Ivanov’s fist tightens, his eyes narrowing. Scared that I’ve opened myself up to a beating, I let out a sigh of relief when he growls then yanks a gold chain from his pocket. It looks like the same one from the photograph. "He wore this yesterday. Before I took it.” His mouth curves into a cruel line. “This man you see here… I am deciding his punishment for tomorrow. How severe it should be.”
He drops the chain into my hand. “Start talking.”
I close my fingers around the cold metal. Within seconds I’m bombarded with images and voices. I breathe through it, waiting for the chaos to settle, until the calm surrounds me and the past begins to play like a movie before my eyes.
The man from the photograph. He’s sitting across a table from men I don't recognize. They’re Lithuanian. Both of them. They mention a trip there. Attending a wedding. They're in a restaurant. Private booth in the back corner.
He opens a bag. Jewelry spills onto the table. Necklaces, rings, bracelets. He checks the stones. He’s interested in the diamonds. They’re negotiating prices. They’ve been doing this for months.
The images blur, fading as quickly as they came. The chain slips from my fingers, clattering onto the concrete. Grigori’s eyes remain glued to my face, waiting on his little songbird to sing.
"He's been stealing jewelry from your store,” I reportback. My voice sounds distant, like I’m speaking from outside my body. “He’s selling them to a Lithuanian dealer."
I’m numb, wishing I could fade into nothingness like the images from my readings. "They meet in the backroom of a restaurant near a river. I can't see where it is.”
"I don’t care about the restaurant,” he snaps. “How long?"
I close my eyes, terrified to look at him. "About two months. They were planning to attend a wedding in Lithuania.”
"Wedding?” he barks, jerking his head back. “There will be only a funeral.” He throws a hand in the air. “I give this bastard work in my store, and this is how he repays me. He’s a dead man.”
I sit there on the cold concrete, forced to listen to his rants and threats. When I was a kid, I used to feel guilty hearing him say he was going to kill someone because of what I told him. Now… I don’t feel anything at all. Maybe I’m becoming like him. Like the Bratva.
I don’t get a break in between readings. He pulls out another picture from inside his jacket.
"My son.”
His blue eyes harden into ice as he drops the photo into my lap, just like before.
“Roman.”
The way he says his son’s name makes his hatred clear. I stare at the picture. Roman looks nothing like the other man Grigori showed me. For starters he’s young. I’d guess maybe thirty or younger. He’s wearing a suit also; the background looks like some sort of fancy event. This doesn’t surprise me. Bratva men love to pretend to be businessmen. Some even donate to charity, like the Pakhan even though it’s all for show.
But his son…
I keep my breathing steady despite the shock. Roman isso handsome. How is that possible? I almost lift my head to compare him to Grigori then catch myself, remembering to keep my head down and focus on the picture. Roman is tall and lean, built like someone who takes care of his body and the way he looks. Not like the Pakhan who hides behind his expensive suits to appear respectable.
Roman’s dark-blonde hair reminds me of wet sand, but the scary thing about him and what I honestly can’t stop staring at, are his dark blue eyes. They’re identical to his father’s and even colder.
"What is he planning?"
My mouth goes dry, my palms misting with sweat. "I need something he touched."
"No." Ivanov leans forward, his tone hard, uncompromising. His eyes bore into mine. "You are lazy. You’re not trying hard enough.” He stabs a finger at the picture. “Now. Talk.”
My heart rate speeds up. I fight the urge to panic, tilting my head, pretending I’m trying something new. Anger radiates off him as he watches me.
"I see..." I close my eyes, making it up as I go. "He's dedicated to Volchya. He wants to maintain control of his territory. He’s facing challenges. Men questioning his authority."
Ivanov leans closer, intrigued. "Why would they question him? As much as I despise that dog, his brigade brings in the most money.”
My mind scrambles, searching for something close to the truth.
"Speak,” he roars.
"They question him because they know he doesn’t have your support,” I blurt out, still making things up. “He wants it.”
The Pakhan barks out a laugh. The sound makes my skin crawl. “Ah. Yes. Poor Roman. Son of an Australian whore Ifucked almost thirty years ago. Thought I'd marry her for giving me a son. Thought herself special.”
