“You fucking bastard,” Myron growls. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
“I told you to let him speak,” Tomas says. He turns to men behind him. “A man on him on each side.” Silently, two huge, burly men with drawn weapons stand on either side of Myron.
Myron glares at him but shuts his mouth.
“You don’t have to take my word for it,” I tell them. “Play the footage of the cameras in her room. I got him to confess all.”
“Really,” Tomas says with a slow nod. “Conveniently, we have screens we can show right here.” He raises his voice. “All men, stand down. No weapons fired until we have the truth. If what he says is true, we’ll seek justice before the sun sets tonight.”
Marissa’s right. Men do tremble. I’m shaking like a goddamn leaf as Tomas pushes a button, a panel opens up on the wall above the bar, and a flat screen tv flickers on. Myron’s beet red with rage, shaking with fury. “Lies!” he shouts. “Lies!”
A minute later, and the conversation with me and Myron plays out for all to see. Marissa buries her face on my chest and wraps her arms around me.
Tomas stares at Myron. “You sold your own daughter into slavery,” Tomas says. “Though some Bratva groups may give you full rights to do with your family what you will, we do no such a thing here. All family of the Bratva are covered by the same code of protection. A Bratva wife or daughter is as valued as a Bratva brother.”
Marissa grips me tighter, and Myron sputters with anger.
Tomas continues, staring Myron down. “You killed one of my men.” His voice is deadly.
“He’s the one who took her!” Myron fumes. He reaches for his weapon, but he’s too slow. Yakov lunges, pins him to the ground and points his pistol at his temple. He looks to Tomas.
Tomas’s gaze comes to my father.
“He is a member of your brotherhood. I will not put our men at war.”
My father nods to Tomas. “You have my permission.”
Tomas turns to Yakov. “Kill him.”
Yakov pulls the trigger.
Marissa screams and sobs, but I hold her as relief floods through me. Myron was our first obstacle.
With the precision of soldiers, Tomas’s men make sure Myron is dead before they get rid of his body. Tomas and my father speak to one another, and after everything’s been cleaned up, Tomas orders everyone to turn in for the night.
“You and Stefan come to my office,” Tomas says to me. He sanctioned Myron’s death, but will he allow me to go free? Marissa looks up at me, and I hold her hand, tucking her so close to my side there isn’t an inch of space between us.
There is no commotion, hardly anyone talks as Marissa and I join my father and Tomas. At any other place and time, a showdown like we’ve just had would cause a stir. But here, in this group, they follow the orders of their pakhan without a backward glance. They stand in solidarity against a man who turned his back on his family. They are ruthless killers, but I can’t help but admire their fortitude, loyalty, and obedience to their leader.
It feels almost surreal, shedding my false identity. Knowing that Myron, and the traitor in this group who tried to kill me, are dead. I hold Marissa’s warm hand in mine and feel her steady pulse. I need this right now. Death and destruction lie everywhere we turn.
I risk a glance at my father. His face is drawn and grim. Both of us lied to Tomas. How will he handle that?
Tomas gestures us in the office and closes and locks the door behind us. There are only two seats facing his desk. My father takes one, I take the second, and I tug Marissa onto my lap. She nestles against my shoulder, trembling. Before Tomas sits, he turns to her.
“You have been through so much.” He shakes his head. “I am sorry you witnessed your father’s execution.”
She holds his gaze. “He deserved it.”
Tomas nods. “He did.” His gaze softens and he looks with her with concern. “Do you need anything?”
She shakes her head. Tomas stands and walks to a sideboard.
“Drink, Stefan? Nicolai?”
“Please,” my father says, and I nod. Tomas pours us both shots of vodka. I never welcomed the feel of the fiery liquid down my throat like I do now. Tomas drinks one shot, then pours a second before he sits behind his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he crosses one ankle over a knee and looks over my shoulder, staring contemplatively above us.
“You’ve put me in a difficult position,” he begins, before he takes another sip from his shot glass. “I’ve inducted you into our brotherhood, Nicolai.”
I nod. It’s a complicated situation, and I will let him speak his mind.