Page 1 of Brutal Reign
FIVE YEARS AGO
CHAPTER
ONE
PAVEL
The October windcarries the first real bite of winter, cutting through my wool coat as I sit on the bench overlooking Moskva. The sun hangs low over the city, painting the water gold and orange where it catches the light between the buildings. Rush hour traffic hums in the distance, but here along the embankment, it’s quiet enough to think.
This was Kamilla’s favorite spot. Not because it was particularly beautiful—though the view isn’t bad—but because this bench is where Kamilla and I spent countless summer evenings when the heat in our tiny apartment became unbearable. She’d bring stale bread to feed the ducks, carefully breaking each piece into what she considered “fair portions” so no bird got left out. Always worried about fairness, my little sister.
Even though life had been so unfair to her. To both of us, really.
I was fifteen when our parents died, past the vulnerability of childhood. Where I grew up, fifteen was practically a man. Practically, but not quite.
Kamilla was only six. Young to lose both parents and have her world fall apart, thanks to a truck's wrong turn directly into oncoming traffic.
The white pastry box sits beside me, tied with string the way the fancy bakeries do. I work the knot loose and lift the lid, revealing the vanilla cupcake nestled inside. Its perfect spiral of buttercream frosting is exactly the right amount, not the mountain of sugar some places pile on. And covering every inch of the white frosting are rainbow sprinkles. Hundreds of tiny, colorful specks that would have made my sister clap her hands in delight.
The bakery on Petrovka Street where we used to go for birthdays when I’d scrape together enough rubles for a small celebration closed down years ago, but this one will do. Vanilla with sprinkles. A simple enough order that any decent place can get it right.
I push the birthday candle down into the center, watching the frosting give way around the base. My lighter flickers in the wind—once, twice—before the flame finally takes hold. The small circle of light wavers but doesn’t die, casting dancing shadows across my hands.
Happy birthday, little star.
The words echo in my mind, carrying the weight of all the birthdays we never got to celebrate together. All the cupcakes I’ve sat with alone, year after year, hoping somehow she knows I haven’t forgotten.
Years of searching, of following every lead and bribing every official, of never giving up hope that somewhere out there Kamilla was alive and waiting for me to find her.
All of it ended last week with a file number and a death certificate.
Jane Doe #47891, found February 15, 1997. DNA match: 99.7% probability of sibling relation.
She’d been dead for twenty-three years, and I’ve spent every one of them looking for her.
I close my eyes and let myself recall our last night together. I can’t remember all the little details about her, but I can still see her face in my mind’s eye.
The apartment is cold enough that I can see my breath when I exhale, but Kamilla doesn’t complain. She never complains. She’s curled up on our secondhand couch, watching some cartoon on the tiny television we bought from a pawn shop, her knees tucked under the thin blanket I found in a dumpster and washed three times.
At six, she’s small for her age—probably because we don’t always have enough food—but she’s got those bright blue eyes that remind me of our mother. Right now, they’re fixed on the screen, completely absorbed in whatever animated adventure is playing out.
My phone buzzes against my thigh.
Kuznetsov’s crew, probably wondering where the fuck I am.
I ignore it. I told them I wouldn’t be there until nine. Not until Kami is sleeping.
“Pavel, are you hungry?” Kamilla asks without looking away from the shitty black and white TV that only gets one channel. “My tummy is making noises.”
I check the cabinet—a can of soup and some stale bread. Not much, but it’ll have to do. “Yeah, little star. Let me make you something. I’m not hungry,” I lie.
I’m always hungry. I’m so hungry I’m convinced I could eat and eat and never stop. But she’s six and growing, and I can handle being hungry better than she can. Maybe one of the bartenders will take pity on me tonight and throw me a few scraps that the patrons leave.
I heat the soup on our ancient hotplate—the only cooking device that works—and prepare her a bowl. I attempt to “toast” the bread against the hot plate so it doesn’t taste so damn stale, but fuck, I kind of burned it. Maybe dipped in the soup, it won’t be so bad.
My phone buzzes again.
Shit. I can’t put this off any longer.
