Dark Mafia Prince: A Dangerous Royals romance (19 page)

“The old man took our brother,” Viktor hisses. “I say we start a trail of destruction that does not end until we hit him.”

“You guys!” I say.

“We have soldiers, weapons. We go to war this minute.”

“No. Wait.” Aleksio places his hands on top of his brother’s hands, trapping them there on his shoulders. “We do this smart. We’re not fucking puppets. We don’t let emotions make us into puppets.”

“You sound like Konstantin.”

He pulls away. “I say, we don’t let Kiro’s death make us stupid. Let’s let his death make us smart. Let’s let his death make us dangerous. We don’t just take blood, brother. We take everything, now.”

“How about if Kiro’s death makes you want a better world?” I say.

Aleksio isn’t hearing that. He lets Viktor go and flips through the photo album to one of the pictures of Kiro. I try to catch his eye, but he won’t look at me. I know the one he wants to take—Kiro on a tricycle. Ronson tries to stop him from taking it, but you can imagine how that goes.

While Ronson’s distracted, I write Aleksio’s number on a tiny shred of napkin for Lila. I put it back in her napkin shred pile. “If anything comes to mind,” I whisper. Because it really seems like there was something she wanted to say. I’m thinking she might have something. Mementos, maybe? Something she doesn’t want Ronson to know about. I have to get away while I can. But maybe Aleksio will hear from her.

“Thank you for your answers,” Aleksio says, voice calm, but inside he’s wild. I can feel it like we’re one person. Maybe I never stopped knowing him, somehow. “And if I see any police sketches out there looking like us? If you breathe a word of any of this to anyone? Life as you know it is over. Repeat it after me, Ronson.”

“Life is over,” Ronson says.

“Do not doubt our fury,” Viktor adds with a snarl, turning and heading for the mudroom with Tito and Yuri. I hear the door to the garage door open. Out in the garage, a car door slams.

Aleksio hasn’t moved. He stares out at the river. Kiro would’ve played out there. Explored out there. Aleksio is wired up with a raw energy that scares me.

“Ready?” I say, pulling his hand. I say goodbye to Lila and Ronson, like good manners might make up for anything, and pull him out of the kitchen and into the mudroom, past the line of coat hooks and mitten and boot cubbies. Just before we reach the door to the garage, he stops, nearly pulling my arm from the socket.

“What?”

He stumbles toward me, seeming out of his mind, and pushes me to the doorframe. He presses his forehead against mine, his breathing heavy.

He grabs my hair, like he can’t bear for our foreheads to stop touching. It’s a good hurt, a raw hurt from a violent man in pain. “I do want to let loose,” he whispers. “I want to kill everyone.”

I grab hold of his hair. “You’re better than that.”

“I don’t think I am.”

“You are.”

“Fucking fantasyland.”

“Fuck you,” I say. He looks up, expression torn. Everything is going full blast, and he won’t hear anything else over the storm except for “fuck you.”

So I say it again. “Fuck you, and fuck that. Your humanity is what’s beautiful about you.”

“He’s dead.”

“But Viktor’s not. Tito’s not. Konstantin’s not. I’m not.”

His intensity ratchets up. His grip on me tightens. He presses me hard to the wall. “I need you, baby.”

I should say
you have me
, but I can’t, because I’m leaving.

The way he looks at me now, it’s like he hears my thoughts, and he smashes into me with a savage kiss, flattening me, claiming me. He shoves his tongue into my mouth. He shoves his pelvis into mine.

I grab onto him. I hold on to him for now, letting him take me, taking him back. All his emotion goes into that kiss.

He pulls away, panting. “You’re mine,” he says suddenly. A feral man’s way of saying
I love you
.

My heart pounds. I begin to speak, but he kisses me again. Stops me from talking. Footsteps at the door. Viktor. “Fucking hell, come on.”

We return to the car and roll out. Aleksio slides in the back with me. I can feel the rage and grief washing over him. I feel it as sure as I taste the blood in my mouth from a savage kiss that was pure Aleksio. A savage kiss I loved too much.

I’m his
.

Sometimes it feels like we’ve never been apart. As if some dreamer far, far away has been dreaming us in a life together, and we’re only now discovering it.

I’m his. Just another one of the reasons I have to get away.

Viktor

I
stare out
at the endless farmland as Yuri drives. Morning. Aleksio and Mira in back.

So much farmland. It’s no wonder Americans have so much food. I think of poor Kiro.
Keith
, they called him. I don’t have the bad associations with the name like Aleksio does. But if Aleksio says it’s a shit name, it’s a shit name.

I want to kill old man Nikolla and Bloody Lazarus and all of the crew. I want to cut a bloody path through Chicago. Finish off every one of them with my bare hands. I want my face to be covered in their blood.

Killing does not dull the pain, but it
changes
the pain.

When you are in pain, any change is good. Even a change to the worse seems like relief.

This pain I feel for Kiro. My little brother. My
bratik
. I would change it to anything else.

But, yes, Aleksio is right. Be smart, be deliberate. Be dangerous.

But really I want to get bloody. If Aleksio were not here, I would get bloody. It is my way.

You would think, after Tanechka, that I would know better.

The pain of Tanechka’s betrayal was unbearable. Like battery acid in my heart.

Then I killed her. And that was worse.

Tanechka was the only woman I loved. I would be dead if not for Yuri.

I should be dead, but Yuri needed me. And Aleksio needs me. I stay alive for them.

Aleksio remembers Kiro as a baby. I have only the old photo, and now this boy on a tricycle, looking very much like Aleksio. On the back, it says
Keith Knutson, 5 years.

“He is very big for a boy of five,” I say, fingering the stiff rectangle of paper. “Our brother would have grown to be big. Strong. A good fighter.”

Aleksio stares bleakly out the window. “We have to tell Konstantin ASAP.”

I nod.

This news will devastate Konstantin.

I look back down at the photograph.

I never had a tricycle, or any kind of bike. I do not know how to ride one. If not for Mira’s father, I would have known how, and maybe I would have helped this little boy ride one, too. We would have ridden together.

Mira

“R
eally?” I say
as Aleksio pushes me into the windowless bedroom at the Stonybrook house. “After all this? You can’t lock me up like a fucking dog in a kennel.”

He and Viktor are about to head out to Konstantin’s to break the news. “You have to stay. It’s how it is,” he says.

“You can’t keep me.”

He shuts the door and locks it. I fly to it and jiggle it.

Crap.

I listen for the car roaring out. I put my ear to the door. Loud music comes from somewhere—the kind of metal that Viktor and his Russian friends like to listen to. I listen for a long time. The last time I was trapped in here and listened at the door, I could hear the clicks of a phone and the sound of a man clearing his throat once in a while. There’s nothing here. Just the music. Probably the kitchen—that’s where they like to hang out.

I’m still in the clothes I went up north in—a drapey embroidered white shirt and the short summery skirt. Sandals. Not the best for running, but I’ll take them with me. I’ll go in bare feet across the lawn and then put them on for the woods.

I listen at the door. No sounds. “Hello?” I call softly.

Nothing. Nobody out there.

Dad once had one of his best guys tutor me on how to get out of places—handcuffs, trunks, locks. Picking a lock won’t help here, but he made the point that you go for the weakest link where you can.

The weak link here isn’t the bolt, it’s the door itself. It’s an interior door, a bedroom door. It’s not hollow like some of them are, but it’s soft. I’m not under any illusions I can muscle through it like the Kool-Aid man, but the place where the screws grab the wood—that’s the weak link.

I scour the bedroom and the bathroom for something to use. I settle on the hinges from the cabinet under the bathroom sink—they’re flat metal triangles. I could slide the wide end into the door crack and then whack it. It’s the same principle as a chisel, except I’m not trying to pry something apart so much as pop it out the other end.

I use a barrette from my hair as a makeshift screwdriver and pull one of the bathroom cabinet hinges off. I try to fit it into the crack. It’s tight, but I shove hard, and it works—it slides in and stops when it hits the metal of the bolt on the other side.

Then I evaluate mallets. The wood base of the bedside lamp seems best. Really solid. I unplug it and do a few practice swings, but not connecting. There will be a loud sound. I’m hoping the music is loud enough to cover it.

I put my ear to the door. Nobody there. As the song gets fat and loud, I do it—I smash it once, twice. Listen at the door. Nothing—except a lot of noise.

I whale on it then, just slamming it, and finally the metal plate goes through and pops the hinge.

I ease the door open and push it back into place. I sneak down the hall away from the direction of the music. I slip into another room. It’s an empty bedroom, and the window is open—just a screen. I punch the fucker through, climb out, and find myself in the dizzying sunshine, bare feet on the warm grass.

I run across the expanse of grass, legs shaking. Free.

I don’t look back until I’m in the woods.

Nobody coming. Just the sound of distant music.

I keep on, feet getting torn on branches and sharp things. I stop only to put on the sandals. I’ve committed to going west, following the afternoon sun. It’s important to commit to one direction in a situation like this, because you hear so often of people going in circles.

The woods get thick and brambly. My legs are getting torn up. There’s no path here, but I can hear a highway in the distance. I need to get to that highway. I’ll hitch a ride and hide at my friend’s cabin.

I think about Aleksio with me in the dark back seat of the car. The way he felt as I held him. So much violence in him. So much pain.

Aleksio will be shocked that I’m gone. Angry. But it’s best for everyone. We belong in different worlds.

Aleksio

W
e head over
to Konstantin’s place, west of the city. We’re wild with grief and vengeance. Dreading the news we have to tell.

“You don’t touch Mira,” I say. “You understand?”

He says nothing.

“You understand?”

“I understand what you’re saying,” he says.

I give him a hard look. He gets it.

Konstantin lives in a beautiful old red brick building on the edge of a park. He has his own place, and a nurse lives in a place next door, there to care for him. I support them both. My gang isn’t huge like the Nikolla army, but we’re smart and lucrative.

“Old man is more interested in ducks than in people. If he was in the city it would be the pigeons,” Viktor observes as we pull up. “It’s the same in Moscow, with the old people. It is suddenly the little things.”

But Konstantin still sees the big things, too.

He’s in his wheelchair in front of a fireplace when we arrive.

He’s made a nest of comfortable furniture and photos of old buildings, mostly from Albania, Greece, and Turkey, mostly that he shot himself.

“Boys!” he says. “My boys!” I bend down to kiss his cheek, and he pats mine, then turns to Viktor and clips his chin. “Who fucked up your face?”

“It’s nothing.”

The nurse puts out a plate of cookies and kafe turke, then leaves, back to her flat. Konstantin notices I’m limping. “You need that looked at.”

“Konstantin,” I say. One word.

The old man’s face falls. He knows me that well.

I think about Mira in the car, the way she reached out to me. I find myself wishing she were here beside me. In the past few hours, she’s begun to feel more like an ally than a hostage.

Viktor takes a sugar cookie and chews it angrily.

I tell Konstantin about Kiro. For a brief moment we thought we’d get our baby brother back. Telling Konstantin makes it worse. Makes it more real.

His wrinkled hands tremble as he examines the newspaper article we took from Lila and Ronson. He clutches the photograph of Kiro.

“I still feel him in my heart, though,” I say. “They never found the body, but…”

“Things are typically as they seem,” Konstantin says curtly.

I know he’s right.

“He was such a happy baby,” Konstantin says. “Beautiful, happy, good. A gift. Strangers would stop on the street to admire him. He was loved.”

Viktor takes another cookie. He was too young to remember Kiro, but I know he tries. Like grabbing onto clouds.

“Viktor,” Konstantin says, looking at him sadly, as though he can read his thoughts. Viktor shrugs.

I can’t stop thinking about Nikolla. Wishing I could kill him.

“You were loved,” Konstantin says to the photo.

I have to do something—anything—so I go out to the car to get a bottle of vodka and bring it back.

Viktor looks over with his usual darkness as he takes his glass. Just us now. Two brothers instead of three.

We make a toast to Kiro, the three of us.

“We want to get dead fucking serious here, Konstantin,” I say. “You always said to be smart. Kiro is gone, but we can still go after them the right way. The way you wanted. We weaken them. We take our empire back. I know we don’t have the element of surprise, but…” I almost say we have nothing to lose. It feels like that, a little. “You always said I was rash. I get it. Going after Kiro that way?”

“You wanted your brother,” Konstantin says. “In the end, you were right not to wait. We would’ve had to wait forever.”