Page 1 of Merciless Queen

Whoever claimsthere are five stages of grief is severely mistaken.

There’s only one.

Anger.

Vicious, scorching ire that threatens to bring war along with it. And I’ll be the one leading the battle, brimming with a vengeance to redirect my grief in a more productive manner, which is exactly as I’ve always been taught to do. Why allow emotions to cloud one’s judgement when they instead can be the driving force behind personal progress?

A lesson drilled into me but never given the space to flourish.

At first, there was shock. When Erico Rossi of the New YorkFamigliashot his gun from ten feet away, Papa instantly dropped dead. I hadn’t even realized what happened until the blood slowly seeped from Papa’s head and onto the airfield’s smooth cement. Erico then took out my father’s two soldiers, leaving me alone and without protection, so I didn’t stick around to be his fourth kill. From the parked car I was harbouring behind, I bolted across the airfield toward the Bratva’s privateplane, which was originally meant to steal Rossi’s wife away. I ran past my father’s lifeless body, the instinct of escaping overcoming any desire to stop and process his death. Grief was shoved aside by shock; my brain rushing to catch up to what it witnessed.

The next thing I knew, Erico was ordering me out of New York, which was a command I happily obeyed. I wouldn’t be sticking around to die because of my father’s stupid plans. A few months ago, he got it in his head that the Bratva should be united with theFamigliaand required me to make it happen. Despite my distaste for both Erico and the notion of marriage, Papa and Erico’s father had been planning our engagement, regardless of my endless attempts to refuse the plan.

They were pointless endeavours since I had zero choice in my own life under my father’s command. Never have, and had he lived longer, never would. But I still had to try to make him see that Erico wasn’t the future I desired—though, as usual, I ultimately lost.

So for the past few weeks, I’d done what Papa expected me to and played a role. One directed and pre-approved by him, with the intention of luring Erico in. At the time of the plan’s conception, no one foresaw the challenge his bitch of a mute wife would pose. Unsurprising, though, that Papa underestimated a woman. Seems to be a common theme with him.

Now safe in Moscow after the thirteen-hour direct flight home, I pace in my bedroom, passing the massive windows showcasing the forest of yellow, red, and green all around the mansion’s property. What I last yelled at Erico, after I rushed past my father’s body and into the safety of the Bratva’s plane, echoes with every heavy step I take.

“The Bratvawillretaliate, Rossi. You’ve just begun a war you won’t win.”

Once I tell all the heads of the organization—the Elite soldiers—what happened in New York, it’s exactly what theFamigliawill get. It’s that very anger speeding up my pacing, all while the memory of Papa’s lifeless form haunts me, hinting at impending heartbreak.

Onlyhinting. It’s a troubled concept not to be completely shattered by a parental death, I realize.

The problem is me. My unsettling guilt, my chaotic emotions, my perturbed thoughts. My father wasn’t exactly a loving man. He is—was—a user. Having me, a daughter, as his sole heir, he believed he failed the Bratva by not producing a son to take his role as Pakhan—Boss. Hence his determination to wed me off to someone he felt suitable enough to control the organization as my husband. There was never an option for me to claim leadership alone. The organization is as traditional as they come, and a woman directing men, criminal activities, and war, is unheard of.

Being a pawn is all I know in life. It’s exactly what I was bred to endure, right from childhood. My fifteenth birthday really hammered home the realization that Papa, no matter the love my silly heart felt for him, was not a good man. There’d always be something more important than me, whether it’s money, power, or connections.

But for all the bullshit, he was still my father. Somewhere in his cold, dead heart—now a literal description—there must have been a shred of love for me. Maybe. I hope, anyway. He certainly never revealed it to me or anyone else, but I assume at some point in my twenty-four years of life, he did. After all, it was his sort of love for me that had him picking the most ideal man to control the Bratva, rather than shoving me into a marriage with the first convenient one. This is what I reassure myself with, even if I doubt the truth behind that sentiment. It’s what I use totrigger sadness and push aside the hints of relief weaving in with my grief.

Relief. Because if anything, Erico freed me.

Temporarily, of course. With Papa dead, my uncle, his brother and Spy—the person who monitors the Brigadiers—will insist that he takes over, given that he’s the next male family member. Then I’ll be back to square one as a pawn. A chess piece meant to be played until I end up on another man’s board.

That kind of future can burn for all I care. Regardless of being Papa’s brother and most trusted advisor,Ishould be next in line sinceI’mUrsin Volkov’s child.

When our pilot landed in Moscow, I demanded the driver go faster than the speed limit. Though the pilot witnessed what happened, my driver obviously did not, and asked where my father was. I told him Papa’s still in the United States, which is not a lie. Technically, his body is there.

Once home, I rushed straight to my bedroom to hide, but avoiding can only last so long. Once my cousin and uncle arrive home and learn I and the Bratva plane have landed, my uncle will demand to know where my father is.

Then I’ll have to admit the shitshow that went down.

And that the Bratva is without its leader.

It’s my anger making me pause, glance at the door, and mentally play out the inevitable conversation I’ll soon be having. Regardless, the Rossishaveto pay. Not for taking my father from me, but forrobbing the Bratva of its leader and putting me in this precarious situation.Iwant to be the one to bring them to their knees, Erico especially. And then his bitch of a mute wife. My cheek still ghost stings from her slap the other week.

Bang, bang!

“Vanessa, open the fucking door!”

My uncle’s booming voice comes through the wood, followed by the jiggling doorknob. I breathe in deeply before headingtoward the door. The second I flick the lock, the door flies open, narrowly missing whacking into me, if it wasn’t for my quick reflexes that allowed me to duck away in time.

A large figure bursts through the doorway, his balding head reminding me of a flashlight where the sun bounces off it before, in a quick flash, his hand clasps my neck and slams me against the nearest wall. While I immediately grip his wrist to push him away, his bodybuilder size means my feeble, and if I’m honest, pathetic, attempts do nothing.

I hate being weak. To him, to Papa, to this entire organization.

With Papa, it was easier to go along with his cruelty than fight a losing battle, but without our leader?—

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