Heat rises in my chest, but I swallow it down. She has some nerve speaking to me like that. But according to the will, she's only doing what Papa wanted. "And when this is over, then I get?—"
"A place in this family," she interrupts. "You know your father instructed me to prove you." She leans forward and rests her elbows on the desk as her voice takes on a darker tone. "Though I’m not sure you're really ready for this step."
There's always something sinister about the way she speaks to me too, like she's trying to send me some veiled message. Well, I have news for her. It's not veiled at all. She's hated me since the day she met my father, and her putrid daughters have too. She never wanted me around because I represent Papa's past and his previous loves. And I stand between her and the fortune—which has only been glaringly obvious now since Papa died.
"I'm ready," I say plainly, not giving away how she makes me feel. She doesn't know it, but my first act as his successor in this family will be to cut her off entirely. She'll get what he provided in his will and nothing more. And I can't wait for that day.
"Good girl. Now go prepare yourself. You have three days."
I turn and walk out calmly, though I'd love to slam the door in her ugly face. My room is at the far end of the hall and it's where I go immediately. If Severin notices the ring is missing, he'll come looking for me, and he'll probably look here first, butat least I have a lock. Besides, Vera will call him in, lie about me, and give him his ring back soon enough.
I carry the embossed envelope to my bed where I toe off my shoes and sit down. The fight club across town is one of the few places Papa never took me.It isn't a place for ladies, he'd tell me, but I know plenty of women who've gone there. He was trying to keep me in my place or something, though Eleanor told me once that he was only trying to preserve my femininity in a world that would steal it soon enough.
Just thinking of him brings tears to my eyes. Our relationship wasn't great, as you can imagine. I still harbor resentments because of the way he let Vera treat me while his back was turned. But then if the maid is to be believed, everything he did was for me.
I pull the memory box out from under the foot of my bed and tug the lid off it, revealing the keepsakes and mementos I've stashed up over the years. Papa's ring really goes in here, not anywhere near Vera, but I won't get a choice. If I successfully take it off Roman Kuzin's hand, Vera will force me to hand it over. In doing so, however, it will bring about change. I'll finally have the respect I deserve. Or at least I hope.
When I drop the envelope for the fight club invitation into the box, I notice the corner of a picture peeking out. I know it's my mother when I was just a young girl, before she died. I pluck it out and look at it and feel tears prick my eyes. I never really knew her well, though there is always a part of me that misses her and wishes I'd gotten to know her. But it isn't for her that I cry.
Papa left me. He promised he'd be here, and then everything went wrong and now he's gone. All I have left of either of themis this box of memories stashed away under my bed where Vera can't find them and degrade me or what little I have left of my life before she showed up.
A few tears fall as I put the picture back and pick up a stack of the things in the box—a few letters handwritten by my father to one of his men. They're nonsense to me, but they are his and I keep them so I can remember the way he spoke to them. I also have a few pictures of me and him together, when I had my first shot of vodka legally, though I'd been sneaking his spirits for years already at that point.
I smile at the memory and set it aside and pull out the letter my mother left for me when she passed. Papa held on to it for me because I was so young, and I never knew it existed until he passed and it came to me through Mr. Gregov, thankfully without Vera's knowledge. Otherwise, I'm certain she'd have confiscated it too.
I've read it a dozen times and all of them have left me wondering about my family history. My grandfather saved a man when that man was just a child. His promise—sealed with an oath and the signet ring whose mark is pressed into the wax of this letter—was that whoever bore this sealed letter was owed a great debt.
Sometimes, I like to imagine foolishly that it's a great prince with all the wealth in the world, like a fairy tale or something. I know it's stupid, and the man who wears this ring is probably dead somewhere by now. Who knows? But thinking of escaping this life to something far less cruel will always forever be on my mind. It's an escape I can manage every night as I lie on my pillow and try to make my mind dream pleasant things, not scary ones.
I put the things back in the box, hide it under the bed, and curl up on my pillow listening to the sounds of the house. The prattling of my stepsisters, the vacuum somewhere down the hall, and the light rain that starts to patter on my window.
In three days, I'll be given a chance to prove that I have what it takes to take my rightful place among my father's men, and I won't fail.
Because my future depends on it.
2
ROMAN
Two men circle each other in the fighting pit below my scaffolding platform. The challenger feints left and my enforcer takes the bait, dropping his guard for half a second. That's all it takes. The challenger's fist drives into his ribs hard enough that I hear the impact from here in my lofty perch erected for tonight's show.
My enforcer stumbles back, and the crowd pressed against the chain-link barriers erupts. The challenger's good—better than the last three who came through here looking to prove themselves. He keeps his guard tight and moves like a well-trained street fighter. I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and watch him land another hit.
Yegor stands beside my chair with his arms crossed. "That's the fourth one tonight who's worth keeping."
"Fifth," I say without looking at him. "The one with the scar on his ribs. He fights smart."
"You want all five?"
"I want the ones who can make me money." I watch the challenger duck under a wild swing and drive his fist into my enforcer's kidney. "Put them on the circuit. Start with Yekaterinburg and see how they do."
Yegor makes a note on the clipboard he carries. The fight ends when my enforcer goes down and doesn't get back up, and the crowd erupts as money changes hands along the barriers. I sit back in my chair and gesture for the next matchup to begin.
The next two fighters enter the pit, and the crowd roars. The families are scattered throughout the warehouse, watching from different vantage points near the barriers. It's a good way to get a feel for what's happening in this city. The ones who haven't accepted my invitation, I make a mental note about. They may be hostile. But those in attendance, it means they may need something. They may be posturing, seeking my approval or support.
Yegor reads the first name off his list and the man makes his way through the crowd to the scaffolding. He climbs up and sits in the chair beside mine without waiting for an invitation. His suit is expensive and his hands are clean. He watches the fight below and crosses one leg over the other.
"Good turnout tonight," he says. Damien Sarkov, if I'm not mistaken, but I won't ask him if he doesn't introduce himself.
