Page 65 of The Russian Retribution

“That’s decaf, by the way,” Faina says, perching on the edge of my bed as the sunlight trickling through the gaps in my curtains streaks across her face.

“You bitch.” I snort softly. “I need all the help I can get.”

“If you won’t take care of yourself, then I’ll do it for you,” she says with a tight smile. “But Anastasia… there’s something you should know.”

My hands tighten around the cup, coffee resting on my tongue as our eyes meet. My stomach twists.

What on earth has happened now?

I swallow and lick my lower lip. “Out with it.”

“It’s Erik. I looked for him last night to give him a piece of my mind, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. And then this morning, I woke up to a letter.”

“A letter?” Lowering the cup, my heart begins to race once more. The inside of my chest feels so raw from yesterday that each beat feels like raw pressure against a bruise.

Faina nods and pulls an envelope from her pocket. “Erik’s gone,” she says. “But he left this and it’s addressed to you.”

27

ERIK

The Black Ox is empty.

Soft jazz music plays from the ancient jukebox near the door, the lights are down low, and the city sleeps while I drown my sorrows with another Scotch.

The Black Ox is the only neutral bar in New York City. No one fights here, regardless of what family you’re from, so it's the safest place to go when you need to lose yourself. And I really need to lose myself.

Anastasia killed Sergey.

Viktor was right all along.

For months, I resisted his suspicions, convinced he was looking in the wrong place because his grief was driving him toward the one person who could have answers. I was sure he was just looking for someone to blame, and Anastasia was unfortunate enough to be in his firing line.

But he was right.

All this time. All these months.

And it was her all along.

It doesn’t sit well with me. I attempt to drown out the swirling, confusing sensation in my gut with the rest of the alcohol in my glass, but it only makes the feeling burn hotter.

I was completely and utterly convinced that she was innocent. I called Viktor crazy. I told him again and again to look elsewhere.

But it was her.

“Fuck.” My head sags forward into my hands while my mind races with the new truth. She killed him to save herself.

Can I fault her for that?

And children. He was going to traffic children. My stomach rolls at the thought.

There’s an illusion that exists in our world created by the belief that no one is innocent, so the crimes we commit, regardless of what they are, are mostly deserved. Adults are evil people, our family included, so it was easy to justify how we made our money. Even I got behind it after Viktor showed me a better way of life after my sister was snatched and killed.

That illusion protects us, but it only works for one reason.

No kids.

Kids are innocent. They’re fragile and kind, sweet and unproblematic. Which is why they are off-limits in all aspects of our world. There’s an unspoken rule to never go after someone’s kid, although that doesn’t always pan out.

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