Page 59 of Heritage of Fire

We end up taking Dmitry’s body to Warehouse Nine. We have the necessary facilities here to store his body until our mortician can prepare him for burial.

Up in the warehouse office, I set the PLAY ME phone on the table. This room is small. A wooden desk that Luka uses when he’s here sits along one wall, and a leather couch is pushed up against another. And, tucked between the desk and the couch is a well-stocked bar cart.

Grabbing a bottle of vodka, I pour us each a glass, the liquor sloshing up the sides with my shaky hands. We raise our drinks, each of us saying something to Dmitry in the quiet of the room.

Afterward, Luka picks up the phone, his hands turning it over several times before switching it on. A video immediately starts to play, and the story it tells is … angering.

The footage is from a security camera across the street from the alleyway, right above where Dmitry’s car was parked. Two men in suits exit the alley dragging a young girl behind them. She’s fighting, digging her heels in. Her skirt rides up, exposing her. She’s gagged, but her mouth is opening and closing as she screams. Blood seeps out of her nose, and her hair is tangled in the hands of one of the men dragging her. A black town car waits at the alley’s entrance, and they wrestle her to the door.

A man darts into view, gun raised.

Dmitry.

There’s no audio, but I can tell he’s yelling at the men. They both back away from the girl, and he goes to her, shutting the car door and putting his back to the alleyway.

Shit no.

A shadowy figure emerges from the alley, hitting Dmitry over the head with the butt of a pistol. Dmitry’s gun flies out of his hand, and he crumples to the pavement. Another man grabs the girl and drags her to the vehicle.

Dmitry tries to stand, but the man who hit him over the head comes up behind him, tilts his head, and slits his throat. It’s done with precision. The perfect angle, the perfect amount of pressure. Only professionals know how to slash a man’s throat without turning it into a jagged hack job.

Dmitry’s hands fly to his neck, and within seconds he’s lifeless on the ground. Several men in black suits rush out from the alleyway, pick him up, and drag him out of the security feed. The video fades to black, leaving seven white words.

Keep your Bratva nose where it belongs.

Luka chucks the phone across the room. With a sharp smack, it hits the wall and shatters into multiple pieces.

“I told him not to engage! Why couldn’t he listen?!” he shouts. He grabs his tumbler and tips it back, downing his drink, and then snatches the bottle to pour himself another. I take a shot of mine and slam it down on the desk. When I reach for the bottle, Luka pours me another glass himself.

“Dmitry was trying to protect the girl,” I say to no one.

He was trying to help her, to keep powerful, filthy men from using her.

We sit there, each of us staring into our glasses, vengeance on our minds. The air in the room grows suffocating, and I loosen my tie before trying to take the bottle once more. Luka’s hand snaps out and takes it away from me.

“You have to drive, Nikolai.”

I nod, but at the moment, I don’t care. I want to drink. To drown in it.

Igor stands. “When do we get to strike back? They arenothing. We are the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra, along with others who would ally with us. Why don’t we march in there and kill every last one of them?”

Any other time, speaking to the pakhan assertively would earn you punishment, but Luka nods, as if wishing it were that simple.

“They have several other clubs across the US,” he says, “and they’re powerful people—who could easily arrest all of the Bratva. They don’t seem to care about attacking us as long as we leave them to their fetishes.”

I hate the way that sounds. Because they don’t bother us, we shouldn’t bother them.Nyet. I won’t accept that—Ican’t.

“Then what’s the plan?” I ask.

Luka stares at me. I know that look—it’s the look of indecision and conflict. His expression would almost mimic a deer in the headlights if it weren’t masked by stone-cold grief. He’s lost.

“We will mourn Dmitry, and we will meet with Salvatore,” he says finally. “I have phone calls to make to the family, and we need to inform our men.”

Decision made.

It’s 3 a.m. by the time I pull onto the warehouse’s gravel drive. The silence on the way home did nothing but let my grief fester and my thoughts darken. When will I die? It’s something that lingers in the back of most people’s minds. For Mafia men, though, it’s more persistent.

Upon entering the gate, I slow—the darkness of the forest mirroring my inner most thoughts. As if it can read them and beckons me closer. If I were the one who’d died, I’d leave Luna with—what? Would she be made to return to the Cosa Nostra? Would Buscetta marry her off to someone else? What wouldhappen to her if it had beenmewho’d rushed to the girl, intent on saving her? And Iwouldhave.

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