Page 9 of Merciless Queen

“Then I’m in.” She stands from where she’s leaning on my bed and reaches behind her, grabbing the two bustiers she tossed there earlier. “Now, I ask again: red or black?”

“This week,she met with everyone the Bratva employs.”

“Interesting. Even the trafficking rings?”

“Even them. She toured them two days ago. Intel says she didn’t even glance at the women or kids in captivity.”

“She’s more like her father than we even thought. Somehow, unsurprising. It’ll be a more satisfying takedown.”

One Month Later

Dimitri tossestwo limp bodies my way and they land with athudandoofat my feet. One immediately rolls onto his back, seemingly more coherent than his partner, whose drugged-out gaze remains pinned on the ceiling above, hardly blinking at the harsh fluorescent lighting shining in his face.

Anastasia stands somewhere behind me, to my right, recording on her cell phone, while Lev watches on. Across from me, Dimitri’s studying my expression, looking for the sympathy I might have once had. That’s long gone though. The assholes at my feet stole profits from the Bratva; therefore, their deaths will be quick and easy so I can get on with my day.

Somewhere in the corner of the room, Ivan is also hovering. He’s been around more and more lately, as now an entire month has passed since my father’s death, meaning only two left until the heads reconvene to judge me.

He’s here to see me fail, but will leave disappointed since failure isn’t happening today.

I seize the large blade strapped to my thigh holster and toss it into my hand as I step toward the two thieves. It twirls playfully in the air, before I catch it by the handle when it comes back down. Again, this time, clamping it still by the sharp tip. Knife training’s been more interesting and fun than shooting. Easier to handle, more me, and offers much more creative uses than a traditional, ol’ gun. Add in the silent efficiency they have over the loud bang of a gun, and it's been a natural partnership between me and it.

The semi-coherent man watches me pace around him, his body trembling as he draws his knees closer to his chest and bows his head. So pathetic. Not even a plea for mercy because they know.

This isn’t my first execution and it certainly won’t be my last. Thievery has increased since Papa was killed; something Ivan is sure to bring up often, explaining that the men don’t respect me so they’re more likely to test my boundaries. To which I’ve been replying:“Let them. They’ll learn.”

When my heeled boot makes a purposeful scrape over the cracked cement with my single, slow pace, the drugged-out one finally manages to drag his gaze away from the blinding lights above. “V-Volkov—” he gasps, stretching a weak arm my way.

I swat his limb with the knife, blade down, so it slices his skin, making the first mark on him and he squeals, yanking his hand back.

“Don’t touch me. You both signed your death warrants the second you stole from me.”

The coherent, shaking one snorts. “We stole from you because you will always be a fraction of the leader your father was, and it’s time you realized that.”

Lev makes a noise, which sounds like a cross between a laugh and a cough.

“Hm,” I muse. “And here I thought, change doesn’t necessarily mean less. Regardless of your reasons, you made your decision.”

I stop behind them, erecting my boots at their back. The fact that neither even attempts to fight is disappointing. I could benefit from the practice. I crouch by the impertinent one, placing my mouth by his ear.

“Any last words?”

“No matter how many people you kill, no one will follow you, Vanessa. You’re a shadow of a great man.”

A month ago, those words would have wounded me, but now, I don’t even dignify him with a response. Instead, I lift the knife into his view, catching his reflection in the blade. There’s no apparent fear, only boredom. So many still believe I don’t have what it takes to be Pakhan.

But Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Turning the knife, I slide the blade along his throat. He gurgles as his airways are carved into, his hands coming up to grasp for life before I move away, standing to watch his quick death. He falls to his side, still wheezing and then…one, two, three seconds pass, and he’s done.

His friend gasps from beside him, but still, his eyes are glazed. With him, I repeat the action and soon two dead bodies are leaking blood on the floor, a slim trail heading toward me.

I allow the blood to coat my shoes’ soles before I tread away, bloody footsteps evidence of the path taken.

Across the warehouse, my uncle turns and walks out.

After finishing at the warehouse,I take my beloved motorbike—a Ducati Streetfighter V4 SP2—a purchase Papa alwaysdespised and never let me ride off Bratva property—to the cemetery, parking it right by the gate leading to the private section owned by the Bratva for the last century. I haven’t been here in quite some time, preferring to avoid the eerie place. Eerie, mainly due to the bodies of past organization members lying underground all around me. Powerful men and equally powerful wives long buried, all part of Bratva history come and gone.

In the farthest back corner of the cemetery, by the black fence, is a stone visibly newer than all the rest. White marble that stands nearly as tall as I am. I argued against something so grand, but Ivan insisted, claiming the “great Ursin Volkov” deserved this one. That was right after reminding me that showing a previous Pakhan disrespect is setting a bad example of what the soldiers could expect from me. With the guilt trip he laid on me, I gritted my teeth and signed the paper, granting permission for the hired funeral home to agree to whatever Ivan ordered. I reminded myself that Papa’s death means so little to me that I shouldn’t use any energy to care about his burial procedure.

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