Chapter 26

Audrey

A s night falls over Chicago, I am taken out of the stinky apartment and loaded into the back of a black sedan. I'm getting flashbacks of the first time that Arkady tried to take me, and I can't help but wonder about him, watching him join me in the backseat. He is looking downright giddy and excited. It's as if he's going to the county fair with his prized cow. It irks me.

"How come you do so much of the dirty work yourself?" I ask.

The driver pulls out into the main road while I fiddle with the end of my zip tie. I don't think I can loosen the damn thing. Its edge is eating into my skin.

"What do you mean?" Arkady replies, casually looking through his phone and texting.

"You were there; I saw you," I tell him. "Watching The Emerald, watching me . You were there with your men when you tried to take me the first time."

"With a precious asset such as yourself, Audrey, I had to make sure. First, I needed to confirm your identity. You know how rats can be—they chatter but there's no substance. Second, I needed to be present in case things went sideways."

"They did go sideways," I shoot back with a smirk.

He shrugs. "Yes, well, I didn't take the ex-military boyfriend into account. Lesson learned. But then your daddy dearest came to town, and everything changed."

"Is that why you tried to have me killed back at the hotel?"

"I'll say it again because you clearly missed it the first time. That wasn't me."

"I don't believe you."

Arkady shrugs while I gaze out the car window. It's tinted, but I still have a decent view of Chicago's crummier streets as we're taken across the south side to what I presume is our rendezvous point.

My chest tightens along with my throat with each turn. I struggle to breathe as I try to figure out my future. It's all so uncertain now that I am not in control, and the odds are stacked against me. I cannot escape, nor can I fight these monsters.

I don't want to go back under my father's rule, either. That will be a different kind of death for me. The death of my soul. But what Arkady just said has my interest piqued. "If that wasn't you, who was it then?"

"Maybe you should ask your father," he says.

I nearly laugh. "You're trying to insinuate that my own father tried to have me killed?"

Arkady lets a smile curl the corners of his mouth for a long, lazy second as he stares at his phone. "Here's the thing, Audrey. This world is made up of two kinds of people—predators and prey. Sorry, make that three. I forgot about the bottom feeders. Three kinds of people. The predators, well, you're sitting next to one right now, and you should consider it an honor."

"Your over-confidence will be your undoing."

"Just stating the facts. I took down both of the Fedorov heirs and grabbed the daughter on my way out. It didn't even take that much of an effort, just enough cash to get the bottom feeders interested. That's what bottom feeders do, Audrey, which is why I choose my people carefully, while your father picks them out of any Russian-speaking crowd. Did you know, by the way, that over half of my employees are, in fact, genetically eons away from Russian bloodlines?"

"No, I did not know that."

"Russians can be fiercely loyal, yes, but in Russia. In America, the game is played differently. There's a reason why the Bratva here is so unstable and the families relatively easy to dismantle. The old heads come in with the old-school values, but the turf is new. It's fresh. The grass is green, and capitalism thrives here; it moves everything. In Russia, you rule with an iron fist and just enough polonium in your cupboard to get the message across. In America, it's all about the Benjamins."

"So basically, you're telling me that you can buy anybody, including my father's supposedly most loyal servants."

"Precisely, which is why you're in this predicament now, and why Grigori will have no choice but to abide by my demands, and why I will return to New York on behalf of my forefathers, stronger than ever and victorious, and why Grigori will eventually lose more territory in less than a decade. If his sons survive, they will have little left by the time he's dead and buried."

This man is either delusional, or his plans have been so carefully and intricately hatched that there is no room left for any kind of error. It may sound like madness to most, but I am his prisoner, my brothers are in the hospital as we speak, and Arkady is about to meet with my father so they can negotiate the terms of my rescue.

It makes me sick to my stomach to admit it, but I'm starting to think that Arkady may, in fact, do everything that he set out to achieve for himself and for the Abramovic Bratva.

"Ah, we're here. Come, now, little rabbit, put on a warm smile for your papa," Arkady quips. "He's going to be so relieved to see that you're still alive."

Ahead is a massive warehouse with rusty, corrugated iron panels covering the walls, a crumbling roof, broken windows, and flickering white lights burning inside. We're in the rougher side of Chicago, one of the former industrial sectors that used to thrive in the first half of the twentieth century.

All around us are similar derelict buildings—former storage facilities and factories, mostly. Old, box-shaped structures with aging facades and dusty courtyards filled with equipment left to rust and gather mold and grime. This whole block is perfect for mob and drug deals. There are no security cameras, half of the streetlights are broken, and it's far enough away from any residences that anyone could get murdered without anyone bearing witness.

"Come on, little rabbit," Arkady says, motioning for me to step out of the car.

"Stop calling me that," I snap.

He laughs. "Sensitive, aren't we? Those daddy issues run deep." But then, his good humor fades, the mask slipping from his face. "Now, get the fuck out of my car, Audrey."

I bite the inside of my cheek and do as I'm told, my eyes carefully surveying the area. I spot his goons quickly—there's about a dozen of them standing next to their slick, black SUVs—but I see a few more scattered across the property as well. They move in pairs, circling the building and communicating via radio, while another car waits outside by the gates, the lights off.

A few minutes pass while Arkady speaks to one of his lieutenants. I keep quiet and listen, my ears picking up noise in the background.

"He's coming," Arkady's lieutenant says. "Robbie just confirmed. One minute out."

"Is he alone?"

"Yes. Dark green Volvo, Illinois plates. Busted taillight."

"Good. Anyone following him?"

The lieutenant shakes his head. "No one except our guys."

"Grigori finally understood the assignment," Arkady mutters, a broad smile cutting across his pale face as he looks at me.

"There he is," Arkady says, watching as a dark green Volvo pulls into the courtyard.

I see my father behind the wheel, his cold blue eyes already scanning us. There's a glint of relief when he notices me, and all I can do is nod in acknowledgment.

He stops the car and carefully gets out while Arkady's security guards pat him down.

"He's clean," the lieutenant says.

"Welcome, Grigori," Arkady states, smiling disingenuously. He stays close to me, making me feel increasingly uneasy. I am his shield, whether I like it or not, because we can both sense the silent rage oozing from my father.

"Arkady, you piece of trash," Papa says, then gives me a short but comprehensive glance. "Are you okay, Audrey?"

I shrug in return. "So far, so good. Thanks for asking." My tone is deader than the Dead Sea. None of these men deserves any respect or sympathy from me. I'm just a fucking bargaining chip.

"Let's hear it, Arkady. Lay out your terms," my father says, sighing deeply, hands at his sides.

I take a moment to really observe him. His body language and choice of clothing say more than he ever will. The jeans and black boots tell me he's ready for trouble if push comes to shove. It's been a while since he's been directly involved in violence of any kind, but Grigori Fedorov is a former heavyweight boxing champ, revered and reviled in the Bronx.

His black shirt and smart grey Armani jacket tell me he's come to talk business. He wouldn't want to get any blood on it. But he will if he has to.

"I thought I already stated my terms," Arkady tells my father, then takes out a folded contract from his jacket's inner pocket. "I even drafted them on paper. All I need is your signature."

"And who is going to verify this? Who's going to sanction it? You speak as if there's some higher Bratva court that's going to legalize this thing," my father scoffs, unable to hide his contempt.

"It's for my peace of mind. It's what I will hold up for you to read while I peel the meat from your daughter's bones, should you ever think of double-crossing me," Arkady bluntly replies. "I consider myself a fair man, Grigori. I'd like to make a fashionable return to New York, not a bloody one. Securing your signature on this piece of paper will get the other families on board, and things can be official. So, if ever you decide to fight me, I'll have the paperwork handy for them to know they need to keep their fucking distance while I kill you all. Does that make sense?"

The Fedorovs may be leaders of the New York Bratva, but they're not the only ones. There are others, smaller families and clusters, gangs and organizations. At this point in time, they have sworn their allegiance to my father, paying protection taxes to the Fedorovs in exchange for being able to do business in New York. If someone like Arkady comes in from the outside, these people will fight alongside the Fedorovs.

But they are also annoyingly strict. If Arkady dangles a paper with my father's signature on it, then the same families and clusters are honor-bound to stand back because if a man like Grigori Fedorov goes back on his word, then he is not a man, nor is he someone worthy of following into the fire. He will lose all credibility.

And the Fedorovs alone are not enough to stand against Arkady and his men. That much even I know.

I look at my father and wait for his reaction as he reads through the contract, one page at a time.

"You've done your homework; I applaud you," he finally says.

"I had to," Arkady replies, "out of respect for the Bratva."

"However, you will never get what you want."

My jaw drops. What?

Arkady's bravado falters, and he gives my father a confused frown. "You do realize what's at stake here, right?"

"I do," Papa says. "And I'm telling you what is going to happen, even if I do give you what you want. I'll give you a chunk of my territory as per your request, but you will never get the support you desire. New Yorkers are a different breed, Arkady. You don't know them like I do. You will never get them in line."

"That's my problem to deal with, not yours."

"It will become my problem because your inadequacy will lead to unnecessary violence," my father says calmly. "It will spill out into the streets, and the NYPD is remarkably well-staffed. You'll inevitably bring more cops to our doorsteps. And that's when the others in the Bratva will demand that I take action. They will look to me for guidance and protection."

Arkady cannot believe what he's hearing. I bet he's never been told no before.

"I will take what is mine, whether anyone in New York likes it or not," he says. "But I really don't want to do it by beheading your daughter. Think about it, old man. You're not cut out for this game anymore."

"Your youthful spunk is just that," my father replies. "You're a flash in the pan. I have years on you, Arkady, and I know your father was just as reckless, just as foolish. But at least he knew his place in Chicago. He stuck to his lane, while I stuck to mine because he understood the New York spirit. You cannot handle us."

"Funny you say that because I believe I handled your kind pretty well back at the hotel. How are your sons, by the way?"

The jab is meant to deliver a gut punch to my father, but the Fedorov wolf is not easily rattled. There are moments when I despise him, yet this is one of those rare instances where I find myself admiring him for his self-control and composure.

I see it now. The reason why New York is ultimately behind the Fedorovs. My father may be a cruel and ruthless man, but he is also poised and unshakeable.

"Vitaly and Anton will both make a full recovery," Papa says, and it does take some of the edge off for me. "And I would like my daughter back now, Arkady. I'll give you what you want, but you will not be able to keep it."

"Sign this, then," Arkady says, nodding at the contract. "Prove you're a man of your word."

"Prove you're a man of yours first. Release Audrey."

"That's not how this works."

"Then how am I to trust you?" my father asks. "What stops you from killing us both once I sign this paper of yours, Arkady? Do I look like I was born yesterday? Don't insult this old wolf."

To my surprise, this gets on Arkady's nerves. He takes out his gun and waves it around, having lost most of his patience. "Listen to me carefully, Grigori. I don't have the time or the patience for your bullshit. Sign the fucking contract and take your daughter away. I have no intention of killing you or her. How will the other Bratva families of New York respect me if I'm the one breaking his own bond?"

"You did say you buy people's loyalty," I mutter, quick to pick up on my father's game. He wants Arkady to get mad, to lose control, to let his ego take the lead. "It's how you got me out of the hotel, isn't it? You paid our people off."

Arkady gives me a sour look. "like I said, I am a man of my word. I need this contract signed, and as much as I hate to admit it, I need you alive in order for those New Yorkers you praise to take me seriously. You said it yourself: I'll have a hard time with them. I'll have an even harder time if I off both of you right here right now."

"You sound like you mean it, but you have a tell," my father says with a chuckle. "Did anyone ever tell you that?"

"What the fuck are you talking about, old man?" Arkady snaps.

"Your voice gets just a little bit higher when you lie," he says. "It's almost indistinguishable, but I've heard it enough to pick up on it. See, that's the difference between you and me. Yes, I am old; yes, I am a traditionalist, and yes, I'm a dying breed. However, I have experience. I'm a couple of decades ahead of you, which means I've met my fair share of liars and charlatans, many of them better dressed and decidedly smarter than you."

Arkady stares at him for a few seconds, and it's as if the whole world has stopped spinning on its axis. Even his men are quiet, motionless, as they look at us. My breath is stuck in my throat, the air thickening in the room. I can almost feel the electricity crackling in the atmosphere, lightning licking at my skin, and pricking the hairs on the back of my neck.

Unpredictable people like Arkady are exceptionally dangerous when they're thrown for a loop. They get reckless, and I can tell from the tone of his voice that he is extremely close to losing it.

"Grigori, you're a piece of work," Arkady says with a forced laugh, a strained cackle that speaks volumes. "Here I am, offering to give your daughter and your unborn grandchild back in exchange for a signature, and here you are, making everything way more difficult than it's supposed to be. Just take the offer, man. I'll make sure to tell the New York families that you fought hard to keep your empire intact, I promise. Just don't make me do something I've never done until now. I don't kill pregnant women, Grigori. Don't push me."

My stomach sinks.

My father's eyes dart around us, then somewhere farther up. They linger there for a brief second, and I'm tempted to follow his gaze, but he smiles and looks at me next. "Everything will be okay, my little zaika, I promise," he says.

"That's funny, coming from the man who sent hitmen after his daughter so he could swoop in and save her," Arkady cuts in, gun still waving around.

"What are you talking about, Arkady?" I ask him, my mind suddenly blocked, unable to process anything. But as I look at my father, as I see the color drain from his cheeks, I manage to put two and two together, and nausea rushes up to my throat. "Oh, no …. You …. sent those hitmen to come after me. Anton's bodyguards, you … killed them …"

"He didn't, actually. Andrei and Yuri are currently watching over your brothers' hospital rooms," Arkady replies with a contemptuous smirk. "Anton will be pissed off when he wakes up, of course. I'm told he had absolutely no idea."

"Oh my God," I shudder to my core. "Papa, what the fuck did you do?"

"I needed to bring you back into the fold. You had to see precisely how dangerous Chicago could be for you," my father calmly replies.

"So, you sent people with guns to shoot at me after the Abramovic goons had already tried to kidnap me? That's a whole new level of deceit and depravity, even for you."

I think I'm going to be sick.

I'm lightheaded, wobbling sideways as I put a bit of distance between Arkady and me. He shakes his head in sour amusement while my father folds the contract back. "I did what I had to do to put my family back together, and I will never apologize for that," he says.

"Dad, seriously," I gasp, unable to believe what I am hearing. Yet, to my own astonishment, I am not as shocked as I could be. I know the man too well. It's not that preposterous when I consider how far I know he would go to make his point and get what he wants.

"Audrey let's talk about it another time," my father says.

For the first time in ages, I note a tinge of nervousness in his voice. He keeps looking around, and I'm starting to think there's something else going on here, something no one has any clue about except my father.

"What's happening?" I ask him, but he doesn't answer. He just keeps looking around.

Arkady frowns and glances over his shoulder, following my father's lead.