I stumble back and trip, falling past the few steps I managed to get up, landing on my back. She follows me down, reaching behind her and pulling out a knife.
I scramble, getting to my feet as quickly as I can. It’s not fast enough. She grabs my by the hair again, pulling me into hercloud of perfume and the next thing I know, I’ve got a knife to my throat.
“Leave,” she hisses at me. “Get your shit and get out of this house or I’ll gut you like fish and serve your little bastard to my dogs.”
I’m terrified. This woman is glaring into my soul, knife to my throat. She really means to kill me!
“You understand what I’m saying?” she says, breathing hard into my face. “I want you gone. If I ever see your fucking face again?—”
“Don’t do this,” I say. “Please?—”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” she screams into my face. I feel the sting of the knife as it cuts into my skin. “I will slit your goddamned throat!”
My legs are shaking with terror. I don’t know what to do or how to get out of this. Do I scream? Will Mikki hear me? What if he gets to me too late?”
“Pack your fucking things, you stupid little whore, or I will?—”
A sound interrupts her and she looks up, toward the windows of the living room. I don’t hear anything at first… and then the sound gets louder. It’s wheels on gravel.
It’s a car. Someone’s coming.
20
ANTON
This time of day at this point in the week, there’s almost no one here. I walk into the church and the familiar scent of incense greets me, the smell of parts of my childhood when my mother was still alive and my father still believed. There’s a short vestibule between the front doors and the sanctuary. I walk through, stepping into the full glory of the church.
I don’t think I’ve ever been tothischurch before, but I imagine all churches in the Russian Orthodox faith are built the same, more or less. Impossibly high ceilings round off near three distinct peaks, rows and rows of hyper clean pews with red upholstery and wooden bases, carved with curled corners at the end of each row. The stained glass displays saints depicted in scenes that represent them, and behind the altar, the walls continue the saint artwork, little alcoves depicting each one, all underneath a large alcove hovering overhead with Jesus looking down on it all.
“Timely. I like that in a Pakhan.”
I glance to my right and see him sitting in the first pew. Distinct in his graying hair and nearly white beard, he’s wearing a suit that covers tattoos that everyone knows cover his entire chest, back, and arms. Right now, only a bit of it all peaks out on the backs of his hands and a little bit over his collar. He’s looking back at me with a curious smile on his face.
Nikolai Novikoff in the flesh.
“Sit. Please,” he says, patting the space next to him.
I’m reluctant to sit next to him. If there were a way we could sit facing one another, I would have preferred that. I have to have faith that he wouldn’t dare do me any harm inside this church. I know that a lot of the older Pakhan have attachments to sacred spaces like this, so it’s probably unlikely. However, it’s not unheard for a ‘neutral conversation’ that ends up with one of us bleeding to death out on the front steps.
I sit next to him and we look forward at the display of religious glory before us.
“Nikolai,” I say.
“Anton.”
“Why am I here right now?”
“I’d like to think it’s because I asked,” he says, “but that may be too vain of me. I imagine you came because you want to tell me why you’ve started attacking my men.”
That’s almost laughable. He’s got to be putting me on. I look over at him to check to see if he’s joking. He’s not smiling.
“I don’t have time for games, Nikolai. You know exactly why I’ve been attacking them,” I say. “You’re the one who started all this.”
“Istarted all this?” He scoffed. “I’ve done a lot of things in my time as Pakhan, but I can’t say I’ve ever been unaware of a war that I supposedly started. As far as I know, I have done nothing to denigrate your or Maksim’s name.”
I cringe at the sound of my mentor’s name on his lips. “I should slit your throat for even speaking his name,” I growl. “You have no right.”
I can feel his eyes on the side of my face. I lean forward, clutching my hands together in an effort to quell my anger.
