Page 12 of Dirty Quinn
My parents were very distant cousins who shared the same last name. They were united at a young age in an arranged marriage, but it worked for them and eventually, they fell in love. However, my father was always slightly bitter about my mother being a better shot, a better killer, a better fighter. She wasn’t stronger, but she was faster and craftier and sometimes that’s all it takes to win.
And when her opponent was my father, she almost always won.
I realized at a young age, from watching my father and his devotees, that few men can handle being with a woman who is stronger, richer, and/or more successful. Though my mother was not wealthier or physically stronger, she was smarter and more successful, and my father had a hard time with that even though he loved her. A battle he waged within himself up until the day that she died. After my mother was killed, my father took all that jealousy and transferred it to bitterness over her death. So, now he’s still angry and unsettled, albeit more so because of his grief.
As much as I hate to admit it, I think a small part of him is relieved she’s gone. Because now he doesn’t have to worry about not being top dog. No matter the circumstance, he will come out on top. Even if for no other reason than because none of his men would dare go against him.
If he weren’t so torn up over my mother’s death, I might think he’d been responsible for it. But the grief he’s displayed is just as real as mine.
I return my attention to the conversation I’m having now with that same man. “I don’t need to return to Moscow. And I don’t need your help.”
“It is too late for that. You’ve had more than enough time to take care of this without success.”
“Father, you can’t just go in and start randomly killing people. It doesn’t work like that here.”
“I do what I wish.”
“It’s not like Russia.”
“Do you think I don’t have control here? That I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Then remain silent.”
I nod in acquiescence even though he can’t see me.
“I’m taking over, Daria. You no longer need to worry yourself with anything regarding Katya and her death.”
“Father—”
“I’m uncertain why you think this is up for debate, Daria. It is not. My mind is made up. You will step aside, you will not get in my way, you will watch how to properly avenge the death of your sister. Perhaps you will learn something.”
My face heats with anger. I’m tempted to hang up on him. This is not for him to decide. I’m the one who was here with Katya, the one who tracked her down, found her broken body, killed the men in the house with her, released the other women held captive. The one who now has systems in place for helping such women in similar situations.
He won’t care about any of that. He’ll just go in and start shooting. No regard for who he hits, no care taken to protect the innocent, no one left alive to bear witness to any atrocity his men commit.
“I would appreciate the opportunity to help any victims you come across,” I tell him.
“Victims?”
“Women held against their will.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say to him, if anything. I can’t go against him with this, he’s my father. The smartest thing for me to do is to agree with him and hope for the best. “Where will you begin?”
“That is to be decided. But I believe I obtained solid information at the auction I can use to proceed.”
I’m being dismissed. “Good luck, Father.”
“Thank you, Daria. I would like for us to have dinner at least once while I’m here.”
“I would like that too. Let me know and I’ll make sure I’m available.”
“Very well. I’ll be in touch.”
He disconnects the call before either of us can say anything else. The invitation to dinner is the only gesture of love or praise I will get from him. The Limonovs are not an affectionate bunch. Strong? Yes. Rich? Obscenely. Ruthless? To the core. Loyal? Until death. But the utterance of a tender phrase has no place amongst such esteemed traits.
