Page 26 of Flames

“You have my word, malen’kiy krolik.”

I swallow down the bubbling anxiety at the thought of being near a man like that again, one who takes what isn’t his to take. If this plan saves even one young woman from having something stolen from her soul, then I’ll do it.

“Lead the way, Wolf.”

FIFTEEN

MARISA

Breaking into the office of The Pakhan of The Solentsevskaya Brotherhood is absolutely the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Like, this takes the cake for epically bad ideas.

If the leader of the Bratva doesn’t kill me himself, it’ll be a damn miracle.

“I’ll go find The Pakhan and distract him,” Mikhael reminds me for the twentieth time, completely undisturbed by the fact that we haven’t even seen the man in question tonight. “You break in, steal the ring, find Aleksander and plant it on him. I’ll drop subtle hints that The Falcon is up to no good while I talk to The Pakhan.”

This is truly a terrible plan. I can think of nine thousand ways this could—probably will, go wrong. But I’m at the mercy of Mikhael and his word as a mafia enforcer to get me through this. So that’s….reassuring.

“And then I get the painting?” I confirm from the millionth time.

“You and this painting.” Mikhael rolls his eyes in annoyance, but I can tell he’s not truly annoyed, just nervous about tonight. “What’s so important about this painting?”

“I have a bet with a very annoying pyro,” I gripe as I carefully peek around the corner.

We’re in a desolate hallway which is tastefully decorated in charcoal, black, and white. Expensive looking paintings are hung in matte frames along the walls and emphasized with display lights shining on the glass. It’s like walking through a very fancy art museum. If I wasn’t so nervous about being murdered, I’d be loving this place. I stare down the perpendicular hallway—all clear. The glossy black double doors with an intricate design inlaid are completely unguarded.

Seems strange, but I guess if the boss is mingling, no need for guards down here.

“You pull this off and I’ll gladly hand over the painting,” Mikhael confirms yet again.

“Fine,” I state as my butterflies begin to whip around my core. Nerves and anticipation course through me as I try to take a few deep breaths and remain calm. “I’ll meet you back in the ballroom.”

“Little Rabbit,” Mikhael says as he grabs my wrist gently. “Be safe.”

I offer him a small smile and nod. I’m not sure it’s a promise I’ll be able to keep, but I can certainly try.

“Udachi,” Mikhael calls as he turns on his heel and leaves back down the way we came.

“Spaciba,” I mumble under my breath as I try to relax and calm my racing heart.

Creeping down the hallway, my heels click against the marble floor. Each step echoes off the walls of the empty hallway. But I move with speed and confidence, as if I belong. The key to being a good thief is confidence. If anyone asked, The Pakhan sent me to wait for him. Although, hopefully, the Pakhan himself doesn’t ask, since I don’t even know what the man looks like.

The brass knob is cold beneath my shaking fingers as I reach out and test it. Unlocked. This dude seriously needs to up his security.

“Knock, knock,” I call out as I push the door on slightly. Knock, knock? Who says that? I cringe internally at my nervous awkwardness.

The hinges squeak slightly as the large wooden door swings inward to reveal a dimly lit room. It appears empty enough; so, with a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m truly alone, I step inside and close the door behind me.

The Pakhan’s office is not at all what I was expecting. It’s surprisingly comfortable. The walls are painted a warm off-white which goes well with the warm brown leather and dark wooden furniture. A large painting of a golden bird, wings lit with fire, sits on the wall behind the desk in an ornate frame. It’s a beautiful painting. I stare at it for a moment, admiring the way the artist used alternating brush strokes to create the illusion of movement on the fiery feathers. Something about the painting feels comforting to me.

“Okay,” I say to myself as my eyes swing over the surface of the large, masculine desk. “If I was the head of the Bratva, where would I keep my mafia boss ring?”

The desk is neatly organized. Piles of papers are stacked in small stacks, a golden pen lays haphazardly across one of the pages, as if he left in a hurry.

“Maybe a drawer?” I ponder aloud as I round the desk and collapse into the soft leather chair behind the desk.

Sliding open the long drawer in the center, I find a dangerous looking letter opener shaped like a dagger, a collection of golden pens, a matchbox stamped with SO in gold foiling, and a paperclip. Opening the top left drawer, I find pads of legal paper. Boring. The bottom left drawer is more exciting. Inside is a collection of various objects. There’s a golden pocket watch, a hand-carved smoking pipe that I can’t imagine anyone in this century using, cufflinks that seem to be made of real diamonds, which mysteriously end up in my clutch, and a golden feather. It’s the feather that truly holds my attention. It pulls at the string of something buried deep in my mind—a memory I’m struggling to uncover. The feathers are soft and silky, the tiny hairs reactive beneath the pad of my thumb.

“Does the Pakhan have a bird?” I ask out loud.