Chapter Twenty - Ruslan

On a high from our shopping spree, and taking Fiona in the changing rooms, I don't want anything to do with work. All I want is her. To take more time to get to know her. Sure, I can find out the information of her past by digging, but finding out who she is by her telling me is helping build our bond. I see the way she looks at me when I leave in the mornings, coming back in the dead of night. There's a longing for love, and for me it's a dangerous place I've never been, nor want to visit if I can avoid it. It's not the oath of my Bratva brothers I took long ago. And now more than ever, there's no room for that.

Truthfully, I've been working around the clock with my security team to determine the location of the warehouse, and we're close to finding out where it is with a few near misses on the southside of Chicago. I kept that part from Fiona, not wanting her to be distressed about betraying her father's promise. She would be, because despite giving in to me, she's loyal, and I've taken advantage of her.

But today, as the brunette beauty, bound by the fate of her choices sits next to me, and with the back seat full of her lavish purchases, maybe I can shower her with enough gifts for her to realize life with me isn't as bad as she thinks it will be. That maybe we can grow together. And that somewhere inside of myself, I want what she wants. Normal days of being with my family-to-be, and less warfare. It's terrifying to feel this way, I've been the street monster of the Bratva for so long—yes, less malevolent, but once the dark of your soul rots, it doesn't change, it only lays dormant waiting for its opportunity to strike in a different way.

Maybe you can with the Omerta files. It can make the Bratva untouchable. We won't be questioned, and from the strength of my name alone, the world will shake in its boots.

As I question the future of my family, we drive home to the sounds of the local radio station blurring our own silent worlds. A few minutes later, it's interrupted by Mark.

I switch out of my thoughts, thrown into reality. "Mark," I bark, Fiona abruptly alerted to the call.

"Ey, boss. I've got news on the warehouse photo. Can you talk?" he asks warily, Fiona's face of bliss changing rapidly to one of mental anguish.

"Yes, go ahead. Fiona and I are in the car." I have nothing to hide. She's going to know once I find the files anyway, better she's in on it this way without me explaining anyway.

"Okay, okay, listen it took some time, but part of the reason is we were looking in the wrong place. Those rusty old containers in the photo, no longer exist."

My jaw twitches at the irrelevant information. "So? And now? Where is it located?"

"It's right near Richton Park, tucked away behind Taco Bell. It's the old Red Farm Terminal, you know the one? We used to run deals out of there."

Gripping the wheel a little tighter, my knuckles turn white from their chokehold on the wheel. "Yes, I remember the one." A flashback of peeling the nails off a wayward drug runner from long ago leaks into my mind.

"Perfect, but you need to come down here now. We don't have much time. I've got a team of ten here, and we're about to start searching the grounds."

"Good, keep going. I'll drop Fiona home and come there."

Fiona reaches out, grabbing my arm as I look over at her pained expression. "No. I want to come too. Don't leave me out," she begs.

Hesitating for a beat, I sigh, knowing it's the right thing to do. "Okay, you can come. We're on our way," I tell Mark.

"Perfect. I'll have the detectors ready by the time you get here."

"Good. See you when I'm looking at you." Clicking off the call, my pulse beats hard in my wrist as I swing a hard U-turn, heading back in the direction of the huge warehouse of past horrors, surprised that's the location Marino choose. The warehouse is basically hidden in plain sight. It must be because Marino conducted a lot of his business there, I justify. Our earlier changeroom exchange is muted by the promise of infinite political and street power, leading the Bratva to become one of the most feared crime syndicates in the world.

"Are you sure you want to come, Fiona?" I ask again, not sure if I want her there.

"Yes," she declares firmly, slight irritation flickering on her pretty face. "Of course I'm coming. I have every right to see what my father left to me."

"Alright, we're about to see." Chicago's afternoon traffic is stifled by a slow crawl at the bottleneck of a merge lane, further adding to the flare of tension in the car. "Come on," I grit out in irritation, relieved when I spot the traffic moving at a quicker speed, and a clear run to the warehouse.

More diligent than ever, I nod to the glove compartment as we creep up on the warehouse.

"Take the gun from there. I want you to carry it, and the holster too."

Fiona's eyes bulge out. "A gun? Do I need it with your team there?"

I send her a chilling stare, wanting her to heed my warning. More than likely she won't need it, but I'm breaking her into being an Utkin. She can't lay in the slumber of denial any longer. "Going in this warehouse is dangerous. We might have gotten rid of Bergin, but he has an understudy, and until we can find the files your late father protected, we'll have to take precautions. I don't want you caught off guard."

"Okay, I understand." Fiona ejects a shaky sigh as we arrive at the sprawling dilapidated warehouse, the loud noise of drilling sounding off as pigeons fly in and out of the cracked, sooted windows. I stare right into the heart of the building, recording a mental note of the adjacent warehouse, and the open patch of field to the far right behind it.

Right after lunch the air was as clear as Chicago's pollution-kissed skies were ever going to get, but now dirty gray clouds hang above the building, threatening rain as Mark approaches.

With my body coiled like a bedspring, I draw my gun, a slick pool of sweat covering my upper back.

"You made quick time. Come on. We found something. A dark spot in the picture that Luca left as a clue. I took a hunch that it might have been where he hid something. The detectors picked up something," Mark yells over the crippling noise.

"Good. How much time do you think we have before people start sniffing around?" I ask, thinking about securing the area further.

"Give or take a couple of hours. I've already called in government contacts. Ronny will vouch for us. The only place we might have to worry about is Taco Bell, but if they mind their business and we pay them off, I'm sure they won't be a problem," Mark explains.

Walking further, I scan the warehouse, large, rusted rail equipment in its corners. Two of my men are in hard hats jackhammering into the concrete, when one of them stops, calling us over. "Found it, Ruslan! Mark, get over here."

Fiona, Mark, and I jog over to the discovery, a large, antiquated chest being lifted from the rubble.

Nerve wrecked, Fiona gasps at the sight, an old, rusty chained lock on it. "Shit. I can't believe you found it."

Focusing on the task at hand, I direct the men. "Break the lock with the bolt cutters," I shout at the men as Fiona places her hand over her mouth in disbelief.

"This. Wow. H-he kept it here. This is where my father kept it," she gushes out in exasperation.

"Yes. He kept it here. Let's see what's in it. After a couple of minutes, the bolt cutters bite through the hacksawed steel, and the oversized lock and we open what looks to be a treasure chest. Before I take it any further, I take the necessary steps.

"Your job is to follow my instructions, and you speak of nothing you see here," I say to my Bratva brothers. They nod profusely as we stand over the large rectangular rustic antique, which in and of itself is probably worth quite a lot of money.

Inside it are stacks and stacks of cash, and layers and layers of jewels. My men use their gloved hands to pour out the contents. Inside the small bulging velvet pouches are rare diamonds, I know because some I have in my possession. There are others canary yellow, deep pink diamonds, black diamonds, rough uncut ones still in the stone itself. And beneath, there are more bars of gold stacked in a neat row, which we excavate from the box.

"Oh my gosh! I can't believe it," Fiona exclaims. "My heart's beating so fast. Wait—what's that?" she asks pointing to the once white envelope, which is now yellowing at the corners, pinned to the interior of the box.

I don't know how long the treasure box has been buried, but the ink on the outside of the envelope is still preserved. Tearing it off the roof of the box, I hand it over to Fiona, her name scrawled in large black texter.

"This is for you. Here." I give her the letter exchanging glances with Mark as my team proceed to continue digging into the treasure chest of what appears to be bottomless gifts. Handing her the envelope, I watch as her trembling hands open it, sliding out a piece of lined paper with scrawls of writing. Fiona's eyes well with tears and some of them plop onto the paper.

"What does it say?"

"It says—" she sobs, pinching her fingers on the bridge of his nose, trying not to cry. Out of the corner of my eye, I keep watch as my men bag the cash and the gifts. I reach for Fiona's hand in the meantime encouraging her to keep reading.

"Take your time." I might be after the Omerta files, but there's a deep part of me that Fiona's dredged up from a place I've never known. I do care, and fully understand the dynamics of family loyalty. Hell, I stand on them as a Bratva boss.

She takes a breath, reading the short scrawling letters. "The letter says dearest Fiona, I've always loved you, and all the cash, gold and jewels are yours to do with what you want. I want you to have them. I love you, and I did what I thought was best." Her sobbing continues, and I draw her in, kissing the top of her head.

"And they are yours. Anytime you want. We'll take care of it," I tell her, and I mean it. The bounty isn't the number one thing I want, even if I anticipate all collective goods found are probably worth more than one hundred million and would grant Fiona her freedom. No. That's not what I want. It's what's buried at the bottom that's most important.

"Got it!" In a smaller wooden box is what we've been seeking. There's a black USB stick on the inside, and those contain the Omerta files. Mark runs our special scanner over it, checking the files.

"Yes. Yes. Oh, what a sweet fucking day to be alive. The fucking Omerta files really exist. Thank you, Fiona," he sing-songs like a canary, whistling as a smile swims on my face.

"Fiona, welcome to the Utkins. Now the most powerful family in the country."

When I glance at Fiona, I see the guilt etched onto her sweet face, more tears spilling as she folds up the letter placing it back in the envelope and into her purse. "My father told me to wait for my uncle. Not for you. This was meant to be kept in our family. Not yours."

Choking up, she steps back, pigeons cooing above in the circle of the skylight, high above the wooden beams of the warehouse. "Fiona. This was the only way. You would be dead if I didn't help you. It could only happen this way. Your uncle is in prison for a minimum of a year. Now—now, I can protect you from them. We have leverage!" I insist, trying to open her mind to the benefits of the situation, but it's a lost cause.

Her mouth tilts in a wry smirk as she folds her arms over her chest, her red-rimmed eyes that were full of lust for me earlier, now reading as disdain. "I guess it's supposed to be like this, huh? You're my hero. You can keep people in their place, and I'm no longer a victim."

"Right," I say slowly as Mark remains quiet, directing the team to clean up the mess.

Gaining the Omerta files is a lot more complicated than I thought it would be.