Vengeful Alliances

11 YEARS LATER

Blonde or brunette? I was debating which wig to throw away first when my phone alarm went off. I grabbed my sparkly pillbox off the desk. Only one more week, and I'd be pill-free. I could make it seven more days. A few days after that, I would finally start college. I could start dating. A new school would mean new people who didn't know about the cancer. I'd meet boys who wouldn't look at me with pity. It would be a fresh start for both me and my mom. Especially for my mom. Lately, she'd been anxious. At first, I thought it was because of my upcoming test results. She always feared the cancer would come back. Then I'd learned the truth: my mom was dealing with a stalker ex-boyfriend. I guess we could both use a break from the sick and crazy.

I heard a crash in the kitchen and rushed down the stairs. My mom had dropped a glass. Shards were scattered across the floor and she was already reaching for a broom. When I saw the ill-concealed panic on her face, my stomach dropped.

"He found you again, didn't he?"

She didn't look up when she spoke, "Pack your bags, Krissy. We're leaving in five."

No, no, no. Not again. "But mom... I don't understand. Why don't we just go to the police? They could-"

"I already explained this to you. He has friends at the police department. Judges in his pocket."

"But-"

"I said go, Kristina."

Feeling deflated, I went back up to my room and slammed the door. My mom was everything to me. She'd been with me through thick and thin and never made me feel like I was a burden. I knew it wasn't easy being a single mom. I expected it was both a relief and a curse that she worked from home as a graphic designer. It gave her freedom to use her time the way she wanted, which sadly had mostly comprised of hospital visits with me. It also meant that she had hardly any social life. So when she told me she'd met a guy, I was ecstatic for her. Who would have guessed that a boring accountant named Edwin could turn out to be such a nightmare? I pulled my "getaway" duffel bag from the back of the closet and grabbed the baseball bat next to it. I'd never met the guy, but if I ever did I'd break every bone in his body.

It still gave me chills when I thought back on that evening months ago when I'd found my mom battered and bruised in the bathroom. She had believed I was asleep and was already trying to cover herself up with make-up.

With a reluctant sigh, I grabbed my books off the side table. I never went anywhere without my favorite; a collection of fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm. The original ones of course, not the Disney version. No matter how sick or sad I was, whether I was puking my guts out from the chemo or my hair fell out in clumps, I could always count on these stories whisking me away. It was the small things in life that made me want to keep on living it.

I suddenly remembered that I'd left my phone in the kitchen and slowly, as not to disturb my mother, went back downstairs. She wasn't in the kitchen anymore but the floor was pristinely clean. I heard muffled sounds from her office. She was clearly on the phone. Unable to fight my curiosity, I pressed my ear to the door.

"I don't care who you are. I said I need to speak to your boss Kostya, right now."

Whoever was on the other end of the line didn't give the right response, because my mother took in a deep, ragged breath.

"Did you tell him it's Irina? His mother's best friend? What do you mean, you can't talk to him right now? Fine," my mother snapped. "If he can't bother to come to the phone because he's indisposed, I'll go to him myself."

I heard her slam the phone on her desk, which was my cue to make myself scarce.

What was going on? Who was this Kostya? I'd never heard her mention that name before. Then again, Mom rarely talked about her past or any family. All I knew was that they had died in a tragic car accident and she'd been the only survivor. She and I were a team. A two-person family.

We were on the road in less than ten minutes. My mother's hands clutched the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. I didn't open my mouth until we passed the sign which read Welcome to Colorado.

"Where are we going?"

"To the son of a friend. The only man I know who can keep you safe."

As far as cryptic answers went, this one was king. Wait, why had she said it that way?

"You mean 'us.' Keep 'us' safe." When she didn't answer, my heart did a painful thud. "Mom, you're scaring me."

Shhand. "Of course, I mean us, kotichka."

"So, who is this friend?"

A sad smile formed on her face. "Anastasia was my best friend a long time ago. She died a few years after you were born. Kostya was only seventeen, just like you are. I lost touch with him when his mother died."

"Where does he live?"

"Denver."

"And is he like a cop or something?"

Her fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel. "Or something."

Well, that didn't sound ominous at all. With a sigh, I nestled into the car seat and closed my eyes. "You know you're only getting away with these half-baked answers 'cause you're driving and I'm sleepy."

She chuckled. "I know. Don't worry. I'll tell you more once we're there."

Wherever "there" might be.

Maybe it wasn't so much about the destination, but about the journey, just like in the novels I've read. I'd lived a thousand lives through my heroines' eyes. I'd been all over the world with them, falling in love with my book boyfriends, having my heart broken by them. It seemed like it was finally time for my adventure to begin.

Confucius was wrong. I'd only be digging one grave tonight. The one for the dead motherfucker lying on the floor of my basement. It had taken me a decade to find my mother's killer. The proverbial fly in my soup who had been poisoning me for years was finally no longer alive.

I put the knife down on the table next to the chainsaw. The last pieces of light inside of me extinguished. It was all darkness, pitch black now. There was a silence inside me, and it was beautiful.

Maybe Sergei had a point.

Men like us, the criminal, live in the shadows. We are not quite dark, not quite light.

Blood was dripping from my hand and once again I waited for it to happen. Waited for when I would feel a base emotion again. Joy, rage, happiness...anything. All I felt was content, which was a ridiculous feeling for a monumental moment like this. Perhaps it was because this hitman was just the first domino to fall; merely the beginning of the chain. I didn't have the clout yet to take on the bastard who'd hired him. The man who ruled the state of Denver. A man who was considered to be untouchable. A man who was the worst of the worst; a freaking politician.

I would get to him eventually if it was the last thing I did. Maybe then finally I'd feel something, have peace, and find a spark of light in the darkness shrouding my vision. Monsters weren't born, after all-they were made. And I was one of them.

The door cracked open and Vladimir sauntered in, bringing with him the scent of smoke and a hint of gasoline.

He glanced at the body. "Good, you're finished. There's a situation."

There always was. "Unless the house is on fire, I don't care right now."

An indescribable look appeared on his face, which was weird. Usually, I could read him like a map, which led down one of two roads; rage or a thirst for violence. Ever since his girl had left him to marry another man, he had an extremely short fuse. Like me, the man lived for vengeance.

"Not the house," Vladimir said.

"Then I don't care."

"You will." After those ominous words, he simply left.

Perhaps the Jamaicans, who believed they could cut in on our gun trade, had set one of our cars on fire.

I stepped over the body and followed him outside. As soon as I reached the backyard, the acid smell of burnt flesh hit my nose. It couldn't be one of our soldiers; Vladimir wouldn't have been that calm. A sense of foreboding washed over me before I even saw the motionless form on the ground.

It wasn't a man at all. It was the one thing that brought me joy like no human ever could.

A few soldiers stood around the still sizzling remains of my dog. They gave me a wide berth when they saw me coming.

Never show anyone your pain, Aditya. Pain is for the weak. Only the weak give their enemies tools to use against them.

My mentor's sprout of wisdom resonated deep within me. Of course, the bastard had been flogging me while he spoke those words. He'd been beating the shit out of me for going against one of his damn rules back in Saratov. Basic Navy SEAL training had nothing on Sergei's boot camp.

I towered over Cleo's remains. My gaze fell on his silver collar a few feet away. They had taken it off so there would be no doubt in my mind whose dog this was.

When I continued to stay silent, the soldiers left to return to their job of patrolling the perimeter.

I clenched and unclenched my hands. No one would tell any tales about me flipping out over a mutt. I was the one who decided to feel rage, hurt, or whatever the fuck I was supposed to feel. No one else but me.

"There's also another matter." Vladimir leaned against the wall, lurking there like a gargoyle. "Some woman called, claiming she was your mother's..."

I tuned him out and eyed the remains of my dog again. They'd set him on fire. Someone had fucking set my dog on fire.

"The twins know about this?"

Vladimir shook his head. "Haven't told them yet what the Jamaicans did. You know how they feel about animals."

I knew. There was a reason for the legendary stories about their exotic pets. Most of them were no more than that-urban legends. But the stories all had one thing in common: they spoke to the twins' love for animals. Either of them would kill a man without blinking an eye, but they would never harm a defenseless animal. To them, it was a cardinal sin.

Vladimir eyed me closely. "What do you want me to do?"

What could a man do when his dog had been burned to a crisp? Apparently, I was digging two graves today, after all.

"To get me a shovel."

And grenades. And a whole lot of AK-47s. Lots and lots of them.

Tomorrow night, the head figures of the Russian Bratva were gathering at my house. I had to show them I was cool, collected, and in control. But the morning after they left I was setting the city on fire, because we were going to war against the Jamaicans.

We made two stops before we finally arrived at the Golden City. By then, night had settled and darkness covered the bay, not exactly reflecting its shiny name.

My mother stopped the car in front of a two-story Victorian house on the edges of town. It stood lonely on a rise, far away from the nearest houses. An enormous black gate stopped our entry and high walls circled the entire land. There were men inside the gate checking the perimeter.

"It looks very...guarded." I didn't know how else to describe the place. When I didn't get a response from my mom I fell silent again. I still didn't know who this Kostya was and if I wanted to meet him.

The door next to the gate opened. My eyes widened when I got a better look at the man who approached us. He looked like the image of one of those Greek marble figures I'd once seen in a museum. Except he was in color and the flesh. Golden-blond hair brushed his shoulders, and his taut muscles were not very well covered in a suit that seemed to be custom-made for him.

It probably was. Dressing him in anything off the rack would be a crime against women. For that matter, against men as well, 'cause I'd bet he got attention from both groups. If there was a third sex or another species in this world, they'd be smitten too.

He walked up to my mother's side of the car. "What can I do for you ladies?"

"I'm here to see Kostya. I called earlier."

His eyes narrowed. "Well, aren't you miss persistent." He walked around the car. When he reached the trunk, he tapped on it.

My mom pressed a button and the trunk sprang open. After he made sure that it held no danger, he walked back to my mom's side of the car.

I felt like I was acting in a spy movie or something. What exactly did he think we could do to him?

He spoke something into a walkie talkie and the heavy front gate opened.

My mother drove up to the front door and we got out of the car. Another man, closer to my age, walked out of the house and appeared next to the Hunk. He scanned my mother like they did at the airport. My mom didn't say a word, obviously finding it normal to be patted down.

I gave the Hunk an angry look.

"Can't be careful enough," he said. "Dangerous people come in all sizes and genders these days."

I scoffed. "Right." When the new security guy came at me, I stepped back. I didn't like the idea of his hands all over me. The day I'd left the hospital, hopefully for the last time, I'd sworn it would be the final time anyone poked and prodded me.

The man frowned and took another step toward me, but my mother interfered.

"Krissy doesn't like to-"

"Ivan," the Hunk snapped. His eyes rested on my hands as they clutched my upper arms.

I hadn't realized I was doing it again. It was a nervous trait I couldn't seem to be able to quit.

"I, um, really don't have a gun on me or anything." What were they thinking? "I mean, look at me."

"I am," he said. "So?"

I was taken aback when I learned that he wasn't treating me like a weak cancer patient. How odd...and pleasant.

"So, it's not like I could hurt you or anything."

"I bet that's what Mata Hari said. You know, right before she cut a guy's balls off."

I scowled. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

The Hunk shook his head. "Would it help if a woman searched?"

Seeing as this was the only choice, I reluctantly nodded.

"Get her a woman, Ivan," the Hunk said.

The man looked shocked. "What woman, Andrey? There are no women here, you know that."

There weren't? I gave my mother a look, but she was busy checking her phone.

"And what exactly is vera?" Andrey asked. "An alien?"

"Ah," said Ivan, who needed to be informed that there was a human of the female type in the house. He turned on his heel and hurried inside the house.

While waiting I glanced around the place. At first, I tried to be circumspect, pretending I wasn't checking out the half-dozen guys walking around the grounds carrying guns. Andrey, seeing my ot-so-well-hidden interest, only smiled.

He had dimples. Oh my God, he had the cutest laugh, and my heart did a happy dance. Feeling my cheeks heat I looked away, spotting a path that seemed to lead into a garden.

Finally, Ivan returned with a small, stern-looking woman by his side. She checked me for any hidden weapons and snapped something at Andrey in a language that sounded like Russian. Polish perhaps.

I felt like I had somehow hurt her, which was ridiculous since we hadn't even shared any words.

"She says you're too thin," Andrey explained. "Be glad you're not staying, or else she would feed you until you went up two sizes."

"Can I go inside now?" my mom asked impatiently.

"Sure. Follow me."

My mother turned to me. "Wait here."

She left before I could protest. I was stuck standing on the front porch of what could have been the Scarface house. Since no one paid me any more attention, I chose to explore.

There was a shelter near the outer wall which seemed like a nice place to sit. I walked up to the building, which had white roses growing along the latticed walls. Suddenly an acid smell wafted toward me. What was that?

I continued on the walk and it led me deeper into the yard. The smell increased. Just as I thought it was about to come to the path, I saw him. A naked guy stood next to a pile of dirt, holding a shovel. His back was turned toward me. Perhaps it was the gardener. Curious to know what he was hiding, I slowly walked closer.

A single light coming from the gazebo shone onto his back and my heart thudded when I saw the crossing of faint gray marks. There were at least a dozen. Someone had tortured this man. I wanted to run back to the car, but my legs kept going forward. They walked toward excitement, toward a new experience, to... life.

I ducked underneath a tree and felt something pull at my hair. Impatiently I plucked a few strands of hair loose from some leaves. All my attention was on the worker who was digging a hole.

My breath hitched. Next to him was something wrapped in a tarp. Oh, my God. He was burying a body.

He turned and our eyes met. Thick lashes which almost seemed too long for a man surrounded his dark eyes. I felt something stir deep inside me. His sleek, black hair brushed over the tight muscles of his shoulders. I had no idea God made men like him. First the golden Hunk, now this Greek god. Maybe my hormones were acting up because I was almost eighteen and had never even been kissed by a boy. I was looking at the hottest man I'd ever seen. Maybe I should skip young boys and dive right into this man's arms.

I knew I should feel something other than a sick interest in what he was doing, but it was overwhelming me. When you'd looked Death in the eyes countless times, there wasn't much that could strike fear into your heart.

The too-hot-for-his-own-good gardener looked like a beautiful prince of darkness-as if he'd walked straight out of one of my gothic romance books. But the heroes in my dreams had nothing on them.

The bad smell grew more strong as I got closer. Something bad had happened here.

He pinned me with his gaze and it felt as if an electric current raced through me. It wasn't out of fear-okay, not just out of fear-but it was also from the badly hidden pain in his eyes. Something else was in his look too. Pain and...rage. For a split second, there was blood lust displayed on his beautiful face.

I waited for him to say something. It felt like my lungs had stopped up and my tongue had frozen. A few beats passed in complete silence. Part of me wondered if I was going to end up in the same grave next to the person who had been burned, based on the foul smell that hung over the yard like a dark cloud.

I looked a little closer and noticed a silver dog tag in the dirt. It had a C etched onto it. Relief washed over me, together with sadness because I realized someone had burned this man's dog.

I edged closer. "I'm sorry about your dog." He still didn't recognize my presence; he just put the body into the hole and started covering it.

"Was he yours?" I asked.

The man nodded, staying quiet.

"What was his name?" I tried again.

"Cleo."Guess that makes you Hades," I mumbled.

He turned and looked shocked. "You know your classics."

"I was home-schooled." Also bedridden for years so I'd had a lot of time to read. The ancient Greeks had the most amazing stories.

"Beats being street-schooled."

I looked at the second, smaller shovel next to him. "You need a hand?"

"Death doesn't bother you?"

I'd been friends with the Reaper for years. "He's just dead. Everyone dies."

I got an approved look. "True."

That was so not the response I expected. "Aren't you going to say that I'm too young to be this cynical?"

"One can never be too young to become disenchanted with life."

"That's..." I didn't know what that was. "You sound..."

"I believe the word you're looking for is morbid." He put down his shovel. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen." He stared at me until I almost started squirming from discomfort. "Fine, I'm seventeen, but I'll be eighteen the day after tomorrow."

"That's two whole days. Why would you want to rush toward that day if you don't know it's going to be any better than this one? A lot can happen in forty-eight hours. Two days ago, my dog was living. He was chasing a ball and chewing on Andrey's favorite Italian shoes. Good times."

"I don't know what's going to happen in forty-eight hours," I admitted. "I don't think ahead like that. I just do birthday goals and try to live up to them." The key word is 'live.' Every year for the past three years I'd asked for the same wish: to be cancer-free. This year was the year, I had decided. Seventeen would be the magic number, the right age when my life would change for the better.

He brushed the sweat off his face. "And what is your Sweet Eighteen resolution?"

To be kissed by a boy.

No, a man.

By you.

I smiled. "The three's-to live, love, and laugh."

A quizzical look emerged on his face. "Who exactly might you be, Miss Live, Love, and Laugh?"

Right now, I want to be your Persephone.

"I'm Krissy. My mom brought me here to see your boss." A brow lifted in question. "Kostya Roman," I told him.

His lips thinned. "He doesn't like the name Roman."

I shrugged. "Then maybe he should change it instead of being a big baby about it." There were worse things in life than not liking your given name. Like cancer, chemo, and an itchy wig.

Was that a hint of a smile I saw on his face?

"What if that name defines who he is?"

I wasn't sure why he was asking a stranger about this, but something told me he was in a soul-searching mode thanks to the unexpected death of his dog. I got that response from people a lot. Usually, it was when someone found I was sick. For some reason it made a person think about their death or life choices. As if being faced with the fact that I was dying pushed them to make it all about them. The worst were the people who thought they 'helped' me when they went on and on about how everyone should seize the day. Like I didn't already know. But for some reason, I didn't believe this guy was one of those people. I think he knew all too well how important life could be. The man buried his dog in the middle of the night in the garden. And he'd looked spitting mad during the process.

"Look, I'm only seventeen, but even I know a name is just a name. It's about what you do with your life, right?"

"Wise words, Miss Three L's." I didn't sense that he was mocking me, so I let it go. I chin-jerked at the grave. "You must've cared about him a lot."

"Care? I suppose I did, as much as a man with a heart as black as night can care about another."

It didn't sound

like he was kidding. Where in the hell-or should I say Hades-had my mother brought me?