61. Andrey

61

ANDREY

"Well, well, if it isn't my firstborn."

Slavik is more dried blood and soot than he is skin and bones. The whites of his teeth and his eyeballs are the only bits of color left in him.

There's a gun in his hand, but he can barely hold onto it, let alone lift it. "It's foolish for us to be fighting, son. We're on the same side, after all."

"Funny," I scoff. "It took your allies being killed and your men being defeated before you came to that conclusion."

"I always held that position. You were the one who stubbornly clung to my power."

"I built everything I have."

"From the Bratva I handed to you." His eyes narrow. "Sons are meant to respect their fathers."

"And fathers aren't meant to sacrifice their children's safety and happiness for their own benefits," I retort. "That's not the mark of a father; it's the mark of a coward."

His hands tighten on the gun. "Careful, son. Or I might just disinherit you. Viktor may not have your fortitude, but at least he knows how to heel when he's told."

I ignore the tightening in my chest at the thought of my brother. "Unfortunately for you, corpses don't do anything they're commanded to."

Shock bleaches the rest of his color. "You killed him?"

"I did what I had to do."

Ash falls around us like black snow, cinders from the fire I started at the watchtower.

Finally, he nods. "I would have done the same in your place. You're much more like me than I thought. Come back in the fold and we can build?—"

"Spare me, old man," I spit. "I already built an empire, no thanks to you. Don't pretend you care about me now. You're still only trying to save your own damn skin."

Slavik shifts from one leg to the other, the muzzle of his gun roving slowly in my direction.

"How would it look," he muses, "killing your own father?"

"I don't concern myself with others' opinions. A true pakhan does what he must."

Slavik sneers. It suits him. His face was built for it—to sneer at the child he raised while his other son rots. While his sins rain down on him like ash until he's buried in it.

"I've been around a lot longer than you have, boy. Once I'm done with you, I'm going to take that pretty little pet of yours and make her my whore."

My fingers spasm as I imagine what it would feel like to wrap my hands around his throat. To watch his eyes fade to darkness.

"But don't worry," he adds. "I'll make sure your son is provided for. After all, I need heirs. My supply of them is dwindling."

He shoots at the same time I do. My bullet buries itself in his arm while his barely grazes my shoulder. I get away with a flesh wound while Slavik roars in pain, stumbling backward until he collides with the exterior wall of the shed behind him.

But before I can finish what I came here to do, he turns and scampers up a nearby set of stairs.

Growling, I sprint after him.

The stairs are wooden, singed by the spreading fires and popping in the heat. Each step creaks under my weight as I go up, up, up…

And emerge onto a rickety rooftop.

It's like looking into the lowest circle of hell from up here. Fires rage on all sides, huge licks of black smoke and orange flames. On the far side of the scaffolding is my father. He's facing outward, hands clasped behind his back. I don't see his gun anywhere.

"Turn around," I order, leveling my own weapon at him. "I will not shoot a man in the back."

When I feel heat behind me, I turn to see that the flames have chewed up the stairs. Going back down that way is no longer an option.

I look back to my father as he turns slowly. My whole world is a kaleidoscope of red and black and my eyes sting.

"Why did you do it?" I rasp. "Why did you turn in the Rostovs and run? Why did you abandon us?"

Slavik's eyebrow floats upward. "You're asking now?"

"There won't be another chance." Heat sears my throat. Sweat trickles down my spine.

"Your mother used to tell me that I didn't have what it took to be a pakhan anywhere else." He's whispering, but somehow, his voice carries across the dozen or so yards between us. "I had to prove her wrong."

"And you decided to destroy what you built here first?"

"I couldn't let her enjoy what I had created," he snarls. "I wasn't going to let her reap the benefits of what was mine."

"You took her sanity. Why take her comfort, too?"

"Because she refused to bend. I had no choice but to break her."

The screams coming from beneath us are growing more and more audible. Through the frenzy of voices, I hear one raised above all the others. "Andrey!"

My father recognizes it, too.

"Your woman is already mourning your death." Slavik smiles through his sweat-drenched face as he sinks onto his knees. The wood groans beneath him. "Can you hear her cry?"

"I promised her I would come back to her. I intend to keep that promise."

Slavik clutches his heart sarcastically. "How touching. You're a sentimental one, aren't you?"

"What I am—" I raise my gun as the flames lick closer. "—is a man of my word."

Slavik pouts out a lip, still mocking me. "You would shoot a defenseless man?"

"No." I snort. "I don't intend to waste another bullet on you."

I raise my foot and slam it down on the wood plank beneath me. The same one Slavik is kneeling on.

The wood vibrates, absorbing the force… until it can't take anymore. And it splinters.

My father falls through the gap. The flames beneath swallow him before he even has a chance to scream.

"Goodbye, Slavik," I whisper to the entire space where he'd stood. "The flames can have you."

Then I turn and jump.