I didn’t cry, though I’m sure I wanted to. I hadn’t yet learned to keep that part of me locked deep inside. But I recall how my muscles ached, how tired I was. The sun had long since set over the trees in the distance, and only the glow of a light from the porch illuminated us. My father’s shadow stretched over the backyard, grossly exaggerated, like a monster of a man. Not so far from the reality.
“Again,” he snarled, without waiting for me to answer his question.
Then, the sharp metallic clink of his bat.
The rustle of the ball as it surged along the grass towards me.
The tang of fear in my heart.
There it was, bouncing, seething in my direction. I crouched, raised my glove, tried to calculate the flight path—
Crunch.
Wrong move. An error, a critical one. Blood streaming from a broken nose and a split lip. Pain bursting in my face.
The stars overhead winked at me, until my father strode over to block them out as he stood above me, glaring down.
Even now, with the memory faded into damn near nothingness, I can still picture the disgust in his face. He looked like I’d stepped up to a crucial test of our relationship and failed. Not just a little bit, but going down like a flaming wreck. A disappointment.
The pain in my face soon lost its initial sting, but it was the look on his face that hurt the most. It hardened me. I left something behind me in the backyard that night. Not just blood. Something much more essential.
“I—I’m sorry, Father,” I muttered through my fat lip.
He shook his head angrily. “Again.”
The tattoo on my chest, Never Forget, will forever remind me of everything I learned from him.
I am just finishing up my workout, still stewing on the conversation with Anatoly, when my cell phone rings.
It is Fyodor.
“Boss,” he says, “those Italian cousins won’t be bothering us any time soon.”
I clench my fist. “You handled it?” I say, keeping my voice level.
“It is done.”
“Without my permission?”
“Uh, yes,” he falters. “I thought …”
“It is good it is done,” I tell him. “But going behind my back, Fyodor, is not good for one’s health.”
I hear him swallow. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Enough,” I sigh. He saved my life less than a week ago, after all. He has earned a bit of latitude. Besides, there is nothing solid yet to connect him to the rumors of mutiny that have been gathering steam in the backchannels of the Bratva. As far as I have seen, he is the same loyal, reliable second that he has always been. I have no cause to distrust him—yet. “Is there anything else?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I hang up, towel off my face, and then head to the medical room to change my bandage. The blood has spread now, seeping into my shirt.
After that, I must get ready for the auction.
Later that night, I walk through the banquet hall with Oleg at my left and Anatoly at my right. It’s a massive room with a glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling and throne-like seats all around. The other men are business types and they split apart before our group, some of them casting us wary looks. Perhaps they have heard whispers of the Ivanovich Bratva.
If so, they are right to be wary.
We seat ourselves at the head of the room. Oleg waves over the waitress for some vodka.
“Now we can get started!” he declares, draining his first shot.
I sip mine more slowly, sitting back as the lights dim and light opera music filters from the speakers.
“Who picked this Italian shit?” Oleg growls. He slams a hand on the table.
Anatoly gestures to the waitress. “Play something different before you worsen my friend’s mood.”
She nods meekly and retreats to the rear of the room. A minute or so later the music changes, and Oleg grins from ear to ear. I allow myself a smile. Of all my men, I like Oleg the most. He is simple, loyal, and would die for the Bratva in a heartbeat.
Mr. Johnson comes ambling over a few minutes later, all wringing hands and dour expression. I know his face from previous auctions. I’ve never purchased before, but it is my job to know what’s happening in my city, so I’ve paid visits to Archangel Vision from time to time in the past to keep tabs on my contemporaries.
“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Ivanovich,” he says.
I say nothing, just stare.
The man shifts uncomfortably. “Do you and your colleagues, ah, know the procedures here?”
“We are buying art,” Oleg says gruffly. “How many procedures can there be?”
I grin into my drink as I watch the stuffy lawyer fumble in the face of Oleg’s bluntness. “Yes, well,” he says, “each piece will be followed by a short introduction, containing all the information about the purchase you will need. For example, ‘expressionist’ means the presenting lady in question has been, ah, used before, if you catch my meaning?”
“I catch it fine,” Oleg growls.
“‘Modernism’ implies that the lady will do anything you wish; ‘abstract’ means that she has only agreed to missionary …”
I wave a hand. “I have been briefed.”
Anatoly explained the distinctions to me on the ride over. The artists’ names, the medium, the date, the style—all of it has a special significance, a hidden meaning.
And the explicit mention of sex is strictly forbidden.
“Of course.” Mr. Johnson bows deeply, his lips trembling slightly. “And lastly, if I could make one suggestion …”
I raise my eyebrows, but say nothing. My silence makes the mustachioed man shake as though I have just struck him.
Even Mr. Johnson, who has dealt with the Bratva many times, knows to be afraid.
“The best selection of art is slated to appear towards the end of the auction,” he says, eyes lowered. “If you wait until then, I assure you, you will not be disappointed.”
“I am a collector of art, and a
