The Killer’s Vow by Aria R. Blue
Vera
Everything is sharper in Russia—the memories, the cold, the heartache.
But Ivy and Luna are by my side, their disguises flawless as we step off the private jet.
They’re my source of warmth.
“Are you sure this is Russia and not the South Pole?” Ivy says from my right, her head bowed down to her chest as she walks.
“Maybe if you wore something more weather-appropriate—” Luna says.
Ivy shoots her a glare that makes her stop midsentence.
The fashionista refused to be all bundled up in shapeless winter clothes. Instead, she opted for a cute little bomber jacket that does jack shit to protect her from the cold.
“I didn’t think that they’d make us trek to get to the car,” Ivy says.
I take my scarf and wrap it around her neck twice. “It’ll keep your teeth from chattering.”
Ivy links her arm through mine.
I breathe in the scent of my motherland—it’s cold and unforgiving in the winters and equally intense in the summers. Everything is extreme in Russia.
And there’s the issue of the people.
My family was exiled from Russia.
Moscow has ears and eyes everywhere. If the Originals catch my scent, they will hunt me down and bring my family down with me.
That’s why we landed directly in Rublevka, a place in the western suburbs of Moscow.
Rublevka is a prestigious residential area composed of a group of towns. It’s the Russian ”Beverly Hills.” Russian celebrities, business oligarchs, and successful artists have their vacation homes here.
And of course, so do the Bratva.
It’s the place where the dacha of my childhood is located. The one I used to go to every summer. The very one where my babushka was murdered.
Luna, Ivy, and I hurry into the warmth of a waiting car.
Ivy greets the driver and then quickly rolls up the partition.
“That’s Vasily,” she says. “We can trust him, but he doesn’t know about you. All I told him is that I’m here on a secret vacation with my friends.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“So, where are we going first?” Luna asks, turning to me.
It was Ivy who invited her, claiming that Luna was the brighter half of her brain. I never imagined that her overbearing husband would agree to send her anywhere without heavy protection, but Ivy buttered him up well.
I take a deep breath and spill my family’s secrets. “The reason we moved to America wasn’t to expand. It was because we were banished from Russia. And the place we’re going right now is where it all went down.”
“What happened in this town?” Luna asks.
“My family owns a dacha here. A summer cottage we used to visit every year to spend time in the countryside with our grandparents.” I glance at Ivy. She already knows everything about my life from the Black Book. “I was very close to my grandmother. She was the one who taught me to love and respect the environment.”
“What happened to her?” Luna asks, her hand squeezing mine.
There’s no other way to say this. “A man put a bullet in her chest. Right in front of my eyes.”
The man is a blur, but I remember the rest of the details so clearly.
The scent of hay and wood from inside the barn, the fading warmth of my babushka’s hands, the sticky blood on the ground.
Ivy looks away, but Luna leans in.
“Did they ever catch him?” she whispers.
I shake my head. “This is something I tried my hardest to forget. I tried to erase my grandmother’s murder from my mind because the memory of it was too painful.”
“If only it worked that way.” Ivy sighs.
Both of these women have been born and raised in the mafia. This life presents a unique set of challenges.
That’s why I know I can count on them to understand.
That’s why I feel safe sharing my story with them.
“The reason I want to visit the dacha again is because I want to remember. I want to recollect every detail from that fateful morning.”
“Are you sure?” Luna asks, her amber eyes flitting between Ivy and me.
“She doesn’t have any other choice,” Ivy says, resting her head against the cold window. “She has to.”
“Why?” Luna is insistent.
“I’ll tell you,” I whisper, trying to swallow the large stone lodged in my throat.
Because right in front of me is our family dacha.
It stands tall and proud, like the flag of a nation that once had to fight for its freedom. The blood of my family has stained the soil here red. An entire dynasty crumbled over the course of a single day.
But all is not lost.
I’ve followed the beat of my heart, and it led me here.
All of the answers I seek are right here. And I would be lying if I said I’m not scared of what I might find.
Siberian pine trees graze the winter sky. Snow blankets every flat surface in sight.
The next dacha is a ten-minute walk away.
We own these lands.
Reznikov lands.
A hand grabs my wrist. I turn to look at her. Long strands of blond hair curtain Ivy’s face.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” she asks.
I bite down on my lower lip. “I’m not sure of anything. But you said so yourself. I don’t have any other choice.”
The car rolls to a stop a few feet away from the main entrance.
Ivy makes up some excuse to the driver about how we’re going to surprise some friends.
We don’t know if there are any cameras or guards around. So we take every precaution we can as we get out of the car and move toward the cottage.
Fifteen years have passed, but not a thing has changed.
It looks exactly as it did all those years ago.
The greenhouse and the gardens are at the back of the house. But in front of us, it’s just the dacha in all its’ glory.
I wonder if my babushka’s kombucha tea is still sitting by the windowsill. If I tried hard enough, would I be able to hear the remnants of her laughter?
“What do you want me to do?” Luna asks, clearly lost as to what we’re even doing here.
“My family was kicked out of Russia for a reason, Luna. And I’m here to uncover the things that have remained hidden inside the walls of this dacha.”
Vengeance and rage slice through my chest.
But more potent than anything else is the love and courage that fills my rib cage.
This is why I had to do this alone.
Nobody else can feel these emotions for me.
Nobody else can salvage my family for me.
Not even the sweetest assassin on earth.
“I don’t see any movement inside the house,” Ivy says, her finger on the trigger of her gun.
I look at her weapon of choice.
It’s not just any gun. It’s a military-grade machine gun with a pink stripe on one side.
“How…?” I ask, looking up and down at her cute little outfit. “Where did you even stash that?”
“Don’t get her started,” Luna warns.
Ivy grins and moves forward, her eyes still sharply trained to notice any movement.
She’s indestructible, a walking weapon wrapped in Gucci.
I thought she was cool back when I first met her, but she only seemed to get more confident with time.
“There don’t seem to be any cameras either,” Luna says, using an app on her phone that’s designed to look for hidden explosives or cameras.
“This way,” I say, nodding at the path behind the trees that leads to the barn.
But something catches my eye.
The kitchen door.
It used to always be open in the summers, a welcome reprieve after a long day outside. But the sight of it makes my blood freeze now.
There’s a red ‘X’ painted on top of it.
“What is that?” Ivy asks, cradling her machine gun to her chest.
I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s a replica of the one I saw on the hotel door before we left for Mexico.
And I can’t shake the feeling that it means trouble.
“I think it’s a warning,” I say, looking around us.
“It looks like fresh paint,” Luna muses.
“I’ll go check,” Ivy says, striding toward the kitchen door before we can stop her.
She leaves Louis Vuitton prints in the snow as she walks fearlessly, scowling up at the dacha.
When she reaches the door, she swipes a finger over the giant ‘X.’
She turns around and holds up her index finger.
It’s stained red.
Fresh paint.
“Fuck.” Luna waves at Ivy to come back immediately.
I don’t wait for her to return.
I already knew that I’d have to act fast. If I want my memories back, I should go to the place where it started.
“Protect me until I return,” I tell Luna before I head to the barn.
Every step I take feels like a betrayal.
I’ve left everything behind to chase this restless feeling in my heart. My family, my love, my old self, and now, even my friends.
But now isn’t the time to second-guess my actions.
I don’t stop walking until I reach the old barn. The place where I lost my childhood innocence. The moment where I was thrust into another life.
I close the door behind me and walk to the middle of the barn.
The roof is falling in. Shafts of light fall to the floor. There’s no evidence left of the carnage.
Whoever caused the murder cleaned up after themselves.
I know that the only clues that exist are the ones in my mind.
So I close my eyes.
And I go within.
I imagine that I’m eight years old again.
The vision of the two motionless bodies behind my eyelids is more vivid than I would like it to be.
For a moment, it’s all I see.
I have to force myself to push past it. I take a deep breath, and the scent of the barn fills up my lungs.
With the scent comes a grainy memory.
I reach toward it, knowing it will be uncomfortable as hell.
That man comes into focus.
The cut of his jaw, his height and build. Even though his hat threw shadows over his face, I would recognize him if I saw him again.
In my mind, I see everything that followed play out like a movie in slow motion.
My knees hit the ground.
I bury my face in my hands. And I let the sorrow I never let myself feel pass through me. It’s strong and insistent, demanding to be felt.
It’s been fifteen years since that incident.
But the pain is still fresh in my heart. Because I always tried to run from it and pretend it didn’t exist.
Because I never let myself feel it, it only grew stronger and darker. And it pours through every pore of my skin now, taking over my body.
A warm hand holds my upper back. “Vera, we need to head back to the car now. There are people in the cottage.”
Another voice breaks through my blackness. “I think we should let her be. For a little while, at least. Ivy, can you guard the door?”
The warm hand is replaced by another one. This one is more grounding and compassionate.
Luna.
She bends her head low. “Don’t hold it back. Let it flow through you, and it will pass. Trust me.”
I cry.
I cry for the confused little girl who was separated from the mother figure she loved the most. I cry for how things only got worse for that little girl after.
But most of all, I cry for the goodbyes I never said.
To her.
To him.
Once all the tears have been shed, I’m left with a fresh state of mind. I open my eyes.
I think…I think I know who shot my babushka.
Luna is crouched down in front of me.
“Do you remember him now?” she asks.
I nod. “I’ll tell you guys about it in the car. Where’s Ivy?”
The girl in question pops her head in.
“Um, you guys?” Ivy says, hovering by the barn’s entrance. “We have a situation.”
“What did you do this time?” Luna sighs.
“I didn’t do anything,” Ivy says. “They started it.”
“What did you do, Ivy?” Luna asks with the patience of a saint.
“They were just standing by the window being all creepy,” Ivy says. “So I might have provoked them just a little bit by shooting at them.”
“How many of them are there?” I ask.
Last I remember, this dacha is still in our family name.
Whoever is living here is just a trespasser, so they can’t be that dangerous.
“I saw three men,” Ivy says. “There could be more.”
“What did they look like?” I ask urgently.
“Tattoos and drug lord vibes. They’re definitely not random squatters.”
“We need to face them,” I say. “The only way out is through the front yard. We need to be on the offense.”
“That’s my girl,” Ivy beams.
“No, no, no,” Luna says. “This isn’t a soccer game, Vera. I don’t mean any offense, but have you ever even held a gun before?”
It’s no secret that my father is medieval.
Most of the women born into the mafia world are taught at least the basics of self-defense. But not me.
“No, but I can’t let you guys do it alone.”
“It’s not that hard,” Ivy says, pulling another gun from her jacket and placing it in my hands. “You just point it at something, and it goes boom. Just don’t point it at yourself or us, and you’ll be fine.”
Luna gently plucks the gun away from me. “Yeah, no. If she’s going to fight, give her something easier, Ivy.”
Ivy pulls out another thing from her puffy jacket that looks like a Class 3 weapon.
Luna sighs. “Are you seriously trying to show off right now?”
Ivy sticks her tongue out at Luna. “Only because you guys wouldn’t stop making fun of my handy jacket. Who’s the one wearing impractical clothes now?”
I look at Ivy in a whole new light.
She’s actually serious.
She chose the clothes she did because they allow easy movement without weighing her down.
I swallow. “Or…instead of fighting, we can hide. There’s a greenhouse here.”
“You’re cute,” Ivy says, trying to read if I’m actually serious. “But you can’t ask me to pass up a fight. It’s been way too long. I need a win, Vera.”
I take a deep breath.
And I focus only on the air filling up my lungs.
I’ve found this new antidote to my fear—my breath. It grounds me and makes me focus.
Fighting with a gun or some other weapon is not my strength. It could be, but I never learned how to use firearms, and now is not the time to start.
My only strength has ever been my plants.
The plants.
“What other weapons do you have?" I ask Ivy.
“You’re not going to fight,” Luna says, looking out of the barn and frowning.
Even Ivy looks conflicted. “Now is really not the time…”
I open the small pouch I carry with me wherever I go. It has travel-sized amounts of poisons in their dry forms. In other words, they’re poisons in their most potent concentrations. Each of them is separated into small ziplock packets.
None of them have labels because I know each of them by heart.
I pick out a brick-red powder.
I explain everything quickly as I pour a few drops of water into the powder to dilute it. “I don’t know who those men are or if they mean harm. So I don’t want you guys to kill them. Rub your bullets or arrows or whatever in this potion.”
“What is that?” Ivy asks with bright curiosity.
“Thorn apple,” I say. “Native Americans use it as a local anesthetic and also in their cultural rituals. It’s rich in hyoscine. Low doses, it cures nausea. High doses, it kills.”
“What does it do in medium doses?” Luna asks, remaining true to her cautious nature.
“Hallucinations.” I smile. “It’ll knock them out, especially if you get it directly into their bloodstream.”
“Sweet,” Ivy says, nodding appreciatively.
“But be careful about getting it on your skin,” I say, handing out rubber gloves to both of them. “Your skin can absorb the toxin too.”
They coat their ammunition with the potion.
Ivy hands me a small sword.
“Just in case,” she says.
And we head out of the barn.
“Keep low to the ground,” Ivy orders.
I crouch my back a little.
“No. On all fours like a gorilla,” she says, her eyes darting around us.
It’s eerily quiet.
Most of the men I know are predators. They wait for the perfect moment before they ambush their prey.
The first bullet hits Ivy right in the shoulder.
I almost scream, but her manic grin stops me. Her cute oversized jacket that hides all her weapons is handy for more reasons than one.
It’s bulletproof too.
My heart beats in my ears as the girls return the gunfire.
“Lie flat on the ground, Vera,” Luna instructs, her firearm braced against her shoulder for support as she fires.
“Face in the snow,” Ivy adds.
I do as they tell me to, getting down low to the ground. But as they fight, something tugs at my heart.
The cottage.
It calls my name.
I lift my head and crawl toward the kitchen entrance. Right where the ‘X’ is marked.
So it was a warning after all.
Snow gets into my eyes. My bare fingers feel like they’re about to fall off.
But I’m done sitting obediently and doing only what other people want me to do.
I have a new rule now. I’m going to follow my heart, even if it leads me to my death.
At least that way, I’ll be proud of the life I lived when the end comes.
When I reach the door, I push it open and crawl inside. It doesn’t smell the way it used to. There are no traces of my grandmother here.
My eyes go to the photograph on the wall.
The family portrait.
The Reznikov family portrait.
Whoever is staying here kept some of the old touches of the dacha.
I stand on a stool and retrieve the photograph.
My eyes land on my babushka. I grew up to become the exact replica of her.
The same curly brown hair. The same eyes.
The single dimple when I smile.
I wonder if this is the real reason my papa can’t stand me anymore. Because I look too much like his mother. I’m a living, breathing reminder of everything that went wrong.
All those years ago, I saw the pool of blood around my babushka and the golden goat.
I assumed that both of them had died. We all did.
But now, I’m not so sure about it.