Page 5 of The Russian Retribution

“No, but…” Viktor lifts his shoulders and when he sighs, he looks a little older, a little more frayed around the edges. “In one night, you made yourself look like a monster to the people who fallunder the Remizova name. Maybe those here just wanted some extra cash.”

“Not at the expense of other people,” I say. “I’ve made that cleartimeand time again.”

“Welcome to being in charge,” Viktor says. There’s a tinge of something in his words, something that resembles sympathy, but I get the feeling that it carries something a little more accusatory.

Maybe this is my fault.

I killed those generals to send a message.

To show people that I was just as big a threat as my father and that I wasn’t afraid to do things the hard way or get my hands dirty. But in the same breath, I made people scared of me. The rumblings of discontent have become less direct, but they still exist.

Shipments are late, people don’t pick up when I call, I face excuse after excuse, and people are digging their heels in at the changes I’m trying to make. Some think I spat on the old laws by killing the generals when something like that is usually put to a vote, and for a few weeks, I expected the other Russian families to come together and oust me as the laws allow.

But they didn’t. No one said a word.

It’s taken months to sift through everything the generals left behind, including the countless small businesses and side hustles each one had. My father built his empire by laundering money through nightclubs. Eventually, he expanded to loan sharks, black market human trafficking, sexual slavery, and the pornography market.

Humans are the largest commodity, he’d tell me when I’d voice my disgust.We will never run out.

Trying to change any of this has been like trying to pull teeth out of a tiger high on cocaine, but I won’t stop and I won’t give up.

My years of solitude as a child may have given me an icy exterior, but compassion and empathy burn inside me, and I refuse to make a dime off someone else’s back. Unfortunately, my determination to fix the messes he left behind means I haven’t been focusing enough on hunting for my father’s killer, which is another reason Viktor often looks at me like I just poured salt in his coffee.

He wasn’t just my father’s underboss. He was his friend.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I stride into the seemingly abandoned textile factory and follow the rise of voices down a long corridor to several rooms clustered together at the end. The air is sharp with the stink of chemicals and blood—a scent I’m far too familiar with. The first room we pass has three black body bags lined up next to each other, and my heart jumps into my throat.

“I thought you said sixteen,” I say tightly, pausing in the doorway.

Viktor stops just behind me. “Sixteen alive.”

“How many dead?”

“Eleven.”

Guilt weighs me with every step toward the next room. This one has a handful of thin, haggard-looking men and women in various spots around the room. Paramedics on my payroll mill about between them, checking people over and providingimmediate medical care where needed. The signs of drug use are visible on their arms and in their empty gazes. I can only imagine what they went through here.

The next room is similar, although the people there are more awake and alert. I step inside, keeping my breathing shallow to combat the stale aromas of sweat, urine, and waste rising from several stained mattresses in one corner.

“You know the drill,” I say quietly to Viktor. “I want everyone given the best treatment we can buy. Get them clean. Safe. Into therapy.”

“I know,” Viktor replies, his voice heavy with familiarity with the situation. This isn’t the first ‘secret’ side business we’ve discovered, and it won’t be the last. “I’ll get your people on it.”

As I’m turning to leave, my eyes fall on a man sitting in one corner with his hands wrapped around a plastic bottle. His thin fingers struggle to grip the cap and his dry, chapped lips press together in frustration each time he weakly tries. My heart immediately goes out to him. The sexual slavery rings we’ve broken up in the past all share one thing in common.

The silence.

Every victim is deathly silent, with the noise and voices only rising from paramedics asking questions and chatting to help people feel at ease. The actual victims are alarmingly silent, though I tell myself it’s understandable. Kneeling in front of him, I offer my hand to the bottle.

“Can I help you with that?”

Dark, empty eyes lift to mine and he grips the bottle tighter.

“You can watch me the entire time,” I say, softening my voice. “I just want to open it for you and then you can drink as much as you want.”

Viktor shifts behind me, but I don’t even need to look at him to get him to stop. I don’t want Viktor scaring these people like he’s done in the past.

The man stares at me for a long time, and I hold his gaze, waiting for permission or rejection. Eventually, he hands the bottle to me, and I slowly crack open the seal and hand it back to him along with the cap. His hands tremble as he takes the bottle, but he doesn’t drink. Instead, he holds them both and stares at me with his face void of emotion.

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