worm his way out of anything. He was a master recruiter who could sniff out ‘talent’ very easily, and he had the power to convince them to join, always as his inferior. Vasili Sokolov was a naturally domineering man. He controlled the Las Vegas area with a heavy-handed fist. His image was burned into the minds of those who crossed his path, becoming a legendary symbol of the region.
Today, though, he didn’t strike the same cutthroat image, at least not to the untrained eye. Many years had passed and taken bits of Vasili’s power along with them. His once inky-black hair was as thick as ever but now so heavily streaked with white that it looked gray from a distance. Those dark eyes, so shrewd and calculating as they observed a man pleading for his life, were now slightly cloudy. Fuzzy bluish cataracts lent a wizened edge to his appearance. At his prime, Vasili had boasted an athletic frame, which was now withered down. His tremendous height was reduced by the stoop of his spine, which caused him to walk with an uneven gait. He had once been known for his unwavering strength. He’d never flinched, never trembled before any enemy, regardless of pain or fear. Now, if you looked closely, you could see the faint shaking of his limbs as he moved. His callused hands were papery white, his skin pale and loose. His fingers resembled the grip of a skeleton as they curled around the carved ivory handle of his walking cane.
It wasn’t just old age that plagued him, but a cancer that had been percolating in his system for years. He had known for a long time that death was going to visit him before he was well and truly finished with this world. But he simply accepted his eventual demise the same way he accepted all aches, pains, and horrors—with grit and resolve. If anything, the knowledge that he had less time than he had hoped for only fueled him to achieve greater things. And he took pride in the fact that he could see his death coming miles away. It was better, in his opinion, to stand and meet death for a final handshake than to be stabbed in the back out of nowhere. At least this way he had some control over the ending of his story. Death could take him once his body was spent, and no sooner.
Besides, his days of scrapping in the streets had been over long before the illness bent his body out of shape. He had burned so brightly in his youth that he could afford to recline a little in his old age. He had won his territory, secured his family’s position at the top of the brotherhood, and hoarded enough wealth for multiple lifetimes. His enemies were established, as well as his allies. Those who were loyal to him were doggedly so. He had always spoken with a surprisingly gentle voice, often in gross contrast to the cruelty of what he was saying. Now, his voice was hoarse and softer than before, yet people still listened whenever he spoke. For those who knew him, it was obvious that the illness didn’t dull his edge. Vasili’s body was ravaged, but his mind was as sharp as ever. For the men who looked up to him, Vasili was a mentor, a leader, a father figure cut in the cruelest shape.
For Mikhail, he was everything. Vasili was the most potent voice of reason in his life, the guiding light that illuminated the solitary path he was born to walk. Mikhail had known since the tender age of ten that he was the next man in line for the Sokolov dynasty. His entire adolescence had been molded by this fact. The responsibility of his future position had hung heavy on his young shoulders, but he’d quickly learned to love its weight. He had thrilled in every new mission, every new skill his father instilled in him. He and his father both understood that if Mikhail wanted to succeed, he would have to be even greater than the ones who came before him. If Vasili was clever, Mikhail had to be brilliant. If Vasili was cruel, Mikhail had to be ruthless. He had worked so hard to make a mark on this city, and Mikhail intended to continue that legacy.
And so, he was often summoned back to his childhood home in Summerlin North. He and his father spent hours discussing the future of the Bratva, going over the details of the transfer of power. Vasili’s health was fading, but his light burned bright. He could feel death bearing down on him now, and he was determined to pass along every iota of wisdom to his son before he had to go. Every time he remembered something else to tell him, Mikhail was quick to appear, always the dutiful son.
