Queen of The Reapers by Jessa Halliwell
Six
I hearthe sound of his Ducati roaring down the road seconds before his bike comes into view. I knew it was only a matter of time before he got word and as expected, Cyrus looks pissed. Staring at him from my second story office window, I watch as he dismounts his bike and quickly shoves his way towards the front entrance to Hell’s Tavern. The smoking section out front is packed, but once they see who’s barreling through, they quickly move out of his way.
The panoramic two-way mirror on the floor of my office gives me a clear view of the entire club, and as I look down, I see Cyrus enter the building. Even from nearly thirty feet away, I can see the rage radiating off of his shoulders.
Every person he comes into contact with seems to sense it too, giving him a wide berth as he passes through the packed dance floor. It’s just after 10pm and the crowd on the dance floor is just starting to get rowdier as the heavy bass thunders through the walls. Cy seems unfazed by it all as he shoves his way towards the staff-only door that leads to the second floor offices.
3… 2… 1…
“Atlas!” He booms, kicking the door off of its hinges. His boisterous voice echoes down the nearly empty corridors, making most of the startled staff scurry out of his way. “Show yourself, motherfucker!”
If he was blowing up over any other reason, I would’ve ended this tantrum before it even started. But in this case, Cy has every reason to be pissed and he just needs someone safe to let it out on.
It’s the reason I chose not to tell him the news the second I found out. I knew the minute he got word, the first thing he’d do is come to me for an explanation, rather than doing something really fucking stupid.
Stepping out of my office, I reach the top of the stairwell just in time to see Cyrus pinning an unwitting security member against the wall.
“Where the fuck is he?” He spits, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the vein pulsing in his neck.
Instead of answering, poor Victor just trembles under Cy’s hold. Too scared shit-less to say or do anything. If he doesn’t give Cyrus an answer, he’s fucked, but he’s equally as fucked if he discloses my location without my permission. Deciding to put the poor kid out of his misery, I speak up.
“Let ‘em go Cy.” I call out in a bored tone. “I’m the one you want, remember?”
Re-entering my office, I head straight for the wet bar and pour myself a shot of Macallan. I’ve been trying to avoid drinking, but the impending conversation with Cy warrants a glass or three. Timing it perfectly, Cyrus busts through the door of my office just as I take a seat behind my desk.
“I just want to know one thing.” He spits, circling me like I’m his wounded prey. “When the fuck were you planning on telling us?”
“I haven’t had the chance.” I reply coolly, swirling the rich whiskey in my glass. “He showed up here, unannounced, an hour ago.”
“Well he’s sniffing around the docks as we speak, my boys over there shot me a text.”
That’s one of the major differences between Cy and I. With his charisma and easy charm, he makes friends wherever he goes. I may get respect from the power I hold, but Cy earns it, just by being the man he is.
“Where’s Stevie?” I ask, only now realizing that he and Tristan were supposed to stay with her tonight.
At the mention of her name, the tension in his shoulders eases and the fire in his eyes wanes a fraction. After her little stunt earlier, the last thing any of us wants is for her to hurt herself again. It's why Ez insisted on retrieving her sister tonight. I wanted to send a crew with him but with Dimitri’s sudden appearance, we needed all of our men on top of their shit tonight. Besides, how hard could finding an eighteen year old kid be?
“She’s fine.” Cyrus replies, taking the seat across from me. “Tristan’s with her.”
“What the hell is Dimitri doing here anyway?” He asks, his features scrunching into a scowl. “Los Angeles pussy no longer suiting his tastes?”
“Oleg died.” I sigh, taking another slow sip. “Heart attack. Mitri came to deliver the news personally.”
“Shit.” He curses, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, At. I had no idea.”
At sixteen years old, Oleg saw potential in me that no one had. When we first met, I was a cocky little shit and after a few successful pickpockets, I thought I was untouchable. I spotted Oleg stepping out of an expensive Porsche with a smug smile that screamed old money. He wasn’t a large man, easily under six feet and less than 200 lbs. His dark salt and pepper hair and the fine lines around his eyes gave me every indication that if we were to tousle, my youth would be a major advantage. I was big for my age, already over six feet and still growing into my gangly limbs.
Unable to resist the temptation of such an easy target, I stupidly tried to swipe the Rolex off his wrist in the middle of a busy downtown intersection. As soon as my fingers grazed the cool metal, I felt a strong hand clamp onto my shoulder and throw me to the ground with lightning fast reflexes. Within a blink of an eye, I had ten handguns pointing directly at my head and Oleg still had that smug smile on his face. Like he was amused by my fatal judgement call. Instead of killing my ass, like he had every right to, he called off his crew, spared my life, and gave me a new life.
Despite me not knowing shit about The Organization, Oleg took me into his home and taught me how to make something of myself. He knew I wanted to save my brothers and he taught me the skills necessary to provide for my family.
I worked my way up through the west coast ranks of The Organization for a couple years and once I ranked high enough, my brothers and I took control of Caspian Hills and never looked back. Without Oleg, there would be no Reapers. Oleg was the father we never had, or at least, the man who took over after ours was killed. I was going to miss the old bastard. We all were.
“Don’t worry about it.” I say, grateful the turn of the conversation managed to cool him down. “The last thing he’d want is any of us moping around mourning him.”
“True.” Cy offers with a solemn nod. “He was a stubborn bastard wasn’t he? So, when are the services?”
“A week ago.” I pause, taking a slow sip of my whisky and relishing in its burn. “Apparently Carolina wanted to limit the services to family only.”
“That’s bullshit.”
I agree with him but the whole situation is out of our hands. Unlike her late husband, Carolina never considered me or my brothers her family. When I first met Oleg, he was still a bachelor, with a new woman in his bed every night. He enjoyed his single life to the fullest. Honestly, I never expected him to settle down and assumed that his bachelorhood was something ingrained in him. But after an extended trip to Moscow, he came back a completely changed man. He was head over heels in love with a new fiancee who, coincidentally, came with a new stepson for him to mentor.
My brothers and I tried to build a bond with Carolina but the harder we tried, the more she shut us out. Eventually we learned to stop trying altogether. She never outright said it, but I could tell it bothered her to know that Oleg treated me and my brothers more like his own than he ever did Dimitri.
“Too late to make it an issue now.” I say, clenching my jaw. “Oleg is six feet underground as we speak.”
“Alright.” Cyrus says, nodding his head. “I’ll give you some space. Listen, if I'm not around as much for the next few days…”
“Yeah I know.” I reply, turning in my chair to gaze down at the panoramic glass. “It’s for your own sanity.”
“There’s something else you should know.” I say, hesitating as I turn back to face him.
Cyrus stands perfectly still, almost as if he already knows where this is going.
“He’s Oleg’s successor.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He asks, disbelief marring his features. “And the council approved that shit?”
“They’re the ones that selected him.” I say, feeling the full weight of defeat pile on my shoulders. “Apparently Oleg never told them otherwise.”
I would’ve been honored to take over for Oleg, but I knew being selected was a long shot. Oleg was sold, but he wasn’t the only one with the power to make the decision.
“That’s bullshit!” Cy says, rubbing his forehead. “Oleg never shut up about how he couldn’t wait to see what you’d do as his successor.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. The Organization is still… traditional when it comes to putting men into a position of power. They still have their doubts about us.”
“Because we aren’t Russian.” He hisses through gritted teeth. “Fucking assholes.”
“It’s fine. We’re great at what we do. If we haven’t proven our loyalty to them by now, we never will.”
“You’re right.” He sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Still think it's a good idea to keep Stevie a secret from the rest of The Organization?”
“I do.” I say, taking another slow sip. “Even more so now that Mitri’s been promoted. As far as they’re concerned, she is a friend that works at the club. Identifying her as anything else…”
“Will only make him want her more.”
“Exactly. You out of all people know how detrimental that would be for all of us.”
“Don’t remind me.” He says, pacing the floor. “So what do we do now?”
“We do whatever we can to make sure Stevie stays off of his radar and we wait for this little pissing contest of his to blow over. He wants to flaunt his power, so we let him. He’ll get bored with the games and leave like he always does.”
“And if he tries anything with Stevie?”
“Then we kill him.” I say, leaning back into my leather seat. “There’s always risks involved when stepping into such a powerful role. I’m sure The Organization has another purebred backup plan ready to go.”