Page 68 of Mistaken
“Luda!”
A young woman raced up, exhaustion and anxiety on her face. She’s wearing a shapeless black dress with a spit-up stain on her shoulder, likely from the baby propped on her other shoulder.
“Privet, tvoya doch' takaya milaya,”I say haltingly, and she looks up at me in surprise. Clearing my throat,“YA ochen' sozhaleyu o vashey…um…potere.”I think what I said was, “Hello, your daughter is so sweet. I’m so sorry for your loss.” God, I hope that’s what I said.
“Spasibo?”Her awkward thanks is interrupted by Luda and a flood of Russian that I cannot keep up with.
“Mila, prikhodi i posidi s nami.”Maksim is behind us and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, urging her to sit in the front row with us. I’m following, still holding on to Luda, who is clinging fiercely to me like the world’s cutest barnacle.
Yeah, super maternal, Ella,I thought. I didn’t have much experience with kids, so sue me. I tried to look dignified while carrying her, following behind them.Even Mila looks more like she fits with Maksim than I do.
But he helps her settle with another one of the widows, baby in her lap and when the other woman reaches for Luda, she stubbornly buries her face in my neck. I point to her, and then me, and nod encouragingly at Mila, who smiles in relief, nodding back.
I can’t blame her. Two kids under three?
Maksim…
Ella sits next to me, somehow still looking graceful and lovely while holding the squirming little girl. When she starts playing with my wife’s opal necklace, Ella simply takes it off and gives it to her. I’d bought the opals, interspersed with diamonds, for $42,000. The little one immediately puts them in her mouth, snuggling deeper onto my bride’s lap. I sing, bow my head when appropriate, and hand my pocket square to Mila to blot her tears, but I can’t stop watching this woman, dragged into my world kicking and screaming but attending her sixth funeral, comforting a widow, playing with her child… Behaving like a queen.
At the small reception afterward, Ella offers to hold the baby when Luda needs a clothing change from spilling her dessert down her best dress. Absently rocking back and forth to calm the baby, she’s talking to two of the other women, laughing with them over some discussion. I’m looking at her perfect, shapely ass in that tight dress - an excellent choice - and how it flexes as she moves. Her legs are strong, looking long in her high, high heels. My wife wears them anytime we are appearing together, I suspect so that it brings her height much closer to mine, wanting to look more authoritative. If only she knew that it was her warmth and sincerity that was finally winning over my people.
Two children, a boy and a girl scamper across the room to me. “Sir, do you want to hear my audition piece?” Oksana tries to keep her voice down, aware of the seriousness of the moment, but those around us still turn to look. “It’s next week! Mr. Hesse says he’s very confident about my chances!” I stifle a chuckle; I’d forgotten how she always spoke as if every sentence must end with an exclamation point.
“No!” Vadim interrupts her, “My selection is much more challenging, the Pakhan will want to hear mine!”
“I am proud of both of you,” I assure them, “but this is not the time or place. Do ask your mother to notify Alina of the audition date and time. I will attend if I can.” Vadim and Oksana were the children of Sergei, my formerObshchak.The twelve-year-old twins were extraordinarily gifted. I promised their mother that if they were accepted into the Juilliard Junior Program, I would pay their tuition. Their father was always so proud of them. I looked up to see one of the women whisper into Ella’s ear, and she was looking at me with a soft smile. I wasn’t happy with the women telling tales to my wife.
Patrick steps up to me urgently. “Pakhan, there’s another attack. At the Chvrch. They’re trying to fight their way down to the lower levels.”
Gritting my teeth, I nodded, but not letting my fury show on my face. Not at a place of mourning for our fallen soldiers. “Pull everyone who’s not running security here.”
Patrick has made an excellentObshchakin the last few weeks, even if he hasn’t slept more than five minutes at a time. He simply nods and heads off as quickly as he can without drawing attention.
Ella spots me heading for the door and hurries over.So close to a clean getaway,I thought wryly.
“You’re leaving?” She says it softly, already experienced enough to not draw attention.
“I have an issue. Ivan will drive you home.”
Brow furrowed, she nods. “Be safe.”
I’m already turning away, but the words stop me for a moment. Has anyone ever said that to me before? Leaning down, I kiss her cheek. “I’ll see you back at the penthouse.”
There’s something about a firefight that makes time slow down and then speed up in random bursts. My eyes narrow in on movement, the trajectory of a bullet showing me where the shooter is hiding. The positions of my men to the enemy’s. This is the second nightclub of mine that these scum have shot up in the last ten days and none of them are going to survive this.
“Why did you have this club designed with so many hiding spots!” Yuri shouts to me.
Closing one eye, I focus on the idiot spraying bullets from an AP4 semi-automatic and take him out with a headshot. “Check the perimeter alert. Have they accessed the elevator?” Our key gambling facility is under the Chvrch in a three-floor underground club that’s twice as large as the one hiding it.
One of my soldiers is sprinting toward the hidden entry to the underground location, and I see the two men he’s shooting at. One is taping an explosive device to the steel panel. I rise high enough to take out three of the men shooting at him, and it leaves me open long enough to feel a punch to my chest as a bullet tears through me. My soldier is able to take out both men and is still alive. The rattle of bullets hitting everything on the main dance floor is slowing, and we take out another six of their men. These are not as expert, not as experienced as the mercenaries we’ve fought before. Does this mean whoever is behind this is running out of money to hire the more elite, experienced men? Or could these be their organization’s own soldiers?
“Yuri! Patrick!” I shout, “Take one of them alive, I don’t care how!”
There is a groan from my men as the distant sound of sirens grows closer and I know we have mere minutes before the NYPD is breaking through my doors. The shooting from the enemy stops almost instantly, the police are a complication no one wants.
“Patrick! Dismantle the explosives, get them out of here. Dmitri and Timur, help the wounded. Someone find me a survivor!” The sirens are rapidly growing louder and Yuri stops me. He has a cut over his forehead, bleeding red onto the collar of his white dress shirt.
“Pakhan, you must leave. You can’t be here. Our guns are gone - aside from the legal ones. I’ll handle this.”
