You Don't Know Me (The Russian Don 3)

‘You see, Tasha, you’re not a killer. Now listen to your Papa and untie me. Let’s get away from here. We are family. What will Baba say if she knew what you have done? You will break her heart.’ There is hope in his voice now and his face is no longer so fearful. He thinks he is stronger than me. He thinks he knows me. He knows which buttons to push. He can win this.

That is when I decide I can pull the trigger. I realize that I’m not doing this to be vindictive. I’m not even doing this for revenge. Sergei and Noah will not come back whether I take his life or not. I’m doing this because someone like him shouldn’t be allowed to walk this earth. I don’t need to tell him that Baba planned this together with me. Without her help I would never have been able to carry out this murder without getting caught.

Maybe he is right. I was so caught up in the planning that I’d lost sight of what it takes to actually kill someone. I suddenly find myself overcome by all the emotions and feel my resolve slipping.

‘Think about what you are doing, Tasha. Do you think there won’t be an investigation? How many clues have you left behind? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison? They love blonde little girls like you in prison. You want to be someone’s bitch? Is that what you want? There’ll be no more trips to the hairdressers and shopping and holidays, and forget about having a dog. The only dog around will be you. An ungrateful little bitch for all the tough, hardened criminals. You’ll be eating pussy for the rest of your life. How about that, huh?’

Tears start running down my face. I take a big gulp of air. I can do this. I have to. No matter what happens after this I have to end it here and now, not only me, Mama and Baba will get punished.

Cursing, he bares his teeth at me. ‘Enough is enough. Don’t make me any more angry than I am already. I am your father. I order you to untie me right now,’ he barks impatiently as if he is somehow controlling all around him. In that moment I look into his eyes and I know I cannot untie this man. He will not rest until his revenge is absolute. I know that I can and must do this. I train my gun on him again.

‘I’m sorry, Papa. I can’t do that. This is the end. No matter what happens to me after this, you will not walk out of this room on your own two feet.’

His face changes suddenly. He starts sobbing. I mean great big tears roll out of his eyes. What an actor my father is.

‘I’m sorry, Solnyshko. I’m so sorry. You are right. I’ve been a terrible father. I beg of you. Please. Spare me. You are kind and good. This is not you. You are an angel. You could never shoot a helpless human being. I know you. You are kind and gentle. Remember that time you rescued the bee? Remember, you found him on the floor and you picked him and let him drink sugar water from the palm of your hand until he recovered and flew away. That’s you. Not this. Tasha, you have taught me a great lesson that I will never forget. You’ve made me a better man.’

Oh, God. I can’t. I just … My hands are shaking so badly.

‘Shut uuuuuup,’ I scream.

I will count to ten. I can do this. I have to. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six … My hands are still trembling but a bit less. I put my finger on the trigger. I close my eyes.

‘Pleeeeaseeee,’ my father begs. This time it’s real.

Tears and snot run down my face. My mouth is open in a silent cry as I start to depress the trigger.

‘You’re right, Nikita, she can’t, but I can.’

My eyes fly open, but the words have barely time to register in my dazed, confused brain before I see my father topple over with a small hole in his forehead. How quick and silent his death, but I didn’t shoot Papa!

My head swings around and my mouth drops open in shock.

‘You’re … alive!’

Thirty-seven

Jack Irish

Two Days Before

When I lean over the man, his hand instinctively reaches out to grip my wrist. He is dying in a narrow alleyway, but he is a fighter. There is still surprising strength in his grip.

‘Who are you?’ he asks.

‘I’m a doctor.’

He lets go of my hand and grips my shirt. ‘Don’t let them hurt her,’ he whispers urgently.

Then his eyes dim and he starts to lose consciousness. I rip his blood soaked shirt open and see the gash. It’s pretty bad. Blood is seeping out like a hot water spring. I also don’t miss all the tattoos that immediately identify him as someone from the Russian mafia. As I press my hand to the wound, I see a man dragging himself along the ground towards us. His face is contorted with pain and his leg is broken. Behind him I see more bodies on the floor, but they are not moving.