Page 1 of The Russian Retribution

1

ANASTASIA

I’m going to kill them.

A drastic but singular option.

They never questioned my father the way they question me, never tore apart every idea he had simply because they respected him. That same respect didn’t pass to me after his death, although confronting the issue head-on would open me up to a worse problem because I know they’re just waiting for an excuse.

My father’s generals have always looked at me with disdain.

Being the only heir to the Remizova fortune should have meant I was raised to glide into my father’s shoes the second he kicked the bucket, but I never was. Not exactly. The generals who were supposed to aid me held out for my father to remarry because the very idea that I, Anastasia Remizova, could take over the Remizova Bratva empire one day was absurd.

I’m a woman.

I’m only suitable for marrying off and pumping out babies for the next archaic man in line for power.

But those same old laws that kept everyone looking down on me are the same laws that put me in power the very night my father was assassinated. It just didn’t come with the respect and guidance I had hoped for. Everyone eyed me with suspicion, expecting me to play the role of the grieving daughter until I passed on my power to someone else.

But I didn’t.

I kept it and started working on setting right everything he'd set wrong.

The only problem is, in the two months since I stepped into my father’s shoes, I have accomplished nothing. Meetings dissolve into tense back-and-forths, and my ideas and orders are met with unhappy glares or vocal disagreements. Everyone has a different idea of how things should be run, and more and more things happen behind my back.

I’m sick of it.

So tonight, it’s all about to change.

A flash of thunder from the passing storm lights up my room in a burst of brilliant white, sending a ripple of glitter across the sparkling emerald fabric of my bodice. An array of mismatched makeup lies scattered over the top of a dresser carrying the scars of age. My reflection ripples slightly in a warped mirror that’s undoubtedly seen a million different faces peer into it.

I’m told the antique furniture was my mother’s love, but having never met her, I will never know.

The green bodice tightening around me with every breath feeds into a deep velvet skirt that sweeps out from my waist and lightly kisses the floor each time I lean closer to the mirror to add justan extra swipe of concealer. The men I’m about to meet will roll their eyes and turn their noses up in disgust that I dare appear before them in a dress, despite the theme of tonight’s dinner being black tie. It’ll remind them undoubtedly that I am a woman, and I am the one in charge of their dusty, backward asses.

I’ve scooped my hair up on top of my head and it’s held in place with a handful of pins. Two thin, long strands curl from behind my ears and tickle my bare shoulders as I add sparkling diamond earrings and adjust the silver pendant around my neck. A dash of dark red lipstick to complete the look, and I’m ready.

Another flash of lightning turns the room into a glaring white square for a few seconds, and my heart jumps at the following roll of thunder. The weatherman talked about this storm for weeks as if his entire yearly paycheck relied on it, and now it thunders overhead as if preparing to cover up my actions tonight.

Most go about killing with a plan to never get caught, but in this world I won’t be keeping it a secret.

I’ve tried playing nice. I’ve smiled and shaken each wrinkled hand shoved my way, nodded and thanked each glaring face for their useless opinion, and sat at the head of the table while the family business is discussed like I don’t even exist.

Tonight, everyone will listen.

Stepping into black heels, I force a deep breath and as I reach for the handle, hesitation pulls at my limbs. In my room, when it’s just me, I feel safe. It’s my only port in a sea filled with snakes. The moment I step out that door, I have to slip on a mask that will never be taken off again.

Can I really do this?

My fingertips lightly cling to the door handle. I glance back and stare at my gorgeous reflection in the mirror. They say mirrors capture a fragment of every soul that holds its gaze. Is it crazy to hope that some fraction of my mother, a woman I’ve never met, exists in that glass and is staring back at me with pride in her eyes?

Maybe even love?

Deep down, I know it’s wishful thinking born from a child who grew up without her mother and existed under the cold, cruel eyes of her father.

I choose to believe it’s true. Only for tonight.

Another crash of thunder rolls over the top of the manor, and I grip the handle tightly.

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