Page 53 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“I’m sorry, Papa,” I whisper to the headstone that’ll soon bear his name. “You brought this into our lives, but you didn’t deserve this. I’m going to get revenge.” Justice doesn’t interest me and is impossible to obtain through the legal system. I’m pinning my hopes on Tigran.
The wind carries away my words, but I imagine he hears them anyway. I wonder if he understands I’m going to change in ways that might’ve worried him. That the daughter he raised to value mercy and forgiveness is learning to embrace vengeance and violence.
“Mrs. Belsky?” One of Tigran’s men approaches carefully. “We should go. The perimeter is secure, but we don’t want to stay in one location too long.”
“I’m ready,” I say, though it’s not true. I’m not ready for life without Papa, or the violence that’s coming, nor to be the woman I’m going to have to become to survive in Tigran’s world.
Ready or not, this is my life now, and if I’m going to live it, I’m going to make sure Papa’s death means something. I’m going tomake sure everyone responsible pays for what they took from me. Only then will I find any semblance of peace.
20
Tigran
The note arrives on expensive cream-colored paper that feels soft between my fingers as I read the words that chill me. Someone slipped it under the mansion’s front gate sometime during the night, bypassing every security measure I put in place after Claude’s murder.
Mrs. Belsky, Your father was just the beginning. You’re next.Soon.—A.F.
The photograph attached with a paperclip shows Zita at her father’s funeral, taken from across the cemetery with a telephoto lens. She’s standing beside Claude’s grave, her black dress stark against the gray October sky, tears streaming down her face while I stand behind her with my hand on her shoulder. The image is sharp and professional, taken by someone who had plenty of time to find the perfect angle.
They were watching us even in our most private moment of grief. The Federoffs had eyes on us, documenting our pain for theirown sick satisfaction while we buried the man whose death I failed to prevent.
“Sir?” Viktor stands in the doorway of my study, his expression grim. “The perimeter team found no signs of forced entry. Whoever delivered this knew our patrol schedules.”
I crumple the note in my fist, then immediately smooth it out again because it’s evidence, even if it makes me sick to look at it. “How many people knew the exact time and location of the funeral?”
“Inner circle and a few of his close friends Mrs. Belsky insisted on notifying. Perhaps twenty-five people total, including the priest and cemetery staff.”
“Run background checks on all of them.” I slide the photograph into a plastic evidence bag, though I doubt we’ll find anything useful. “From now on, we assume every move we make is being watched.”
“What about Mrs. Belsky?”
I look toward the ceiling, where I hear Zita moving around in our bedroom. She’s been restless since Claude’s death, cycling between periods of numbness and explosive anger that she directs mostly at herself. The grief has consumed her in ways I recognize but don’t know how to help her process.
“Pack for an extended stay somewhere remote. We’re leaving tonight.”
“Where to?”
“Door County. We’ll stay at the cabin we used to plan the Mitznova stratagem last year.” The safehouse is isolated, defensible, and unknown to all but my most trusted men. Ifwe can’t guarantee Zita’s safety here, surrounded by guards and security systems, then we need to disappear until I can eliminate the threat permanently.
Viktor nods and heads for the door, then pauses. “Boss? How long are we planning to stay hidden?”
“Until Avgar Federoff is dead and his organization is scattered to the wind.” I meet his gaze. “However long that takes.”
Three hours later,we’re driving north through the Wisconsin countryside in an unmarked SUV with bulletproof glass and run-flat tires. Zita sits beside me in the passenger seat, staring out the window at farmland and forests that blur past in the darkness. She hasn’t spoken since I told her about the note, just nodded when I explained we were leaving immediately.
The silence between us feels different from the comfortable quiet we’ve shared in recent weeks. This silence carries the weight of her grief and my failure to protect what mattered most to her. Since Claude’s death, something has shifted between us that I don’t know how to navigate.
“How far?” she asks finally.
“Two hours, maybe less if traffic stays light.” I glance at her profile, noting the exhaustion written in the lines around her eyes. “You should try to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see Papa bleeding out on that office floor.” She presses her forehead against the cool glass of the window. “I see his last moments playing on repeat like some horrible movie I can’t turn off.”
“The nightmares will fade with time.”
“Will they? Or is that just something people say to grieving daughters because they don’t know what else to offer?”
The question is honest and raw in a way that demands an equally honest answer. “The nightmares fade, and the sharp edges of the pain dull into something more manageable. The loss itself never goes away completely.”
