Deceitful Vows by Brook Wilder

 

Chapter 8

Andrei

 

As soon as I step out of the car, I motion to a waiting guard, who opens the door to Paige’s side of the car. Without words, he grips her upper arm and pulls her out of the car. She stumbles as she is dragged out. Her mouth opens in protest, then she decides it’s smarter to keep her mouth shut.

 

So, she stares daggers at me as the guard starts to drag her into the house.

 

When the guard looks back, I tilt my chin upward toward the grand staircase. Despite what Paige must assume, she is not a prisoner. So, there’s no need for her to be treated like one.

 

Unless she wants to act like one.

 

The guard smirks as he hauls her up the stairs.

 

Paige aims another nasty look at me—one that might hurt if I wasted my time caring about what people think. She stumbles again, and the guard grips her arm tightly when she reaches for the railing. I almost want to say something, to remind him that he doesn’t need to be so rough. But I don’t.

 

A little fear can go a long way. And there are many things I want to know from Paige Reyes.

 

Dmitri waits alone in my late father’s office. His hair is gelled back off his forehead, showing the scar he received in a knife fight. He tells the newer guys he earned it in the old country. He was born in America, just like me.

 

“Would have been easier to go to the club, Andrei Vasilyevich,” he says as soon as I close the door behind me. “The car would’ve taken fewer bullets, and the girls would’ve been far more willing.”

 

“I’m not interested in that,” I reply coldly. “Or in the club.”

 

I take my seat behind the great oak desk. I made the mistake of sitting in this chair once as a boy, and my father taught me a painful lesson not to sit in it again until the right time.

 

Well, the right time is here, and now this seat—once forbidden—belongs to me. As I settle into it, I can’t help but feel discomfort settling in. It’s not a very comfortable chair. But then again, a pakhan with enemies should never sit easy.

 

“I found this.” I reach into my pocket and toss the old photo from Paige’s apartment on the desk.

 

Dmitri approaches the table, frowning. I could’ve handed it to him, but making him take the few extra steps is his punishment for the sarcasm.

 

I point to the man standing in between the two little girls. “This was in her apartment. Do you recognize the man?”

 

Dmitri picks up the photo and studies it intently. “I’m assuming this is her father?” He smirks when I nod. “Is this a test, Andrei Vasilyevich?”

 

“It’s not a test, Dima.” Momentarily, my lips press into a thin line and I allow a moment of familiarity between us. “Everything about that picture looks familiar. But I never met this girl until the wedding. And how curious that the moment I do, it gets shot up.”

 

“You think the two are connected?”

 

“They must be.” She stood out at the wedding in a crowd of women wearing diamonds and designer gowns. Had bullets not started flying, and had she not performed that bit of emergency medicine, she would’ve remained a curiosity.

 

But now? She’s a person of interest.

 

“Do you remember how she treated my injury?”

 

“Shoved a tampon in it.” Dmitri nodded appreciatively. “Pretty damn smart if you ask me.”

 

“You know who else might know something like that?” I ask, but I don’t expect him to answer. When he doesn’t, I continue. “Old-school Bratva guys who made their money running guns, drugs, and everything else in the old country. Same guys who fucked off to places like London, Paris, and Tel Aviv before the dwarf in the Kremlin started eyeing their cash.”

 

“Girl doesn’t look like she speaks a word of Russian,” Dmitri says. “No way she’s Bratva.”

 

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “But I can’t rule it out. The Karamazovs were waiting outside of her place. Didn’t even lift a finger when I stepped out of my car. They started moving after she came home.”

 

“Which means they weren’t trying to ambush you,” Dmitri muses. “They were gunning for her.”

 

“Exactly.” I lean back. “So look at the photo again. Do you recognize the house?”

 

His gaze shifts, and gradually recognition smooths the line between his eyes. “Now that you mention it, it does look familiar,” Dmitri says. “One second, Andrei Vasilyevich.” His finger flicks the torn edge, tossing the photo onto the desk.

 

The photo stops spinning in front of me. And I take in little Paige standing by the man. How she smiles but stands slightly away from him. As if she’s too old to show affection.

 

Dmitri runs his fingers along the spines of the books on the walls. “Your father had me collect evidence as part of my initiation. Digging through trash, following leads, stuff like that. Ah, here it is.” He opens a binder, flips through a few pages, and pushes it toward me, tapping on a photo.

 

I place my photo against it and the two pieces form a complete image.

 

“That,” he proudly announces, “is Ivan Sidorenko. Old-school killer. Igor’s personal cleaner, as far as I recall. One of the best in the business. Recently deceased … of natural causes.”

 

I know Ivan Sidorenko—the man was the living embodiment of singular devotion to the Bratva life. I stare at the complete picture. But instead of answers, I just have more questions. “So, who is Paige’s father? Bratva?”

 

“Can’t be. No tattoos anywhere on him in this photo. Wait a minute.” Dmitri sits down on the edge of the desk. “I recognize the house now. It’s in neutral territory in the Poconos. Maybe he’s a tourist that rented one of the Karamazov cabins, and Sidorenko showed him in.”

 

Bratva families vacation there. I did as a young boy. It was a place where minor differences were discussed, not battled out. It diffused many situations before things got out of hand or became deadly. Like a United Nations for the East Coast Bratva. No guns allowed around the wife and kids.

 

“Sidorenko isn’t someone who takes pictures for pleasure,” I reply. “And he hates children.” In the picture, his other hand is pointing toward Paige and her sister. There’s something off about this entire picture. Something I can’t quite put my hands on.

 

“Whoever her father is, he must be associated with the Bratva to be there,” I reply, staring at the photo again. “To be standing next to Sidorenko.”

 

Dmitri shrugs. “Maybe he was a friend of the Bratva.”

 

I chuckle mirthlessly. The Bratva doesn’t have friends. We have people who are useful to us, people who work for us, people who want to join us, and people who want to kill us. Outsiders who are lucky enough to be allowed in face strict limitations.

 

If Paige’s father was in the heart of Bratva neutral ground, then he wasn’t there by accident. Nobody invites an outsider to the one place where the Bratvas hash out differences.

 

If nothing else, he’s one more person who also just became a person of interest.

 

“You think he knows The Thief?” Dmitri asks, as if he can read my mind.

 

I don’t answer. The Thief is a man by the name of Sava Khodemchuk. Years ago, Sava stole quite a bit of money from my father. And to hear the old man tell it, that money was never given back. And when he started looking for Sava Khodemchuk, all he found were dead ends.

 

“Perhaps,” I finally say. “Our guest tells us that he’s receiving chemo treatment today. Find out which hospital. Have someone pick him up. Nothing threatening. Disguise him or her as an Uber driver. Preferably a talkative one who can tease out a conversation. I want to know who he really is.”

 

“And his other daughter?” Dmitri stood up, taking an interest. “What do you want done with her?”

 

“She’s not disappearing if that’s your suggestion,” I scoff. “If the father was involved with Ivan Sidorenko, then the other daughter may be something we use for leverage. And if she’s anything like her sister, she won’t come willingly.”

 

Pausing, I recall the moment of Paige shoving a tampon into the entry wound in my shoulder. She said she saw it on the news. But how much of that is the truth? Her eyes were focused on the task, determined to fix it despite the bullets cracking over our heads. Her hands trembled, but she carried out her task fearlessly.

 

I can use that.

 

I can use her.

 

Dmitri nods his head thoughtfully. “Very well, Andrei Vasilyevich.” He clasps his hands together. “I’d like to propose a toast to the success of your plan. Though I’m not sure what it is. But I will toast to its success.”

 

I join him at the bar as he pours a scotch neat for each of us from a cut crystal decanter. My gaze wanders over the room. Vasily favored furniture that was heavy and dark. Carved oak furniture that was massive in size and grandeur. This room has always reminded me of a funeral parlor.

 

Holding up my glass, I start the Bratva oath. “You care for no one but the Bratva.”

 

Dmitri raises his glass and finishes the oath. “And you shall love none other than the Bratva.”

 

We throw it back, and Dmitri refills the glasses. He laughs. “Should we also toast your future bride?”

 

I drain my glass but not out of celebratory happiness. “I intend to cancel the marriage contract between myself and Talia.”

 

“The Nikitin family is still close to us.” Dmitri rubs his face. “Even if you don’t think so. And her father will not be pleased.”

 

My glass hits the bar with a dull thud. “I’ve made up my mind. My father is dead, and I’m the new pakhan. I have the right to cancel the contract. Any contract. And if Afanasy Nikitin has a problem with that, then he can come petition me personally.”

 

“This will lower the trustworthiness of the Barinov Bratva with the others. Why act so rashly? Is it because of the woman upstairs?”

 

“When Vasily signed that contract with Afanasy, the Nikitin Bratva was equal to ours. Today, one could hardly call them a Bratva. Why should I waste our resources on lifting them up? Marriages are arranged to give both parties an advantage. They have nothing I want.”

 

“Not even Talia?”

 

“Especially not Talia.”

 

“But you think this Paige Reyes has something you want?”

 

“Someone tried to kill her at the wedding. And if our suspicion that Igor was involved is true, then I want to know why.”

 

“And how do you intend to find out?” Dmitri gazes at his glass before taking another sip. “Will you be asking Igor yourself? Pakhan to pakhan?”

 

“In a manner of speaking,” I reply. “Since marriage is not sacred to him, then what better way to draw him out than with another wedding?”

 

“And who would be a willing bride and groom after that massacre?” 

 

“I will decide, and they will marry for the Bratva.”

 

It takes a moment before realization dawns on Dmitri’s face. “This is a bad idea, Andrei Vasilyevich.” He smiles, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Something bad will happen because of this.”

 

“You sound like Grigori.” I refill our glasses and tap mine against his. “I will keep you informed in the coming days.”

 

I leave Dmitri to go upstairs to the guestroom. Paige Reyes will have no privileges in this house except in her bedroom. I don’t know what her father has told her about the Bratva. But he will be the one to tell us what he knows, not her. There’s no guard on the locked door to her room. There’s no need.

 

I swing the door open, ready to talk, but Paige Reyes isn’t there.