Deceitful Lies by Brook Wilder

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 a starukhi—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.

 

“Make it clean,” I tell him. “No theatrics.” I hand him a stainless silver case, which he opens, revealing a new gun—a Glock similar to the one I own. It’s an obvious sign of favoritism after he saved Dmitri’s life.

 

His stoic face finally shows emotion as his lips curve into a grin. “Consider it done, my pakhan.”

 

The shouting starts as the glasses are lifted into the air in honor of Viktor. But Dmitri and I head upstairs to the main floor to discuss business in the dining room. The first floor is empty except for guards and a skeleton staff. A table is set for us, but I doubt we will eat much. Well, I won’t, but Dmitri orders a porterhouse steak. He pulls off his sling again to eat with both hands.

 

I raise an eyebrow at him as he swallows a mouthful of wine.

 

“I wear the sling to gain sympathy from Natasha.” He explains.

 

“Are you getting any?” I ask.

 

“Not a bit.” He shrugs. “I think she wants my other arm to match this one.”

 

“What else have you found out about Cynthia Reyes’s case?”

 

“Your wife’s cousin, Officer Kenney Grant. He won’t ease up. He’s keeping the murder from turning into a cold case.” Dmitri talks between bites of his steak. “And now he’s threatening the Bratvas … all of us. If we continue to interfere in a police investigation, he’ll rally enough support to come after us.”

 

I laugh. “He’s threatening us?”

 

Dmitri wipes his mouth on his cloth napkin. “He knows who we are, and he has eyes on you.”

 

“They didn’t spend much time investigating Oleg’s death at the Reyes house.”

 

“My guess is that there’s nothing of value there,” replies Dmitri. “Kenney Grant has a nasty reputation on the streets. He’s stonewalling this and won’t back down.”

 

I make a fist just to give my hand something to do. “He may try to use Paige as a pawn.”

 

Dmitri says nothing as he gives me a look.

 

I understand the look he gives me. Paige is a pawn—was a pawn—in my plan. I told him that boldly. That was all she would be to me. But Dmitri knows better, especially now that she’s pregnant. He knows I will protect Paige, even if it’s just to protect my child. I don’t confide in him how I feel now. It’s my job to protect her, even if that means keeping my feelings a secret.

 

“Maybe I should deal with him the way Vasily would have.”

 

“The police aren’t a rival Bratva we can threaten.” Dmitri shakes his head. “We have to own them. You know that.”

 

I sip some wine, but it tastes like sawdust in my mouth. “Bullets would be simpler.”

 

“You’re starting to sound like your old man.” Dmitri raises his glass to me.

 

I give him a sharp look.

 

“It’s a good thing, Andrei Vasilyevich,” he hurries to explain. “The Bratva could use another Vasily right now.”

 

“Careful, Dmitri.”

 

“I’ve been careful, Andrei Vasilyevich.” He pushes his plate away. “We’ve all been careful. A little too careful. And it may not be paying off. Your wife’s father is dying, and we are no closer than the day you married her.”

 

I stand up, tired of his unwanted advice. “What are you suggesting, Dima?”

 

“Maybe you need a new pawn.” Dmitri smiles, but it’s the glint in his eyes that catches my attention. “Someone who can be bought.”