AllFreeNovel
Share Us
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t answer. I don’t need an answer, not when I already have one. I slam the door shut as I storm out of the room.
Chapter 39
Andrei
The evening sky is clear as Dmitri and I drive along the Thruway to the initiation. It is an honor for Viktor Vasiliev to have it held at the private home of Radomil Sorokin, a trusted friend of my late father. The house is a replica of a historic castle made of river stone and stucco, overlooking a cliff that goes straight down to the Atlantic.
I’ve tried to buy it from Radomil several times, purely for its lonely perch.
“We won’t have to worry about Igor tonight.” Dmitri drives up to the guardhouse. He hands them our guns—house rules—and I see a growing pile behind the security guard on the floor.
“Do we know why he pulled that stunt?” I ask.
“He swears he wasn’t involved,” replies Dmitri, heading up the winding drive.
“He always says that, but I recognized a few of his men.”
Dmitri shakes his head. “He continues to deny everything.”
I sneer. “He would have taken credit if I had ended up dead.”
The initiation takes place in the basement, out of sight. The enormous room isn’t a dark hole in the dirt covered in cobwebs. It’s a finished basement, painted in muted colors of gray and blue, dark wood trim and furniture, and wall-to-wall carpet. It is used only for private meetings and nothing else.
Viktor pulls off his thin black T-shirt, his collar-length hair scraped back into a slick ponytail. He isn’t allowed to speak unless he is asked a question. Tonight, Viktor is the lowest of the Bratva, but he is higher than a civilian. First Guard Anatoli Popov places the scissors against Viktor’s scalp, hacking off his long hair. He isn’t allowed to grow it long until after his first year. The ponytail slices off neatly in Anatoli’s hand. Smiling, he flings the ponytail into Viktor’s lap.
“A souvenir from your past.” Anatoli places his hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “Idi suda,synochka. A drink, and then time to mark you.”
Once upon a time, Anatoli was a brutal man with a history that reached back to the old country. Now he’s retired, and the tattooed spider on his shoulder no longer faces upward. But ask him to remove his shirt, and his criminal résumé is enough to garner him respect from even the most bloodthirsty pakhans.
To receive acceptance from such astarukhi—elder—is an honor for a boy like Viktor.
No, a boy no longer,I remind myself.A man now.
Viktor looks at the sleek hair in his hands and flings it onto a table. He stands up stiffly from his chair. The gunshot wounds to his leg are healing well. Even in his injured state, he still managed to take down three Karamazov men. He has proven himself both loyal and deadly.
This is less of a trial and more of a celebration.
Slava, the tattooist with tousled brown hair and a serious expression, sets his leather bundle, adorned with intricate designs and symbols, on the table beside Viktor. He pulls the thin leather string and rolls it out flat, laying out his tools. His eyes focus on the sterile needles in paper before looking at Viktor, clearly proud of his possessions.
We watch solemnly as Grigori Schevchenko recites the ceremony. At the first few pricks, Viktor doesn’t flinch.
Dmitri leans against the bar without a drink in his hand. We’ll drink afterward to toast Viktor.
“We weren’t the only ones to check Cynthia Reyes’s apartment,” Dmitri whispers. “It’s been combed through.”
“By the police and who else? Igor?” I ask.
“Definitely.”
Grigori gives us a sharp look, silencing us before he continues his liturgy for the Bratva’s newest soldier. The Barinov crest slowly appears on Viktor’s shoulder blade. He will get another mark for his first kill on his other shoulder.
I inspect Slava’s artistry, nodding with satisfaction before he covers it with a wide cotton dressing. “How is your shoulder, Viktor?”
His voice croaks from not speaking. “It’s good, Andrei Vasilyevich.”
“Then I will assign your first kill.” I nod. “The man that stripped you in his attempt to humiliate us. Do you know where to find him?”
Viktor nods; his jaw tightens as his face reddens.
