Page 65 of Sexting the Silverfox

I don’t want to go back under my father’s rule, either. That will be a different kind of death for me. The death of my soul. But what Arkady just said has my interest piqued. “If that wasn’t you, who was it then?”

“Maybe you should ask your father,” he says.

I nearly laugh. “You’re trying to insinuate that my own father tried to have me killed?”

Arkady lets a smile curl the corners of his mouth for a long, lazy second as he stares at his phone. “Here’s the thing, Audrey. This world is made up of two kinds of people—predators and prey. Sorry, make that three. I forgot about the bottom feeders. Three kinds of people. The predators, well, you’re sitting next to one right now, and you should consider it an honor.”

“Your over-confidence will be your undoing.”

“Just stating the facts. I took down both of the Fedorov heirs and grabbed the daughter on my way out. It didn’t even take that much of an effort, just enough cash to get the bottom feeders interested. That’s what bottom feeders do, Audrey, which is why I choose my people carefully, while your father picks them out of any Russian-speaking crowd. Did you know, by the way, that over half of my employees are, in fact, genetically eons away from Russian bloodlines?”

“No, I did not know that.”

“Russians can be fiercely loyal, yes, but in Russia. In America, the game is played differently. There’s a reason why the Bratva here is so unstable and the families relatively easy to dismantle. The old heads come in with the old-school values, but the turf is new. It’s fresh. The grass is green, and capitalism thrives here; it moves everything. In Russia, you rule with an iron fist and just enough polonium in your cupboard to get the message across. In America, it’s all about the Benjamins.”

“So basically, you’re telling me that you can buy anybody, including my father’s supposedly most loyal servants.”

“Precisely, which is why you’re in this predicament now, and why Grigori will have no choice but to abide by my demands, and why I will return to New York on behalf of my forefathers, stronger than ever and victorious, and why Grigori will eventually lose more territory in less than a decade. If his sons survive, they will have little left by the time he’s dead and buried.”

This man is either delusional, or his plans have been so carefully and intricately hatched that there is no room left for any kind of error. It may sound like madness to most, but I am his prisoner, my brothers are in the hospital as we speak, and Arkady is about to meet with my father so they can negotiate the terms of my rescue.

It makes me sick to my stomach to admit it, but I’m starting to think that Arkady may, in fact, do everything that he set out to achieve for himself and for the Abramovic Bratva.

“Ah, we’re here. Come, now, little rabbit, put on a warm smile for your papa,” Arkady quips. “He’s going to be so relieved to see that you’re still alive.”

Ahead is a massive warehouse with rusty, corrugated iron panels covering the walls, a crumbling roof, broken windows, and flickering white lights burning inside. We’re in the rougher side of Chicago, one of the former industrial sectors that used to thrive in the first half of the twentieth century.

All around us are similar derelict buildings—former storage facilities and factories, mostly. Old, box-shaped structures with aging facades and dusty courtyards filled with equipment left to rust and gather mold and grime. This whole block is perfect for mob and drug deals. There are no security cameras, half of the streetlights are broken, and it's far enough away from any residences that anyone could get murdered without anyone bearing witness.

“Come on, little rabbit,” Arkady says, motioning for me to step out of the car.

“Stop calling me that,” I snap.

He laughs. “Sensitive, aren’t we? Those daddy issues run deep.” But then, his good humor fades, the mask slipping from his face. “Now, get the fuck out of my car, Audrey.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and do as I’m told, my eyes carefully surveying the area. I spot his goons quickly—there’s about a dozen of them standing next to their slick, black SUVs—but I see a few more scattered across the property as well. They move in pairs, circling the building and communicating via radio, while another car waits outside by the gates, the lights off.

A few minutes pass while Arkady speaks to one of his lieutenants. I keep quiet and listen, my ears picking up noise in the background.

“He’s coming,” Arkady’s lieutenant says. “Robbie just confirmed. One minute out.”

“Is he alone?”

“Yes. Dark green Volvo, Illinois plates. Busted taillight.”

“Good. Anyone following him?”

The lieutenant shakes his head. “No one except our guys.”

“Grigori finally understood the assignment,” Arkady mutters, a broad smile cutting across his pale face as he looks at me.

“There he is,” Arkady says, watching as a dark green Volvo pulls into the courtyard.

I see my father behind the wheel, his cold blue eyes already scanning us. There’s a glint of relief when he notices me, and all I can do is nod in acknowledgment.

He stops the car and carefully gets out while Arkady’s security guards pat him down.

“He’s clean,” the lieutenant says.

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