He laughs, but not like he’s looking forward to an evening with his slimy brother.
When we pull out of the garage in Alexi’s Maserati SUV, a black truck follows us.
“How many guys are you bringing?” I ask. He grunts. What I want to ask is, “Why are you taking a security force with us? What are you worried about?”
But, I don’t. The night darkens as we head out of Boston and along the coast, down by Scituate. “You can see so many stars out here,” I marvel, craning my neck to look through the sunroof.
Alexi is silent, a muscle tic’ing in his cheek. This does not help my rising anxiety, which I stuff down for his sake. He needs to be able to focus on his brother, and not worry about me.
If I hadn’t been looking for it, I never would have noticed the turnoff for the private airfield, a well-groomed landing strip and a dilapidated hanger that looks like an old barn. This isn’t an airfield for rich businessmen. It’s all too isolated and dirty-looking, like a place for dark deeds.
The Turgenev family jet is on the runway, its running lights are on, but all the shades are on down on the windows, it’s hard to see who’s on board.
This feels so bad.
When we park, Alexi comes around to help me out of the SUV. “You stay right next to me, do you understand?” he murmurs, “If something happens, Pytor is your next layer of protection.”
The door to the old barn opens and inside, it’s well-lit and perfectly maintained. Dmitri strolls out in an expensive suit, gripping a giant cigar between his teeth.
“There he is!” he says, arms held open wide. “My dear brother and his intended.” His shark grin turns to me. “How are you, sweet,sweetLucya Dubrovina? You look lovely.”
He’s making a slow, visual circuit of my body and though I want to step behind Alexi, I force myself to meet his gaze. “Pakhan Dmitri Turgenev. Greetings.”
“Join me inside, you two. Let’s have a drink and speak as family, yes?” He turns without waiting for a response, heading back into the building, leaving a choking cloud of cigar smoke behind him.
Pytor and my other men are just behind us, but two of the guards flanking the door move forward, blocking them from coming inside.
“The Pakhan will have you wait outside,” one says, a man with iron-gray hair and the sagging jowls of an angry bulldog.
Alexi frowns, chill radiating off him. “Ivor Artyomov, greetings. It’s inhospitable to leave my men out on such a cold night.”
I can tell these two know each other well. Ivor’s gaze darts to the left. “I have my orders, Alexi Turgenev.”
Tightening his grip on my hand, Alexi leads us into the hangar. It’s well-lit inside, painted bright white, with a long wall unit full of tools and on the other side, a grouping of couches and chairs. Dmitri is slouched in an armchair, manspreading as hard as he can.
No wonder he hates Alexi so much. His attempt to show authority as head of the Turgenev family looks laughable next to the quiet power of his younger brother. I notice the men aroundhim subtly straighten up and bow their heads in deference to Alexi.
Unfortunately, Dmitri notices too, scowling angrily.
“Sit down,” he snaps, “we have much to discuss. Why are the Albanian and Wozniak issues not settled yet?”
“The head of the Wozniak Mafia retreated back to his home base in Warsaw,” Alexi says. “He has no choice since we’ve killed all his U.S.-based crew members. We retrieved the last cache of stolen weapons from a New York harbor.”
I can tell Dmitri’s not really paying attention. “Good, good.” He stares at me again and it’s making my flesh crawl. I move closer to Alexi, enough that our thighs and shoulders touch. “As Pakhan, I’ve been forced to make several changes for the good of the Bratva,” he says before a nauseating little smile distorts his face. “And some of those changes are just because… I want them.” To my horror, he looks at me. “One of those changes is who I will marry as head of our family. I find Inessa unpleasant.”
“This was a directive from our father,” Alexi says calmly, “part of the agreement with the Dubrovin Bratva.”
“Our father is dead, and I am Pakhan,” Dmitri says, “I’ve decided to make a change. I will be marrying Lucya Dubrovina instead.”
“I would rather lick the toilet seat in a subway bathroom.” It flies out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“I refuse,” Alexi says, rising and taking my hand. “I bow to your authority in all things Bratva. But not in this case.” He turns, propelling me toward the door.
“Well, brother, I’m afraid I must insist,” Dmitri says, ashing his cigar on the floor. “You may have Inessa, if you wish,” he adds as an afterthought.
“No.” Alexi’s eyes are no longer cold, they’re on fire with a repressed fury. “Lucya is my intended. Violating agreements made by the former Pakhan puts us at risk with the other families. They’ll no longer trust us to keep our word.”
“This has always been the problem with you,” Dmitri’s face is unrecognizable, twisted with hate and spite. “The golden child, always so dutiful. Well, I’m unhappy with your progress here. I’m displeased that you’re encouraging our younger brothers to go behind my back. I’ve decided that you are no longer useful to our Bratva.”
