Chapter 11

11

NIKOLAI

E ver since I was a child, the basement of our house has been a makeshift prison. Soundproofed so my mother wouldn't hear the endless screams and the type of cold that cuts straight through to the bone. My father always said the cold is meant to suck the warmth from your body with every step. It was his last act of kindness to his captives, an early introduction to the chill of death's touch—the perfect place for a monster—the perfect place for my father.

Despite all the cells down here, there is no one else. I don't believe in the messiness of keeping captives longer than a week. If they don't break under the torture of Nadia, then they will never break and deserve the emptiness of death, like we all do.

A sharp gust of breath from Nadia's lips fills my ears. This time of year is the hardest for her. She was, and sometimes still is, a daddy's girl. She visits him every other month to chat, but when we come with her, she knows the only conversation we will have will end in violence .

I reach back, open my hand to her, and she laces her fingers with mine.

"It's okay. I got you, sestrichka," I whisper, but the hollowness of the makeshift prison makes my voice sound louder than it needs to.

Nadia squeezes my hand twice as we approach the metal door at the end of the hall. Aleksandr goes into the cabinet to the right of the door, slipping the black bag of torture items underneath his arm and giving me a sharp nod. A guard stands to the left in riot gear, staring straight ahead.

Every Father's Day, we follow the same routine. Aleksandr is the torturer because the last time Nadia tried, she cried. Nadia doesn't cry, not even when our mother died. Not even when her first love broke her heart; it is the only time I have ever seen her dwindle into sadness, and Aleksandr is so separate from his emotions that he can easily separate the man who raised us from the monster who looks at us now. His torture is methodical, systematic, and precise. He deals the maximum pain in the quickest ways possible.

I alone have the courage to meet his gaze and witness the madness rippling through his eyes. Unlike my brother Aleksandr, or our sister Nadia, I do not hold onto any memories of kindness from our father. From a young age, I knew the darkness lurking inside him. And now, as I face him once again, I ask the same three questions that consume my thoughts. Where is she? Why did you do it? How could you? These are the only things that matter to me when it comes to him, and the minute he tells us, I will gut him like a fish.

Nadia watches so that she remembers the monster our father is. If things get too intense, she stops us, and we wait until next year as she nurses him back to health .

I nod at the guard. He positions himself at an angle with an AK-47 pointing straight at the door.

The door hums with a low, electric buzz as the security system engages. A sleek, touch-sensitive control panel beside the door lights up with a soft blue glow, displaying a complex interface of biometric scans and security protocols. My fingers dance across the surface as I input the code, my mother's birthday, and authorize my access with a fingerprint scan. With a faint beep of approval, the panel's light shifts from blue to green. A soft, mechanical click echoes through the corridor, and the door slides open in a smooth, almost silent motion.

I step through the threshold, and the door automatically closes behind us with the same silent efficiency. The guard keeps the gun trained on my father, who sits in the middle of the cement floor, legs crossed. The dim light from a single, flickering bulb casts long, haunting shadows that dance across the walls.

An eerie silence crawls across the room, only broken by the subtle sound of pages turning. My father, Boris, continues to read, his eyes flicking up to meet mine for a brief moment before his gaze darts away. He sighs as if we have caught him at the wrong time.

"Son, what can I do for you today?" Boris grumbles, boredom invading his features.

He is wearing gray sweatpants and a white cotton long-sleeve t-shirt with matching white socks. The gray in his hair almost erases any evidence that it was ever jet black. His face is weathered and lined, yet there's a sharpness in his eyes that I've wanted to cut out since we locked him down here.

"The same thing you can do for me every year." I shrug, entering the room more .

Nadia moves to the corner of the room, leaning against the wall. Aleksandr walks over to the metal table bolted to the floor of the cell and unravels the black bag, an assortment of knives, hammers, needles, and anything else he might need to extract pain from Boris.

Despite the harsh fluorescent lighting of the prison cell, Boris's resemblance to Aleksandr is striking. Though softened by age, his broad shoulders and solid frame still hint at the powerful man he once was. Even in this confined space, he is still the man that haunted me as a child. The red dot from the guard's gun shines brightly on his chest.

He looks down and smiles. "Oh, is it this time of year again? You're going to threaten to kill me and then fail to do so."

"Dad," Nadia whispers. He looks at her from the corner of his eye, placing the book open on his knee. "Just tell us where Mom is."

My breath catches in my throat, and I fail to stop the rolling of my jaw. He looks at me, lifting his chains that connect to the cuffs around his ankles. His eyes stay on me as he speaks. "Aleksandr, did you receive her left foot this morning?"

"No, the right." He wipes down his knife methodically and looks at us from the corner of his eye. "Your guy must be slacking."

"Must be; the right is supposed to go to Nikolai. My right hand. The heir to my throne." His eyes narrow on me. I don't move. I don't want him to know that he still gets to me. "The one who betrayed me."

"Betrayal is a funny word coming out of your mouth." I click my head to the side.

"Why?" Boris rises to his feet. "Is bastard better? "

I hold my tongue, and Aleksandr stiffens, his head slowly turning to me. "What does he mean by bastard?"

A low chuckle comes from his throat, and he gives me a toothy grin that makes my skin itch. A shaky finger is brought to his browning lips as he shushes Aleksandr. "That's a secret between Nikolai and me."

My body is so stiff I am afraid to breathe, yet no one knows from the smirk I have on my face as if Boris amuses me. I mastered my poker face young because he always said, ‘To show any sign of weakness as the head of the Petrov Family is to show yourself to be an unfit king.' That was one of many violent lessons from Boris, the first of many that ended in me spitting blood out on concrete and wishing I was never born. Now, I am nothing if not a man fit to be king.

Nadia's shaky voice breaks me out of memories of my childhood. "We don't keep secrets from each other."

I can feel her eyes burn in the back of my head. The laughter that leaves his lips is nothing but cruel, yet his eyes light up like a child on Christmas morning. "Nadi, you know a man is nothing without his secrets, even from his little sister."

Her voice is harsher this time. "I am his right hand."

For the first time since we entered the cell, Boris looks at Nadia with his nostrils flared, eyes hardened, and voice laced with venom. "You have never been acknowledged as a member. Do not fool yourself."

Nadia steps deeper into the corner of the room, looking down at her hands and pinching the inside of her wrist like she did when we were kids.

My eyes whirl on Boris, a sliver of emotion showing on my face. "Speak to her like that, and I'll take another finger. "

He raises his hands up, revealing his right hand, which is missing his thumb and middle finger, a crazed smile on his lips. "This time, take the ring. I'll bleed more."

Nadia shakes her head. "I can't."

"Nadia," I warn, my voice stern and sharp.

"No, if you can keep secrets from me, then I do not have to be a part of this," she huffs, pushing off her wall. "Neither will Aleksandr."

"This is why we don't allow women into the mafia," Boris sighs. "You're too emotional."

Nadia storms across the room, snatching the knife out of his hand, and throws it perfectly into Boris's shoulder. He grits his teeth, looking down at where the knife is lodged in his right shoulder. Laughter bubbles in his chest, and I look over at Nadia. Her lips twist into a snarl, her eyes wide, and her brows furrowed. She looks like she wants to vomit.

"Go," I command firmly.

"I can do it, Nik," Aleksandr responds, unfazed by anything that happened.

"No." I flex my arms in front of me. "He's all mine."