for killing his Pakhan, but his attack never came.
I turned to see Feodor Rodzyanko holding him back, assessing the damage I had wrought with a cool expression.
“Excuse me, Feodor,” I said calmly.
Feodor had known me since I was an infant and guessed my next move immediately. “This is not the time to kill your brothers,” he said, holding back Viktor, who was struggling in his arms. “You are not ready to gain control yet.”
The adrenaline thundering through my veins demanded to be fed. My fingers itched to wrap themselves around my brothers’ throats, to punish them for all the disgusting but mundane sins they had committed against me.
“Perhaps,” I said, the words too tame to convey the animalistic urges low in my gut. “But neither are they.”
Feodor implored me with his eyes. He was trying to tell me something but the rushing of blood in my ears, the pounding of my heart, made it difficult for me to concentrate long enough to understand. “You are not an idiot. You will never be accepted as Pakhan here. You are too young, too idealistic. This is not your kingdom.”
“This is not about that,” I said.
“Everything you do is about your future, Konstantin. You were born with more ambition than God.” Feodor managed to knock Viktor out, the old brigadier falling into unconsciousness and the floor. “Do not risk that all over your temper, that temper you keep so under control. Wait, be patient and plan.”
I looked down at my father. “They will kill me for killing him,” I said plainly. “Perhaps I intend to defend myself.”
“Then run.”
I snapped my head up to Feodor. “I will not run from anyone. Ever.”
“Then what is your next move? Be killed?” Feodor asked. “You will become the Pakhan I have waited my entire life to serve. I will not jeopardize that by letting you do such a thing.”
I felt myself calming down. Calculating thoughts and rational ideas were becoming easy to understand and believe.
“Perhaps you are right.” I slid the tie in between my hands, feeling the silk soothe my anger.
Feodor searched my face. “What will you do next?”
Finally, a smile grew up my face. For years, I had planned my exit, letting my hungry brothers fight over the scraps of our parents fallen empire like the ravenous unimaginative beasts they were. All the while, I’d grow smarter, and richer, and powerful.
I pictured Natasha in my mind, seeing the future she had in front of her. No, I had no desire to take the motherland, a temporary investment. It was not—had never been—my fate.
I didn’t want the memories of the once great Bratva, the golden age of Mother Russia, to drive my snow-filled days. I had other ambitions, other desires.
Let them drown in their nostalgia, I thought. Because while they do that, while Natasha grows, I will build my empire.
I would build an empire that would never fall, would never be scoffed at or forgotten. One that my future son would be afraid to rule—so afraid he would never dare choke me to death with a necktie.
I wrapped the silk around my neck, knotting it perfectly. Against my ripped sweater and rumpled uniform, it looked almost comical.
“It is time to build our empire.” I stepped over my father’s fallen body. “Let us begin.”
1
Elena Falcone
I dreamed of my father again.
He was lying before me, mouth agape and eyes wide. The color of death stained his face, smoky gray veins visible beneath his skin. Crawling from between his lips, twisting around his tongue and teeth, were stretches of vines, prickly and leafy. Out of his nose, out of his ears, his eyes. Growing from somewhere I couldn’t see.
His chest began to rapidly heave, vulgar in his still death. Ribs cracked, skin tore, the buttons of his shirt ripped open, and stretching higher and higher was a blooming flower, blood dripping down its petals and leaves.
I reached out, grasped the stem, and plucked it from his chest, as easily as taking one from the dirt. There were no thorns pricking me, no floral scent as I lifted it to my nose.
Of course, there isn’t, I thought, looking down at my dead father. This is a dream.
I woke up.
I registered the dip of the mattress, then the heavy blanket and soft pillow beneath my head. The rise and fall of Thaddeo’s chest, his snores. The soft light spilling from in between the curtains.
I rubbed my eyes, irritated.
Another bad sleep, I thought. Another bad dream—well, bad memory.