THE DEVIL'S CROWN PART 1 (All the Pretty Things Spinoff #1)

Two-1

WE HAVE TO move fast.

Serg will miss Viktor and know something is amiss if he doesn’t hear from him, which is why Pavel and I are stalking his house or, more accurately, his shack. The small village is about two hours out of the city. I’m surprised my mother would agree to stay here because it’s a dump.

It gives me great pleasure to know they’re hiding out here. The power Serg has is temporary, and he knows it. He’s running scared, and I intend for everyone to know I’m back. No one neutered me.

It’s game on, little brother.

Cracking my neck from side to side, I nurse my fourth or maybe fifth cup of coffee as I haven’t been to sleep yet. Once I read Irina her favorite Thomas the Tank Engine story twice, I tucked her in and exited through the back door as quietly as I entered.

Every bone in my body was demanding I seek out Sister Arabella for one last glance, but I can’t rush this. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t disrespect Mother Superior in her home. But I’m faced with a conundrum. Before Willow, I was accustomed to getting everything I wanted. It was as simple as snapping my fingers, and it was mine.

Looking back now, I see how arrogant and ungracious I was. I thought Willow would be like all the others, but she challenged me, and I didn’t realize how much I liked it until I met her. She was my equal on so many levels.

Sister Arabella is another challenge altogether, but the same fire begins to burn as it once did.

It excites me. The chase. The utter wickedness to it. I wouldn’t pursue this if I didn’t think she felt something too. I don’t know what this something is, but I can’t ignore it.

Now, however, I can’t ignore the fact that Pavel and I have been watching this house for what seems like hours. It’s evident from the lack of activity inside that the place is empty.

Looking at my watch, I see that it’s after three a.m. I doubt Serg is out doing business. Yes, it’s the witching hour, but most criminals need their beauty sleep, and operating under the guise of daylight is less suspicious if they get caught.

A cloud of doubt floats over me. Was he tipped off?

Anger courses through me, and I pitch my coffee cup into the bushes next to me. “f**k this,” I curse, storming over to my SUV.

Pavel knows better than to follow.

Reaching into the trunk, I seize two gas cans. One was for Serg. The other for Zoya. It’s a shame for them to go to waste. Yes, I would have preferred to douse the house and them with gasoline, but I am done standing around.

“Aleksei!” Pavel scolds when I blow our cover and storm toward the shack. His warning falls on deaf ears.

I almost rip the rusted gate off its hinges when I shove it open. I’m focused on the door, expecting it to open any moment and be confronted with an arsenal, but it doesn’t. Charging up the front steps, I kick it open, slamming it into the wall with a thud.

If anyone is inside, I’ve just made a grand entrance, and it’s their turn to make themselves known. But all I hear are my labored breaths echoing in this empty space.

It’s dark, but the full moon allows me to see that the interior is just as shitty as the exterior. The weathered walls are a faded lime color, and the floor is missing a few boards. The furniture is sparse, but what is here is old and barely standing.

With gas cans in hand, I climb the creaky stairs cautiously, listening for any sounds. When I reach the door at the end of the hallway, I push it open and peer inside. There is a single bed in the middle of the room, the blankets tossed to the side as if someone jumped out of it in a hurry.

The minimal possessions have me guessing Serg slept here. The cupboard has no doors, so I’m able to see the bare coat hangers. My suspicion continues to mount. There is no way they stayed here without any belongings.

They were definitely tipped off.

Rage swarms me, and I kick the bed frame, it spinning and slamming into the wall. Opening the gas can, I pour gas around the room, ensuring to douse this place good and proper. Even if Serg had anything hidden, he would have taken it by now. This place is just an empty shell.

I’m too late. Again.

With a snarl, I storm from the room, going from bedroom to bedroom and drenching everything with gas. I’m blinded by sheer fury. When I get to the last room, my ragged breathing and thumping heart are deafening, but I will myself to calm down.

This room isn’t as bare as the others, and that’s because it belongs to my mother.

The double bed has been made in haste, but it shows that even in light of fleeing in the dead of night, Zoya can’t help but be a perfectionist. No surprise to why she stuck with Serg. He was the perfect son, after all.

Me? I was a disappointment who killed her only shot at happiness. And I mean that literally. She loved that vermin, Boris Ivanov, which is one of the many reasons I killed him. Any therapist would tell you my rage comes from the unresolved issues I have toward Zoya. All these supressed feelings and all that.

But in reality, I just hate freeloaders.

Zoya could have gotten a job when my father died, but instead, she thought she could win the love of any suitor who had enough zeros in his bank account by welcoming him into her bed. Most disposed of her when they grew bored until she met Boris.

One year was all she needed to forget about the so-called love of her life.

They married, and when she got pregnant with Serg, it seemed she was about to live her happily ever after. She was so close.

Dropping one of the empty cans on the floor with a thud, I walk over to the foot of the bed and slump onto the end of it. I place the other can beside my feet and take a moment to look around the bedroom.

It’s been so long since I’ve been in the vicinity of my mother that she almost feels like a mythical creature. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, pushing past the spilled gas from my hands and clothes and focusing on her sweet floral scent lingering in the air. I associate it with my childhood—a time before Boris and Serg existed.

My father was a driven man and worked his ass off to provide for us. My childhood is divided into halves—before and after him.

Before he died, I was happy. I didn’t appreciate that happiness until he dropped dead of a heart attack. He did his best to give us everything, but times were tough, and when he died, we went from living comfortably to barely surviving.

After he died, my mother revealed what a weakling she truly was. She bed-hopped, uncaring her son who lost his father was witness to her immoralities as she never bothered to close her bedroom door. All she cared about was herself, and when she found Boris, she thought she’d found her meal ticket out of hell.

He was a cruel asshole, but it didn’t bother her. All that mattered was he was rich. When they married, he saw me as nothing but a nuisance, a tie to Zoya’s past—a tie he wanted to sever. He punished me for everything, and Zoya stood by and said nothing. She watched him beat me with his belt night after night for merely being alive.

When she fell pregnant, and with a son nonetheless, Boris’s punishments became harsher. He didn’t just want to punish me; he wanted me dead. And most times, I wished that I were. He beat me until I was unconscious. Then he would throw scalding or freezing water over me to wake me, only to repeat the punishment again and again.

He robbed me of food as a power trip. He wanted me to know that the food I ate was because of him. In the end, I would rather starve than break bread with him, so I began stealing to survive, and this was where I found solace in three other kids who were just like me.

Borya, Oscar, Astra, and I were thick as thieves in every sense of the word. We understood one another because our parents were carbon copies of the other. It made sense for that friendship to extend into adulthood. Yes, they were immoral and bad, bad people, but so was I.

But when you don’t have anyone in this world, you take what you can because our friendship was on an equal playing field. That was, until they hurt the only person I ever loved. Our friendship meant nothing because my дорогая changed everything.

I interlace my fingers between my splayed legs, unbelieving this is how my life turned out. My pinkie ring catches the moonlight, the one which once belonged to Boris, the one I cut from his finger when he was still alive. I was thirteen when I ended his miserable life. He didn’t suffer enough, but knowing what his death would do to my mother and her son canceled out any regret when I slit his throat.

Zoya never forgave me for my sins, but that’s okay. I never forgave her for hers.

I learned how to survive on my own, and the streets became my training ground. All I had was my street smarts and my three friends. Now, I have none of that. Things have changed, and I must start from scratch.

Turning my chin, I see something shiny on the dresser. I clench my jaw as my entire body contorts in fury. It seems they left something behind, but this was done with intent. This is their way of announcing they’re three steps ahead of me—again.

Standing slowly, I walk toward the dresser, eyes focused on the ruby necklace. The jewel itself isn’t what has captured me, but the meaning behind it. This necklace belonged to my grandmother, my father’s mother. Zoya knew how much it meant to me, so she gave it to Astra. That’s the kind of person my mother is.

Astra was wearing this the day I shot her dead. Serg must have stolen it from her corpse before he fled into the dead of night like the coward he is. And here it is. A clear f**k you.

Seizing the necklace off the dresser, I clench it so hard, it cuts into the skin of my palm. But I welcome the sting as I envision it’s Serg’s neck I am squeezing tight. Zoya will also suffer the same fate because she made her choice when she sided with this asshole.

History is repeating itself because just as she tried to fill my father’s shoes with Boris, she is trying to fill my shoes with Serg. They can have one another.

Placing the necklace in my pocket, I don’t hesitate and begin dousing the room with gas. It gives me great satisfaction to soak Zoya’s sanctuary, and when I reach into my pocket for a pack of matches, that satisfaction turns to utter joy.

Striking the tip, I flick it onto the bed, mesmerized as the floral bedspread goes up in flames. The heat from the flames thaws out the chill to my bones, but I won’t be whole until I find my mother and do to her what she did to me.

I may be standing here, breathing and functioning with a beating heart, but I’m dead inside.

The flames lick at the walls, setting them alight quickly. With one last look, I exit the room and repeat the same action in Serg’s bedroom. I then robotically pour the remaining gas down the hallway and stairs.

Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I light the pack of matches and stare into the flames. Yes, I failed—once again—but they know I’m onto them. Therefore, they know I won’t stop until I find them. They’ll be running for the rest of their lives, looking over their shoulders, and for now, that will do.

Tossing the packet of matches onto the stairs, I turn and walk out the front door. The fire crackles loudly, a small victory for me because I will burn every house in this city until I find them.

Pavel waits for me by his truck, smoking casually. This is just another day at the office for him.

Adam was my supplier after I killed Chow, but he is nowhere to be found. I don’t know if that is by choice or if Raul found him and made him pay for having dealings with his father’s killer. With every corner I turn, it seems I’m faced with another hurdle more complex than the one before it.