Chapter 22 - Fiona

A loud noise makes me jump, and I turn to see Anya popping a champagne bottle, the liquid fizzing over into the eager cups beneath her.

"Congrats!" she says before pressing a cup into my hand and taking a long drink. She hooks an arm around my neck and hands from me, grinning ear to ear. "Our little graduate!"

We're at one of the Milov properties, where Anya insisted we get the whole Family together to celebrate my graduation. The hall is decorated beautifully, and the menu for dinner later is full of the Russian delicacies I've come to love since trying Anton's cooking. When we were setting up, I heard him mutter something like, Grandma would have loved this .

It made me sad for him that his grandma wasn't here any longer and also sad for me that I didn't have the grief of a family to hang onto. It's a specific kind of missing out to be jealous of how someone else can miss their family member like that.

But that feeling—of being marooned on my own—is starting to recede with the more time I spend around Boris's family. They've all started to accept me as one of them, even the cousins everyone else seems to be afraid of for some reason.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us you were graduating early," Anton mutters. "One semester sooner, and you would have taken less time than me."

"I think you're forgetting the part where my GPA is higher than yours, Ant-y," I tease, leaning forward and booping the tip of his nose. He jerks back, his gaze swinging to Boris, and when I look at him, I catch him gazing at me with a look of adoration.

He quickly wipes it from his face, but it doesn't stop me from thinking about how he still hasn't said it to me—he still hasn't told me he loves me.

It's obvious—evident in how he acts, always protects me, defends me to his brothers, and has started involving me more and more in the family business.

"Dude," Anton says, pointing to me. "Tell her to stop calling me that."

"Tell her yourself," Boris says, grinning and taking his own glass of champagne. "Unless you're scared ."

"I am not scared," Anton grumbles, crossing his arms like a little kid. "And the GPA thing is a technicality. "

Anya and I continue giggling, and Penelope and Hannah join us, laughing as they accept their own glasses of champagne. Across the room, their kids are running around, playing tag through the tables and chairs.

It's everything I've wanted from a family. To feel fully celebrated. When I glance at Boris, I can see what our future might look like.

"Congratulations, girl." Hannah asks," What's next for you after this? Do you have anything lined up?"

I glance at Boris. Job searching hasn't been my top priority lately, and part of that is because we don't know if Allard is still looking for me or if he might try to come after me if I was out and about interviewing and eventually taking a job in the city.

It's not just that—it's also the fact that returning to an office job, now that I've had a taste of the adventure this life could offer me—sounds endlessly boring.

Part of me finds it hard to believe that just a few months ago, I was spending every night and every weekend in Allard's office, sacrificing my time to complete banal office jobs just for the chance at a decent job in the future. Boris wondered if Allard was thinking of bringing me into the fold—I don't know how I would have reacted to that offer. But I know how I would have reacted to the trafficking and other less savory elements of Allard's business model.

Some of my classmates already have jobs lined up after graduation in May, but I didn't do anything to secure one. Now, it's December, and my diploma is coming in the mail, and I don't know what the next step is. But with a business degree, it probably involves an office somewhere.

Thinking about returning to that life is depressing, and I slip out onto the balcony to get a breath of fresh air. A moment later, the door slides open, and someone follows me. From the footsteps and the breathing, I think I know who it is.

"Kervyn," I say, and he stops, pausing for a moment behind me, just out of sight.

"Okay," he says, standing beside me at the railing. I hear the click of a lighter. "That was impressive."

"Thank you," I say, glancing over at him. He's lighting a cigar. "You got another of those?"

He raises an eyebrow at me like he can't believe I'm asking for one.

"You want…a cigar?"

"Never had one," I say, "and if you're smoking to celebrate my graduation, it only makes sense that you treat me to one as well."

He stares at me for a long moment before breaking out into laughter.

"Holy shit," he says, "Boris sure knows how to pick them,"

"What does that mean?" I ask, accepting the cigar from him.

"Just that I've never met anyone like you before," he says, shaking his head. "My Penelope, she grew into her role. It took her a little while to find that—that special little spark of insanity that was already inside her. But you, it's like you've had it by the horns this whole time."

"Thank you," I say, fitting the cigar in my mouth and accepting his light. I inhale the smoke—it's ten times worse than I ever imagined, but I can't let Kervyn know I think that. He stares at me appraisingly as I don't so much as cough at the black tar that's now coating my lungs.

"Pen doesn't like me to smoke," he says, "so it's a special occasions kind of thing."

"I've never seen Boris smoke," I say, turning the cigar over and looking at it. "I've never seen any of them smoke, actually. Isn't that kind of a requirement for being a mob boss?"

"First of all," he says, grinning at me, "I'm the only mob boss. The rest of them are like mob assistants. And secondly, our cousins don't smoke because Alec died of lung cancer. Or, that's always been my assumption."

I pull the cigar away from my mouth.

"Alec was Boris's father," I say, more statement than a question.

"I know Boris doesn't like to talk about him," Kervyn says, taking another pull of his cigar and then letting out a long stream of smoke. "But I figured his wife would be privy to such things."

"It's a process," I mutter, part of me wanting to tell this man the truth—that Boris and I aren't married, that he's never even told me he loved me. I don't know why, but for some reason, I feel like he might understand.

But before I can say anything, the door behind us slides open, and Anya pokes her head out.

"Oh—it stinks out here," she says, waving her hand in front of her face. "Get in here, Fiona, they're about to do a toast," then, when she notices Kervyn, her gaze drops to the ground. "Oh, hey, cousin. There will be a toast inside if you're interested."

I raise an eyebrow, glancing at Kervyn, who nods his head at Anya as if to say See? That's how you should be addressing me.

"Here," I say, pushing the cigar into his hand. "I'm sure you can handle two. All that talk of lung cancer kind of ruined it for me."

"Fair enough," he says, "I'll be in after a moment."

Anya drags me inside and pulls me along to the front of the room.

"Okay, you're going to have to tell me all about that interaction—I don't think I've ever spoken more than five words to that man at only one time. I am so afraid of him."

She takes a deep breath of air as we come to the head of the table.

"I don't see why you would be afraid of him," I say, "he's clearly a big softie."

"Who's a big softie?" Roman asks.

"Kervyn, apparently," Anya says with a laugh as Roman pulls his head back, a disgusted look on his face.

"Kervyn is the leader of the Bratva, he is not a softie—have you lost your mind?"

"That's what Fiona said."

"Quiet, everyone," Boris says, coming to stand next to me. He taps his fork against his glass and gestures for everyone to raise their drinks with him. "Thank you, everyone, for coming to this celebration of Fiona's graduation. She's an amazing student—she graduated at the top of her class. We are so grateful to you all for accepting her into his family."

Boris turns, settling his gaze on me, and despite myself, I feel tears welling in my eyes. It's an unfamiliar feeling to have someone so visibly proud of me.

When I did something I thought my dad would be proud of, he would just move on to the next goal, expecting endless perfection. And then he died before I graduated high school, so I celebrated by myself with a pie from the gas station.

"We are all so proud of you, Fiona," Boris says, his eyes shining as he gazes at me.

He still hasn't said it, but it must be true. How could you look at someone like that if you didn't love them?

"After much deliberation with the family," Boris says, pausing to swallow and glance around the room, "we would like you to manage the operations at the airfield."

"The airfield," I repeat, hearing how breathy I sound. If Boris is offering me a job with the family—and one as big as the airfield—it means he trusts me. It means they all trust me. It means Boris expects me to stay. Wants me to stay.

A couple of people laugh quietly at my reaction.

"Of course," he says, clearing his throat. "If there's a different role you'd like instead—"

"No," I say, shaking my head and launching into his arms, spilling my drink a little. "It's perfect. Thank you."

He wraps his arms around me, and everyone cheers around us, clapping and laughing when I almost knock him over.

"Cheers to Fiona's graduation and her new job!" Anya says, raising her glass when Boris can't because I'm wrapped up in him.

"Cheers!" Everyone repeats back, drinking their champagne.

***

Managing the airfield is both challenging and exciting.

I've been in the role for a little over a month, and there are so many factors to consider—weather, flight paths, and how air traffic laws are changing in the region. My job is to get the Family's drugs in and out of the state with minimal interference from local airports and no interference from the police.

So far, I have a flawless record.

The first thing I do in my new position is meet with every person working at the airfield so I can read them all personally. Then, I raise the wages and increase personal accountability.

"Hello?" I say, answering on my wireless headset as I walk through the dock, checking to make sure the aircraft inspection is running on time.

"Hey, Fi," Anton says, "I have an extra shipment of Coke here. If I get it to you by two, can it fly out?"

"Make it 1:30, and it's a deal," I say, coming to a stop when I see Viktor outside my office. I turn, trying to act like I didn't see him.

"Fuck, Anton, what is your brother doing here?"

"Probably hoping for a quickie, I don't know what the two of you get up to."

"Not that brother—the other one, you dumbass."

"Don't call me a dumbass, and in that case, he's probably there to annoy the shit out of you."

I hang up and walk toward my office, clearing my throat to get his attention.

"Hey," I say, "how's your thigh?"

"Ha," he says, tucking his phone into his pocket. "That was months ago. When are you going to come up with something else to say?"

"Probably next time I have the opportunity to stab you."

"Listen—" Viktor says. "I'm here to talk to you about the Hawker."

I roll my eyes and suck in a breath. I've had this conversation with him a dozen times, and my opinion on it has never changed.

"First, the airfield is my domain, so I don't see why you're here, pitching ideas to me. And second, I've told you a million times that I don't like the HS-125. It's too big."

"But that's the point!" Viktor says, standing behind me as I unlock my office. "It can haul more product. Fewer trips, less waste. What is it you're always saying? That business jargon? A lean operation—right?"

"Sure, it's bigger," I agree, stepping inside and throwing him a glare over my shoulder when he steps in behind me. "But bigger isn't always better. Easier to spot in the air. And it's also riskier—if a large shipment gets picked up, that's more product confiscated. Smaller flights mean if one gets compromised, we lose less overall. We have more time to adjust our approach before another shipment can get picked up."

"Aren't you always talking about your flawless record so far?"

"So far—that's exactly right. It's bound to happen eventually, and I don't think minimizing risk is the wrong choice. Which is why I'm keeping the smaller planes. Besides, we already have these planes. Buying more is a significant investment, and I just don't think it's worth it."

"But—"

"Oh my god, Viktor!" I say, turning on my heel and throwing my hands up in exasperation. "Aren't you supposed to be handling recruitment? Why are you always in here, messing with my operation. I have everything under control. I swear to god you never showed an interest in this until it became my thing."

"Fine, you know what?" he says, stepping closer to me and putting his hands on my desk. His eyes dart around my face, that trademark grimace on his face. "I think you—"

"Get your hands off my desk," I growl, stepping forward. Just because everyone else bows to him doesn't mean I will. "Being reckless isn't the same as being bold, Viktor."

"I'm here because I don't fucking trust you, Fiona." Viktor growls. "You may have everyone else fooled, but I just don't buy into this whole act. That you're some random chick who happens to know jujitsu. So, yeah, I'm coming around. Just to check up on things."

"Your brother is in love with me, Viktor," I sneer. "So, you'd better learn to trust me."

"Oh, is he?" Viktor asks, tilting his head. "He told you that?"

We stand in my office, breathing heavily for a long moment. Viktor's eyes are hard and cold, and I'm reminded of my father for the briefest moment. I wonder if there's anything I can do to gain his trust or if I'll always be an outsider to him.

"Get out."

"I—"

I grab the gun from under my desk, pointing it at him and cocking the hammer.

"Get the fuck out of my office, Viktor, I swear to god."

Something flickers over his face for the briefest of moments, then disappears. He turns around and walks out the door, hitting his shoulder against another airfield worker. When the worker sees me lowering my gun and flicking on the safety, she turns around, apparently deciding that later might be a better time.

I take a moment to breathe. I sit in my office for at least an hour, trying to calm down. Then, I text Boris to let him know I'm heading home early. My heart feels tight; the whole world doesn't feel right now.

And it's because Viktor is right. Boris still hasn't told me he loves me.

He's shown it in a hundred different ways, but I say it every night without ever getting it back. It shouldn't matter. But it does.

I pack up my things and step out of the office, but when I turn to lock it up, I see past the box and through the scaffolding to the other side of the hanger, where someone is crouching along the wall.

It's not anyone I recognize. Staying as quiet as I can, I creep along the wall, balancing on the edge as I move forward to get a better look at them.

Then, I see the blinking light on the device they've just placed along the wall.

I drop my backpack and swing over the rail, hanging and dropping a few feet to get closer to them, but when they hear me land, they turn on their heel, running as fast as they can out of the hangar.

There's a decision to make: chase after them and figure out who it is, or clear out the hanger so nobody gets hurt.

I run to the intercom on the wall and slam my hand onto the red button, picking up the phone and trying to keep my voice from shaking.

"Code black," I say, trying not to think about the fact that the blinking device is just feet from me and could blow up any second. I need to get my people out of here. "We have a code black. I repeat: code black."

When I don't see enough movement, I shout into the speaker, "Get the fuck out, everybody."

That sparks some movement, and engineers and pilots start to follow the evacuation guide, hurrying out the doors and leaving the property altogether. We have many codes, including those for bombs, chemical warfare, and a visit from the police. If the hanger survives the bomb, I'll have to re-visit how important it is for everyone to know the codes and react to them as soon as they're called.

People are rushing out, and I spot Viktor on the other side of the building, trying to ask someone what's going on. I start to make my way over there to tell him to get out and not to delay anyone else from getting out when a hand snaps over my mouth.

I taste the chloroform and try not to breathe, trying to fight them, but they punch me in the side, and when I gasp in pain, I get a mouthful of the stuff, and the world goes black.