Aleksio
Most people who see the ancient cigarette burn on my arm assume it's from somebody who was trying to hurt me.
They couldn't be more wrong.
My cigarette burn is from somebody who was trying to protect me.
It's been years since it actually hurt. Even if you poke at it, there's no feeling.
Which goes to show, if you mess something up enough, it loses its ability to feel.
That's true of skin, and it's also true of people.
Still, it gets irritated from the kind of hand—to—hand fighting I've been doing today. Like a grouchy childhood friend.
Hiding in the gloomy boathouse, I yank the folded handkerchief from my front pocket, loosen my cuff links, and tie the thing around my forearm, making a protective wrap.
My phone vibrates. It's my brother, Viktor, letting me know another attack is coming—Nikolla and his top guys will rush down from the main house now.
It'll be bad.
I don't care; I'll do what it takes to find our baby brother. He's out there and he needs us.
I'll burn the world down to find him.
Burning down the world would actually be easier than doing what we're doing—attacking Aldo Nikolla.
Aldo Nikolla is the boogie man and Godzilla, rolled into one. The most dangerous Albanian mafia kingpin who ever walked the earth. And his summer residence is guarded better than Fort Knox.
But you gotta do what you gotta do.
I fix my cuffs, let my Sig hang loose in my hand.
The hitman who rescued me from Aldo Nikolla when I was a boy never let me forget the mafia traditions—the suits, the codes, cuff links just so.
The sleeping king, he always called me. You will gather your brothers and take back your kingdom from Nikolla.
All my life, this was the plan—find my brothers so we can take our kingdom, our vengeance.
I focus on the pile of bodies in the dark corner. Six guys shot up with enough tranquilizer to sleep for a day. Still, I think they might wake up. Because they're Aldo Nikolla's soldiers. Like he's all—powerful.
It doesn't help that the hitman who rescued me tried to stop this attack. Don't do it—you're only two brothers. All three brothers must be together.
The three brothers must be together. You are too early.
Well, priorities change. Our baby brother needs us. He's out there, unprotected. Unaware of the danger he could be in.
We have to get to him.
The last time I was this close to kingpin Aldo Nikolla was the night I got my burn.
I was nine. Konstantin—that's the hitman who rescued me—and I had been on the run two months by then. I had a fever. We crashed in an abandoned building—Kansas City, I think. I woke up in Konstantin's arms as he sprinted past caged—up storefronts and turned into a dank alley. He had a disguise stashed there—a dirty wig and lipstick and clothes. Konstantin did a quick change into a bag lady. It was a disguise no self—respecting Black Lion clan member would ever adopt—that had been the genius of it.
A few terse words from him and I made myself invisible under the pile of clothes next to him, eyes and lips squeezed tight. Old Konstantin lit up a cigarette as they approached. If you knew him—and these killers knew him well—it was the opposite of his way. Konstantin never smoked.
We could hear Aldo Nikolla and Bloody Lazarus and the rest of them going at the bums on the next block. I pressed my forehead against Konstantin's massive thigh, hiding, as the footsteps slowed in front of us.
One of Aldo's soldiers kicked Konstantin and asked whether he'd seen a man and a boy. Konstantin screeched back in crazy old lady gibberish—real Academy Award shit.
That's when the old man moved his hand—just enough to press the cigarette to my arm. Just pressed that thing right in there.
He didn't know he was burning me. He had no idea. He was trying to save us, screeching in that bag lady getup.
I forced myself to stay still—any movement would give me away.
So I let it burn, let the pain turn my brain red with ice. The cigarette had burned through whatever polyester thing I was under, and I'll never forget the smell. I let the ember sink deep into my arm like a blistering sun, praying he'd move his hand on his own, but he didn't. All his attention was on screeching at the soldiers, putting them on the defensive.
Keeping us alive.
I let the pain be my teacher. The pain taught me I could survive, that I could endure anything. That I would endure and fight another day, just like Konstantin always said. "Mbreti gjumi—the sleeping king. You live to fight another day."
But that day has never quite come. Konstantin wants everything perfectly in place first. All three Dragusha brothers united. Legions of men behind us. They will fall into line when they see the Dragusha brothers have made their way back to each other.
Our baby brother is in too much danger for us to wait. He has no idea the danger he's in.
We're coming for you, Kiro, I whisper into the night.
The next guard strolls in the far door, heading for my side of the line of boat slips. This guy's not thinking about who might be lurking in the best hide—and—seek spot in the place—he's thinking about the lunch spread that's supposedly waiting for him on the upper level. Viktor and I took over the texting between the guards as part of the attack. Like taking over their hive brain.
It's true what they say—the fastest way to a man is through his stomach.
As soon as he's in my orbit, I lunge for him and twist away his weapon. I choke him out before he can make a sound, and then I jab the needle into his neck and he's down.
Some of the soldiers are surprisingly easy to take. But then again, all these guys were suckling at the tit of the Xbox while I was getting beaten to a bloody pulp by Konstantin in our endless training sessions.
My guys are up at the house. The idea is to flush everyone my way. We've been silent so far. As long as nobody shouts or shoots, we keep our element of surprise.
When Aldo Nikolla senses trouble, he'll come down with Lazarus and leave Mira at the house, where he'll think she's protected.
She's his one weakness.
I've played this day out in my imagination so many times. The horror on Nikolla's face when he sees I'm back—Aleksio Dragusha all grown up and in his face.
The shock when he realizes I've reunited with my brother Viktor. Because hey, you'd think that when you send a toddler off to a Moscow orphanage with no identification, he'd stay there, right? Wouldn't you think?
Surprise, motherfucker!
No way will Mira recognize me as the boy she goofed off with a lifetime ago, lying on a soft sea of grass in front of this wedding cake of a castle, clouds like seahorses.
I'm worlds different from the good—natured mafia prince she knew. I'm pretty much a different species. Because when you're hunted every day of your life like a rat in a pit of vipers, everything inside you changes. You develop talents no sane person would want. You lose your humanity.
She thinks we're dead, anyway. Everybody thinks that we three Dragusha brothers died alongside our parents. I suppose in a way we did.
Mira is worlds different too, now—sometimes I can't believe the shopaholic posts she puts out there on Instagram. Everything in her life is about shopping now. It's sad, because she was amazing as a kid—brave and loyal and kind.
I guess this life twists everyone, eventually.
It's better that she's not the same person. It makes my job easier.
