Page 21 of Merciless Queen

While she’s gone, I lean on the railing, scanning below. After a drink, we’ll head down for a few dances. Some people will recognize, as they often do, the mobsters among them, but others have no idea the symbolism behind the tattoos both Anastasia and I flaunt.

I didn’t always look like this. Tattoos are like the Bratva’s secret language, each one indicative of the kind of criminal life the person they’re granted to leads. Over the years, I’ve garnered a few, which finally shut any judgemental asshole up. Ones that represent my leadership and authority, others stating I’ve done the crimes and murdered.

Papa would have had a heart attack if I marred my skin when he was still alive. Would have blamed me for “sullying” myself before marriage or some shit. He often touted my femininity as being a feature men would covet, sticking to the beliefs drilled into him by his father, and passed from every male generation prior.

After my first, the soldiers began recognizing my seriousness. At that point, many already sworn fealty, but some were still uncertain about following me. Lev pushed for me to make a point—one of the bloody kind—but I gave it time. Days. Weeks. Of course, things were changing and I respected that. Once getting involved with the day-to-day operations, the menrealized I wasn’t the princess Papa made me out to be. Their confidence in me grew, and most of the soldiers swore themselves to me, which helped ease my ongoing panic attacks that had become a nearly nightly ritual back then when I questioned every action I took, every command I gave, and every choice I decided.

If anything, I appreciated their hesitancy because it showed they wouldn’t blindly follow the Volkov name. They wanted a true leader, and finally came to see me as one.

I became that for them. I becamethem.

Criminal. Murderer. Thief.

Anastasia returns then, snapping me from my bubble of silence. Silence, because in my thoughts everything is muted. A distraction I push away in favour of the light blue drink she hands me.

“You look like you’re thinking hard,” she muses, dropping her arms to rest beside me as I take a large sip of my drink, the chilled liquid heading straight to my nerves and unwinding them from the tight cords they’ve become this week.

After lowering my glass over the railing’s edge, fingering the thin stem with the possibility of dropping it on the contented and mindless clubgoers below, I shrug. “Reflecting, I suppose.”

She throws me a knowing stare. “You do that way too much. Still in doubt after all these years?”

“No,” I answer immediately, proud it’s the truth and not a projection of what she wants to hear. I know I’ve done well. I’m also not a moron who’ll claim there’s things that can’t be done better.

Since announcing my takeover, my father’s inner circle has taken to retirement quite well. Some negative comments have come my way, but most remain silent and have either disappeared into the background or disappeared altogether bymoving out of the country. Makes no difference to me, as long as they remember their lane.

My uncle, on the other hand, has been less quiet. Even so, he’s seemed to accept it enough to stop stalking the mansion sometime in the past year and bitching over the “lost income.”

He wouldn’t know about our numbers since he no longer has access to the books, but the Bratva’s income has boomed over the past two years and much of it is due to Anastasia and her hard efforts in opening the numerous brothels.

The number of trafficking rings Papa had his hands in or controlled outright were abundant. More than I initially thought. More that were buried within paperwork, only discovered when my Elite and I began combing througheverything. There’s some worldwide, not owned by the Bratva, but one’s we still funded, until I cut that off.

The rings Anastasia and I have managed to shut down was a gruelling process, but one that’s been successful. All children in our custody have since been returned home; they were my priority to release. The Bratva’s hands remain clean to prevent federal and international police forces from knocking on our doors, thanks to the silent and secret process we undertook to get them home without evidence as to where they’ve been. My small team of two consisting of a very well-paid female medical doctor and psychologist provided the best treatment they could in the short time they had.

The tourists made it back to their home countries after being given as much support as we could give, and a sizable donation for their ongoing wellbeing.

Guilt was a nasty monster at first, when witnessing precisely what Papa and his team ofchlenososy—an insult not worth translating—caused. The lifelong traumas now attached to the captives, and even that my organization would go unpunished in all the ways worldwide lawmakers would so love. But releasingthe women and children and seeing for myself the positive difference eased the guilt quickly. Then, my focus became finishing what we started.

Anastasia’s idea for the brothels have been so successful, in two years, the income supersedes that made in the skin trade within the same timeframe. Half of the locals released from the rings chose to return to their families, while the other half opted to remain, explaining the paid, clean, and consensual benefits of my job offer were better than the streets and prostitution they were doing before getting taken.

But there’s still so much work to be done.

Fingers snapping takes me out of my daze again, and I straighten, bringing my drink over the railing for a large sip.

“Lost you again. What’s with you?” Anastasia asks. “Usually, you’re into our Friday night outings.”

“I don’t know, but you’re right. From now on, no more thinking. Like, at all. Only drunken oblivion.” I down the rest of my drink right as a server is about to pass, so I rest the glass on her tray.

Anastasia lets out a low whoop, chugs the rest of hers, and also hands over the glass. “Shot before heading down?”

“Sure.”

She heads for the VIP bar and I watch her go, scanning over the dozen people up here. A business partner’s wife greets me with a nod from the farthest corner before returning to the guy she’s pressed against—one whoisn’ther husband. He’s probably off counting every grain of cocaine we buy from him, ensuring the grammage is precise. Fuck me over once, and you’re done, which he’s well aware of.

A tingling heat flashes over my neck, and I shrug it away. Probably the room’s warmth, or maybe it’s the liquor easing into my veins. It happens again, this time an instinctual awareness urging me to scan the crowd below.

People are still dancing, pressed tightly to one another. The bar’s even more crowded than earlier, as now more people have arrived. The prickling continues, and I scan over the room, searching for someone or something elevating the sensation.

No one on the dance floor’s looking my way. The bar is too chaotic for anyone to pay me attention. So I scan the edges, where the dim lighting is the darkest, searching for?—

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