6

The Toyota minivan’s tires squealed as Dmitry rounded the corner. He skidded to a stop in his driveway. His pulse quickened as he strode up the sidewalk past his wife’s precious rosebushes toward the house. Why is the house dark? Where is she?

“Blyad!” he said under his breath. He’d been in the United States long enough now that even his dreams were in English, but when he was enraged, the curse words always burst out in Russian.

Hands shaking, he fumbled with his house key, turned the doorknob, and silently slipped inside. His breath caught when he heard voices coming from the back. Sabina wasn’t alone.

He crept through the living room toward the back of the house. They’d been here only a year, and he still wasn’t used to having so much space. The small three-bedroom, two-story house was twice as big as their last place. Granted, the last house was only a thousand square feet and felt crowded with just the three of them and Bunin, their German shepherd.

Without turning on the lights, he made his way through the living room and down the hallway to the kitchen. He stopped just short of the entrance and listened. Suka blyad. How in the hell did he get here before me? He inhaled deeply and stepped into the room.

Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was decorated with Sabina’s touch. She’d sewn bright floral curtains for the windows and had him hang special hooks for her favorite copper frying pans. She’d been thrilled to have more counter space and a dishwasher. He gazed at his wife. From her diminutive stature and girlish good looks, you’d never know she was damaged but not broken.

Sabina was serving tea from the samovar. Her movements were ghostly, as if her body were on autopilot while her mind was elsewhere. She hadn’t been the same since the fire that had burned their little house in Skokie and almost killed her. If it hadn’t been for Bunin, she’d be dead.

“Dima,” she said. “Look who’s risen from the dead.” Her hands trembled as she handed Sergei a cup of tea. When her eyes met Dmitry’s, he saw terror and a silent plea for help. He wanted more than anything to protect her—that’s all he’d ever wanted, to protect those he loved.

“No thanks to my dear brother, who left me for dead twenty years ago,” Sergei said with a smirk.

“At least I didn’t kill you.” Dmitry took a seat at the table. He’d been only nineteen, for God’s sake. No wonder he’d left Moscow.

He nodded to his wife when she handed him a cup of tea. He took one sip, then another. The strong tea would help fortify him against whatever might come next. He glanced at his brother. As a boy, he had tortured animals. As a grown man, he was capable of anything.

“That was your first mistake.” Sergei grinned. “Stealing my inheritance was your last.”

“All the money I took was burned in a fire.” Dmitry extended his open palms. Unfortunately, it was true. When Vanya burned their house down two years ago, all the money he’d been hiding over two decades went up in smoke. He should have spent it instead of hiding it, but, like the past, he was afraid of it. Like the past, it felt better just to bury it. “It was hidden under the floorboards when the house burned to the ground. The dog pulled Sabina through his doggie door, or she’d be dead.” He shuddered just saying the words out loud. He glanced over at his wife, whose soft brown eyes had hardened into sharp rocks.

“There are worse things than death,” Sergei said. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“The same hammer that breaks glass forges steel,” Dmitry said in Russian. He remembered his mother telling him that when he was eighteen and his father made him drop out of art school to join the “family business.” The question was had standing up to his father and leaving home broken him or strengthened him?

His shirt was damp with sweat, and the tea was just making him hotter. He had to get Sergei out of his house and out of his life. He should have killed him when he had the chance. If I had, I’d still be in Moscow. Hell, maybe I’d be the head of Bratva. He shook his head. That’s exactly what he left to escape. He was an artist, not a thug.

“Sabina, would you excuse us?” When Sergei reached across the table and patted her hand, she flinched. “Dima and I have business to discuss.”

Sabina refused to make eye contact as she stood up and left the room. She hated Sergei more than Dmitry did. Maybe she hated his brother for giving her what she loved most. Dmitry pushed those painful thoughts from his mind. He wanted nothing more than to rush after her and wrap her in his arms. He’d escaped Russia and his father in order to keep her safe. But in truth, she was his safe haven, his refuge from the violence of the world.

“Okay, Sergei. Quit playing games. What in the hell do you want?” Dmitry clenched his fists. He may kill his brother yet.

Even Sabina’s strong black tea wasn’t enough to fortify Dmitry against the nightmare of Sergei’s resurrection. The tip missing from Sergei’s left ear took him back to a grisly scene from his adolescence. His father had sent him and his brother on an “errand.” They were to collect protection money from a knife-wielding shop owner who was tired of paying Bratva just to stay in business. Blood spurting from his ear, Sergei had kicked the knife out of the shop owner’s hand and gutted the guy.

“Sabina’s looking as beautiful as ever,” Sergei grinned. “Stealing my girl was your second mistake.”

Dmitry shot his brother a dirty look, then dragged himself up from the table. His limbs were heavy, and it took all his effort. Seeing Sergei had sucked the life out of him. He thought of his mother. Leaving her had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. And it was Sergei’s fault for being such a stupid, greedy mudak, thinking he could embezzle from Bratva and get away with it. What did he expect?

Dmitry took a bottle of Stoli from the freezer. Lolita kept it there for her weekly visits. Is drinking the only way she can deal with us? He loved his daughter dearly, but she was a mystery. She didn’t share her thoughts, dreams, or plans. She was so secretive. Maybe she came by it naturally. He, too, had his secrets. Being a foreigner wasn’t easy. Being the son of the most infamous organized crime boss in the world meant keeping secrets or facing death. Still, in the end, no matter how faithful you were to your secrets, no one could escape death.

“Ah, good idea,” Sergei said in Russian. “Tea is for sissies.”

Dmitry held the bottle in one hand and grabbed two shot glasses with the other. The glasses clinked as he walked back to the table. Again, he thought of his mother’s favorite saying. The same hammer that breaks glass forges steel. Could his fear of his brother be that hammer? Whatever Sergei wanted, he wasn’t going to get it. He set the glasses on the table and poured out two shots.

Sergei grabbed his, threw it back, then slammed his glass on the table. He snatched the bottle from Dmitry’s hand and poured himself another. He gulped it down and poured another. His nostrils flared, skin glistening like polished leather.

Dmitry was tempted to match him drink for drink. But he knew that wouldn’t end well. “So, moy brat, what do you want?” He held the Russian for my brother between his teeth like a dirty rag.

“I want what you stole. As the older son, it’s rightfully mine.”

As the only son. The last time he saw her, Dmitry’s mother had confessed that Anton Yudkovich—also known as “the Oxford Don”—was not his father. “I told you, the rubles burned in a house fire set by one of the goons the Pope sent to threaten me. I don’t take well to threats.” Dmitry imagined seizing the vodka bottle, smashing it against the table, and using a shard of glass as a weapon. He didn’t mention that the goon was his cousin Vanya or that the Pope was after the Kandinsky paintings.

“I know you took art too. I heard about the paintings. Too bad about your professor friend.” Sergei poured another shot.

“He wasn’t my friend.” The late Professor Schmutzig had been blackmailing him, and, as much as he abhorred violence, Dmitry had to admit he wasn’t sorry to see the smug professor poisoned by one of his own students.

“Too bad,” Sergei repeated, clucking his tongue. “Accidents happen if we aren’t careful. Dead professors, house fires . . . sounds like you are accident-prone, dear brother.”

“I don’t have any money. What do you want from me?” Dmitry rubbed his forehead.

“Oh, but I know you do. I know you recently sold those ridiculous paint splotches for a tidy little fortune. I want my share. It’s only fair, don’t you think?” Sergei stroked his neatly trimmed mustache.

“Look, Sergei. I told you, I don’t have any money.” Dmitry’s palms were sweating. “My house burned down. I didn’t have insurance; I had to sell the paintings to buy a new house.”

Sergei shook his head.

“I didn’t want to sell them. I loved them like my children.” That wasn’t quite true. He’d loved the Kandinsky, but the Goncharova—his mother’s favorite piece—had always irritated him. Goncharova’s blocky, primitive, figures seemed crude compared to Kandinsky’s elegant lines.

“You’re going to give me my share one way or another, brother.” Sergei patted his pocket. “One way or another.”

“I sold the paintings to Mr. Nick. They’re hanging in his new museum, the Center for Russian Art and Culture. I spent all the money already. This house—Lolita’s tuition . . .” Sergei didn’t deserve the truth. Dmitry had sold the Goncharova to buy his new house. But he’d never sell the Kandinsky. It was on loan. He couldn’t bear to part with it, not ever. That painting had gotten him through many a dark night. Anyway, he didn’t owe Sergei a single ruble. If anything, his brother owed Dmitry his life back. All he’d ever wanted was a regular life, nothing special—working, painting, loving his wife and daughter. He didn’t want wealth or fame or power. He just wanted to be left in peace. “I’m sorry, Sergei. I don’t have anything to give you.”

“But you do, Dimka. You do.”

Dmitry shuddered at the familiarity of his childhood nickname. “Just tell me what you want and then leave my house.”

“I have a buyer for three Kandinsky paintings. A ridiculous banker in Moscow needs them to fill out his collection. They’re in your museum. He’s willing to pay serious rubles. You get them for me and you’ll never see me again.”

“I can’t.” Dmitry tugged at his collar. “They belong to the Center. I don’t own them.” Technically, he never had, since he’d stolen them from his father. Actually, that wasn’t quite true either—his mother had given them to him as a parting gift. Thoughts of her conjured the scent of rose water and took Dmitry back to the train platform where he’d said goodbye to her all those years ago.

“You work there. Go get them back.” Sergei raised his voice.

“What? Steal paintings from the museum? Are you crazy?” He clenched his fists.

“I told my buyer I’d have them for him by the end of the month. You’ve got two weeks to get them for me, or else—” A vein popped out in his neck.

“Or else what? You’re going to pull my hair or kick me like you did when we were kids?” He glared at his brother.

“Speaking of kids,” Sergei lowered his voice. “Your lovely daughter is going to host a game for me.” He grinned. “Lolita,” he whispered. “The lovely Lolita.”

Dmitry lunged across the table. Both glasses went flying and shattered against the tile floor. The same hammer . . . His fingers grazed Sergei’s lapel as his brother jumped up from his chair.

“Sit down!” Sergei snatched up the vodka bottle before it could topple. He sat it on the table, then brushed droplets from his jacket. “Sit down.” He whispered this time. “There’s no need for violence . . . ” His voice trailed off. He might as well have added “not yet.” He pulled his chair out, sat back down, then pointed at Dmitry’s chair. “Sit!”

Like a well-trained dog, Dmitry obeyed.

“Enough with the pleasantries, brother,” Sergei said, running his fingers through his graying hair. “You’ve been lying to me and I know it.”

Dmitry slumped in his chair. Why would he think anything had changed? He never could fight Sergei and win.

“Yes. You sold mother’s favorite painting to Nick Schilling. But you didn’t sell your beloved, and much more valuable, Kandinsky. You loaned it to your precious Center.” Sergei grinned.

“I signed an agreement. I can’t take it back.”

“Oh, yes you can, and you will. I have a plan to get that painting and more, plus my money—the money you stole from father.”

“I didn’t steal it.” Dmitry met his brother’s beady stare. “Mother gave it to me.”

“Mother gave it to me,” Sergei repeated in a mocking voice. “You’re pathetic.”

“What’s your plan?” Might as well get this over with.

Sergei put his hand inside his jacket pocket, removed an MSS VUL silent pistol, and sat it on the table. Then he took out a folded sheet of paper.

Dmitry reached for the gun.

“No you don’t.” Sergei snatched up the pistol. He weighed the gun in his hand and then laughed. “Remember the last time you held this pistol?”

Unfortunately, as hard as Dmitry tried, he couldn’t forget it. The clatter of the VUL hitting the concrete floor had echoed through the abandoned hospital. Even now, that sound haunted him. He shuddered.

“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Sergei pocketed the gun. “You’re still as weak as ever.” He unfolded the paper and used his palms to flatten it on the table. “Here, brother, is the plan.” He slid the paper to Dmitry. “Do this one thing and I’ll vanish from your life forever.”