Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva), Nicole Fox [love letters to the dead txt] 📗

I correct myself: his murder.

The Balduccis. They were not satisfied with what they had already taken. They came for more, and they got what they were after.

Retaliation can’t wait another moment. Nothing else is as important as this. If they want to take everything from me, I’m going to take even more from them.

I stare into the flames until all I see is red.

4

Cassandra

I have forty-eight hours to propose a topic to Harden.

The last two weeks have passed by as quickly as gossip in this office. I sit down at my cubicle, sipping from my coffee. I have a hundred or more tabs open on my browser. There have been three murders of women with blonde hair within the age range of eighteen to thirty-one, so I got my hopes up for a juicy serial killer lead, but it looks like at least one of the murders was perpetrated by a stalker and another one by a jealous boyfriend.

Prices have been rising astronomically for a rare antiviral medication patented by a pharmaceutical company called SM & OV Drug Inc, but everyone and their freaking mother has written about questionable pharmaceutical companies at this point in world history.

I found murmured complaints against a relatively popular pop singer who allegedly pirated material from local artists, but that’s not even in the same zip code as the Mafia in terms of public interest.

There’s a city politician who’s allegedly taking bribes to shepherd risky buildings through the inspection vetting process, but one of the other journalists is already on that story.

So, in short, I’ve got nothing.

I slowly move my mouse upward, and, with a rising tide of guilt sweeping through my stomach, switch over to my word processor.

The pages are filled with exactly what Tom wants me to give him. The dirt on the Balducci criminal empire, told from the inside.

The first time I learned that my family was notorious, I was eight years old. Another kid in my elementary school, whose father was a police officer, started calling me Killer Cassie. He’d jump out of my way in the hallway and mock-shriek like I’d just tried to shank him. After a couple of months, I gave him what he was really after—a one-two punch in the balls.

Needless to say, it didn’t do much to quash rumors.

I remember coming home with my father after we left the principal’s office. I expected righteous fury and a long-winded story involving some Greek gods or something like that.

What I got instead was the truth.

You need to keep your head down, Cass, he told me. You can’t draw unnecessary attention to our family.

So much for the father who told me that only warriors prosper, only the strong survive. In his place was a man ordering me to live in the shadows.

Actually, a lot of what my father taught me was bullshit. But to his credit, he didn’t lie to me about our family after that day. I learned about all of it as I grew up—the car bombs, the enemies, the drugs, the girls, the weapons. And the money. So much fucking money.

I learned that my father was the first Balducci don who didn’t have a son. I learned what was expected of me because of that, that our lineage depended on me to carry on their blood, as if the weight of that responsibility wasn’t likely to crush me completely.

When your father has two halves—a public self and a violent, criminal self—it’s hard not to compartmentalize. To me, he wasn’t Gianluigi Balducci, infamous don, the hidden hand behind who knows how many dead bodies and crime in this city. He was just Dad. Long-winded, reserved, boring old Dad.

Until the day that he wasn’t anymore.

I click back to an article on potentially malfunctioning steering wheels as some of the other reporters pass by. I shouldn’t call them “other reporters.” I haven’t reported anything of consequence, and I’m about to fail at my first real professional hurdle.

Because I’ve finished a first draft, but no matter how hard I’ve coached myself, convincing myself it doesn’t feel brave, it doesn’t feel right, and it doesn’t feel like real journalism.

It feels dirty.

I return to my research, praying that I’ll find something that can get me out of Tom’s trap. Anything at all: deceit, corruption, scandal, murder. I’ve got a whole world’s worth of ugliness to comb through, and yet, somehow, it’s my own family that’s demanding my attention.

Hours later, I’m so tired I can barely see the laptop screen in front of me. I rub my eyes, but it doesn’t help much.

“You must be Cassandra.”

The man’s voice comes from behind me. I spin around, my fight-or-flight instinct kicking in, but my body relaxes as I see a portly man with a button-up shirt and suspenders smiling at me behind my cubicle.

“I am,” I say, standing up.

He shakes my hand. “I’m Arthur Lawson. I’m sorry it took me so long to introduce myself, but I was knee-deep in a story.”

“Oh, Mr. Lawson!” I exclaim. “No, that’s completely understandable. I heard about your funeral home killers story. I can’t even believe that whole thing.”

“They seemed like a completely normal couple, too,” he muses. “But, anyways, if it weren’t for that, I would have dropped by sooner. This industry can be a bit cutthroat, so I like to show people that not all journalists are narcissistic assholes. Most are, just not all. That being said, I heard some rumors that you and Tom didn’t start off on the right foot. He can be very—how should I put this … single-minded in his pursuits.”

“He’s a single-minded asshole,” I clarify.

He chuckles. “I suppose. He’s a brilliant man, and that seems to be all the virtue he needs for himself.”

“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t talk badly about him. I’m ecstatic that he hired me.” I pick up my pen, clicking it nervously. “I don’t know what you heard about the meeting …”

“Cassandra, we’re investigative journalists here. We’re used to fighting for every