Chapter 2 No.2

The city was buzzing with activity, even in the dark. People rushed from one place to another. Meanwhile, bars were packed with teenagers dancing and drinking until dawn.

As we moved through the bustling streets of New York, we caught glimpses of different expressions-curious, scared, surprised. Some people were running, while others were snapping pictures or recording videos. Mothers pointed us out to their kids, telling them to stay away like we were troublemakers selling dangerous candy. It gave us a sense of power, knowing we could influence people without them realizing it.

After 10 minutes, we left the city behind and arrived at what people called "the estate." It looked more like an old castle than a house. A massive black gate stood before us, sturdy enough to stop even twenty horses-maybe twenty-two.

"Bratstvo," Sergio said, pressing a gray button near the gate's microphone. Bratstvo means "brotherhood" in Russian-a word full of meaning for our family: strength, unity, and power.

Some people think this kind of work is for men. It usually is. But the women in my country fought battles too, stepping in when the men needed time to recover. I'm not the first or the last, but for now, I'm the only woman bold enough to kill anyone who gets in my way.

I want to go back to the old days. Late-night meetings where women planned missions, silencing anyone who dared object. Back when our parents fought side by side, one hand holding a gun, the other holding each other. But those days are gone.

The gate opened, revealing a neatly trimmed lawn. In the middle stood a fountain shaped like a bear, and behind it was a huge house.

"Vegas will be proud," Garretov said, playfully bumping my shoulder.

I smirked at him. Ivanov, tall and handsome, had deep blue eyes and dark hair. Sergio, his twin, shared the same look and style, both with hair tied in buns.

"I know," I replied, stepping through the door.

Inside, the house was grand and full of life. The white walls displayed flags and golden decorations that shone like mirrors. In the center of the room was a massive dining table with about 50 chairs. It was covered in food-Russian, Italian, Mexican, and Chinese dishes-and all kinds of drinks, including wine and liquor.

At the head of the table sat my family, led by my father. He's six feet tall, with a white beard, snow-like hair, and tattoos covering his body. His warm smile greeted us.

"Ah, Rita, Sergio, Garretov-come, join us," he said in his thick Russian accent.

We sat down. Garretov and Sergio sat next to their father; I sat next to mine. My mother, Mirabel, was at my father's side, holding his hand and stroking it gently. She looked at me with kind eyes and a warm smile, her curly brown hair tied in a bun with gold ornaments.

I remember when my father told me how he brought her to America, helping her heal from the horrors she had endured back home. Despite everything, I'm proud of where I come from.

My father raised his glass of red wine. "To us, our family, the Brotherhood, and our children-zhil!" he said. Everyone cheered and began eating.

Across from me, my brother Garret watched the room like a hawk. He was serious, always trying to prove he deserved to inherit our father's position. But I was competing too, and he knew it.

"Rita, my little carica. I'm very proud of you," my father said, smiling as he sipped his wine.

"Thank you, papa," I replied. "I hope this earns me a higher position."

"Oh, it does. You're still ahead of Garret, but if he completes his task..." My father paused, coughing. "He might take the lead."

Tasks. That's what he calls them. Small jobs at first, like retrieving or negotiating something. But over time, they became more dangerous, daring, and bloody. It was during those moments I first felt the rush of adrenaline-the power everyone craves. And I liked it.

I nodded at my father, knowing Garret would complete his task. He's smarter and faster than me, but there's still a small chance for me to win. My father raised his glass again, this time with no smile. His face was serious, even sad, as if his thoughts weighed heavily on him. The room fell silent, a heavy stillness taking over.

"This night is for little Kira Taylor," he said solemnly. "Her bravery will not be forgotten. I believe in her kindness, honor, and innocence. I could speak about her all night, about how much she meant to us. But I will let her family share those words instead. Pust' Bog zashchitit yeye dushu. (May God protect her soul.)"

There was a quiet round of applause. Across the table, a tall man with caramel-colored skin stood up. Beside him was a woman of similar complexion, her beauty unmatched. She wiped her tear-streaked face with the green sleeve of her dress, her large black eyes shimmering with sorrow as she clung to her husband's hand.

Mr. Taylor took a deep breath before speaking. "Thank you to everyone who helped us find my daughter's killer. I wish I could spend all night talking about Kira, about what happened, but I hope everyone will remember her as she was-before that day." His voice cracked. "She was our light in the darkness, our moon at night, our joy in life."

He paused, his wife squeezing his hand as she fought back tears. "People say everything happens for a reason. If that's true, then I believe she's in a better place now." He looked at the ceiling, his voice softening. "She was supposed to turn seven yesterday."

He chuckled sadly as his wife stood and wrapped her arms around his waist. He held her close, his eyes full of pain yet somehow grateful. "She wanted to visit the country she came from. She said it would be like entering a fairytale world."

I closed my eyes, unable to look at the sorrowful faces around me. Mr. Taylor began to sing in a language I didn't recognize. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, and even though I didn't understand the words, the emotion in his voice sent chills through me. If the circumstances were different, it might have felt like a joyful tune.

The room was still. My family sat in silence, respecting the moment.

What kind of monster kills a six-year-old girl just to make a little money? That man, Camelo, got what he deserved-and I wish I had thought of something even worse for him while he was tied up, helpless, in front of me. His punishment on his birthday felt fitting.

When the song ended, the silence returned until Mr. Taylor spoke again. "Thank you all, on behalf of my family and my daughter. And thank you, Rita Sokolov, for your service. Your family should be proud of you." He smiled at me warmly. "And thank you to everyone gathered here tonight. Let this not be a night of mourning but of victory! Let us rejoice and celebrate Kira's life and the triumph over evil! Eat, drink, dance, and sing! Tonight, we honor Kira!"

The room erupted into applause and cheers. Everyone rose, hugging the Taylor family and offering kind words.

"We're sorry this isn't happening at our home," Mr. Taylor whispered to me, holding my shoulders gently. "Since Kira disappeared, we haven't been able to..."

"It's fine. We understand," I said with a smile, hugging him.

When I returned to my seat, I sipped my wine, watching everyone. My family and the Taylors were seated together, chatting, while children ran around the table playing with wooden toys.

"Mikhaylo, verni mne yego! (Mikhail, give it back!)"

"Sofiya lomayet moyu kuklu! (Sofia broke my doll!)"

"Armen!"

"Detyam dostatochno! (Children, enough!)" Aunt Peyton shouted, giving the kids a stern look. Then she turned to me, her expression softening. "Rita, I heard about last week's assignment. You're getting better and better at this," she said, sipping her wine like it was water.

My father pulled me close, kissing the top of my head. "She is! My little carica. You should've seen the Butlers' faces!" he laughed. "They were furious!"

I laughed with him, remembering the scene. Ten of them stared at me and my brothers, disbelief and anger written all over their faces. Their leader's son, Eric, with his golden hair and icy blue-gray eyes, looked ready to explode. It felt good to see their defeat-to know they lost to a woman.

"That's wonderful, Sezja," my mother said gently, giving me her warm, loving smile.

"Spasibo (thank you), Mama," I replied, mirroring her tone and expression.

The rest of the night went smoothly. The men drank too much and danced on tables, while the women and children sang and clapped along. The Taylors seemed to finally relax and enjoy themselves-a welcome relief after everything they had been through.

I stood in the corner, scrolling through my phone to see if the news had reported Camelo's death. I wanted the world to know what it lets happen-how the smart stay quiet to avoid offending the foolish. That's the world we live in, and it's awful.

A small smile crept onto my face when I saw Camelo's name in the news. People knew who did it, and they knew me, as well as the police, but they didn't have proof. Still, they recognized my work-either mutilated or burned bodies marked with my initials, ПМ. Rita Sokolov.

At first, I felt sorry for these people. I thought we were wrong to take lives-fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers. But did they feel sorry for their victims? No. Camelo's death won't heal Kira's parents' pain, but it's justice.

I put my phone away and glanced around. My brother Garret stood in a corner, arms crossed, looking annoyed. He hated that I was taking over as the family's leader. Honestly, I'd make a better leader than him-I'm tactical, while he only has plans. There's a difference.

We get along, but it's complicated. Garret shook his head, walking upstairs without a word.

"Rita, are you okay?" my mom asked, her voice soft as her hand gently rubbed my back. Her smile was kind, her eyes glowing in the moonlight.

I forced a small smile and nodded. "I'm just tired, Mom. I need to rest before tomorrow's mission." I kissed her cheek and went upstairs.

❦

With the music booming downstairs, I climbed to my room and locked the door. Sliding to the floor, I leaned against the cold wood and exhaled. Finally, some quiet.

Pain rippled through me. My arms burned, my legs felt heavy, and my head throbbed. I looked at my fists, wrapped in white bandages, slowly soaking with blood. Peeling them off, I winced as the air stung my skin. After a moment, I stood up, determined to push through the pain.

My room was a mix of gray and black, with shelves of books on one side and closets on the other. Above my bed hung a large picture of Moscow, my hometown, surrounded by smaller, insignificant ones.

I placed my gun on the desk, shrugged off my bloodied coat, and grabbed fresh clothes. On my way to the bathroom, I noticed the open window. I frowned-I was sure I had closed it.

After shutting it, I stepped into the bathroom. Standing before the mirror, I undressed, letting my brown hair fall over my shoulders. My reflection stared back: a lean frame covered in scars, bruises, and a bear tattoo on my right shoulder.

Under the hot shower, I watched the water turn red as blood-none of it mine-washed away. The heat stung my wounds, but I let it cleanse me.

Wrapped in a towel, I returned to my room. A cold draft hit me, and I froze. The window was open again. I know I closed it. My heart raced as I strained to listen.

A soft footstep broke the silence. I dashed for my gun on the desk, but before I could grab it, someone tackled me into the wall.

I struggled, but the stranger pinned me with one hand gripping my wrists above my head and a knee pressed against my legs. His warm breath brushed my ear as they whispered, "Relax, Rita. I'm not here to kill you."

His hand slid to my waist, tightening its grip. "I need your help."