Cult Leader

Meline

I turn off the faucet and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, carefully avoiding the reflection staring back at me in the mirror.

Even after gargling water for over three minutes, I can still feel the vomit looming in the back of my throat.

But I don’t have any more time to soothe my surging anxiety right now, with Ramien’s stupid party already in full blast. If I’m not careful, he’s going to figure out I’ve got something planned for tonight.

Loosing a breath, I pull out the transparent bag from my back pocket and stare at the white powder inside — minuscule, deadly fragments of the life I was born into. Of the life I can’t seem to escape.

I tell myself it’s the last time.

But I know damn well that if my plan goes to shit, I’ll be forced to keep doing this for the rest of my life. To cope. Or to bring myself faster to death. Both valid reasons that, at the very least, would make it seem like I’ve still got something in my control.

It’s been three days since Ramien told me I’m being sold off. Not married. Sold. Like he sold my white mare last summer. Or the jewelry my mother left me before she died.

“It’s a power move, Mel,” he said in that low, dark tone I’ve gotten used to, “And I would gladly let a hundred men use your holes in one night if that means we’re going to win this war. Wouldn’t you?”

I wasn’t even shocked when he told me. Of course he was going to get rid of me eventually.

Ever since our father got sick, my brother proudly took over the family business and pushed me out little by little — just not without making sure he’s getting something better in return.

Because that’s all you are when you’re a Volkov. Property. And property can be sold off.

I shake out the contents of the small bag on the marble counter, then press it down with my key, forming a flat line.

I don’t want to do this. I really don’t.

Even if my family sell drugs for a living, I’ve tried to shelter myself from them as much as I could. I’ve seen what they do to my cousins — they’re so fucked up sometimes they can’t even tell you their names.

I didn’t want to end up like that. Not when I’ve got such little say in what happens to me on a daily basis. But tonight, when my freedom is on the line, I’m giving myself no room for mistakes.

I need my mind as sharp as it can get.

Tugging my cascading hair behind my ear, I bend over the counter, press down on my left nostril, and swipe my head up as I snort the damn thing.

Almost instantly, tears swell at the corners of my eyes, and I wipe them away with the pads of my fingers as I lift myself back up, accidentally catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

The eyes of a killer. The mouth of a liar. The face of a goddamn coward.

I look up at the ceiling, prompting my hands on the marbled counter and waiting for my incoming tears to retreat. Fuck, I really don’t have time for this.

To my left, my phone vibrates next to the sink, and a wave of relief washes over me as I expect to see the FBI agent’s name on the screen.

They should be ready for me, just like we talked. Give them the information they want, and I’ll go straight into the Witness Protection program they promised me.

If I make it out of here alive.

But more nerves surge in my stomach when, instead of Alicia’s number, I see my brother’s name next to a stream of short messages.

It really shouldn’t surprise me, though. For him, it’s just another one of those nights — with his parties, and his scotch, and all the powerful men of this country eating out of his palm.

Come down

Someone wants to see u

Don’t make me ask again

Hissing, I throw the phone back on the marble and use my key to push as much of the leftover cocaine as I can back into the bag.

Okay, then. I guess I can’t hide in here forever.

Careful not to give myself another accidental glance in the mirror, I run my hand through my hair and pat down my skirt before I exit the bathroom.

I pass by my room, and I know it might be the last time I see it — either I’ll be well on my way out of the country by dawn, or Ramien will simply hand me over to the highest bidder tonight.

My lips tilt upward as I take in the minimalistic decor. It’s light, and airy, and large …. and it looks exactly like my mother designed it before her accident.

Not a prison. She knew I’d have to live in one for the rest of my life, which is why she did everything she could so my room wouldn’t resemble one. And it didn’t.

Despite everything that happened over the years, all the crying, the punching of the walls, and the laughing hysterically, this room has been my home and my only guardian. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care parting from it.

And then there’s my father’s, at the end of the hallway, a room in which fear still lingers even now when he’s stuck in bed with his severe sclerosis and a nurse who’s too kindhearted to be wasting her time with him.

The most powerful man in the country, taken down by something money can’t buy.

I watch it from afar, the cracked door spitting out darkness and illness into the lit hallway. I almost feel bad for him… for what I’m about to do to all of them tonight.

Almost.

“There she is,” Ramien’s eyes — my eyes, and our mother’s eyes, ash gray — meet mine as I approach him and the three men seated in his office.

A subtle smile tugs at his lips, but I know better than to assume it’s a friendly one. Whatever my brother wants with me before the auction can’t be good.

“Dobryy vecher,” I say, flashing them all a smile as I cross my arms.

Smile. Show off your curves. And don’t let them see through you.

As the daughter of the biggest drug lord in the country, I’ve come to learn that this is the only way I’ll ever get what I want. The less any of these people know about me, the better.

Even if I’m screaming inside. Even if I’m not so sure I’m worth the effort sometimes.

“You’ll have to excuse my sister, gents,” Ramien laughs, and my whole body goes taut in the door frame, “She hasn’t spent much time outside — thinks everyone in the world is Russian.”

Bastard.

The others mimic his laugh, and I can’t tell if they actually found the remark amusing or if they’re just laughing to enter Ramien’s graces.

Just last week he riled up the whole country against the Cosa Nostra for wanting to get out of the partnership after our father stepped down.

The Armano family is now left without an heir. And since then, no other house has dared to question my brother’s skills in this game they all play.

“Oh, they’re not?” I shoot back, shrugging. “I’m probably not interested then.”

“Feisty,” one of the men adds in an Irish accent, his eyes scanning me from top to bottom. “Careful, lass. You’re not far off from what my boss here is looking for.” He cocks his head to the right, and my eyes shift to the man sitting there — bald, but imposing, maybe even more so than Ramien.

“And what exactly is it that he is looking for?”

“Mr. O’Neill here is going to bid for you tonight, Mel,” my brother shoots me a threatening look that sends shivers down my spine. “He just wants to get a good look at you beforehand.”

My pulse hikes up to my suddenly dry throat and I fight the urge to let my arms fall at my sides. If Ramien has seen my reaction, he doesn’t show it. So I loose a soft breath and move my weight from one foot to the other.

O’Neill.

That’s man who’s safekeeping the USB tonight — my freedom, and my brother’s demise.

It has the GPS addresses of all our cocaine labs outside the country. If I can get my hands on it in time, I’d have a real chance at fleeing before the auction.

Being a shadow in this house has taught me that — information is the most powerful weapon in a world like ours.

And I would gladly spill all our secrets to the FBI if that meant getting a private plane, a new name, and a whole new fucking life somewhere far away from here.

All I need is one minute alone with this man.

“By all means,” I say, clicking my tongue and keeping my features disinterested. “Enjoy the view.”

Swaying my hips from side to side, I walk past the desk and to the other end of the room, leaving a soft trace of perfume in my wake.

With the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the Irish men watching me, and I bend down to pick a bottle of Château Lafite from Ramien’s collection.

When I get back up, I hold the bottle loosely by the neck and walk over to Mr. O’Neill, my heels hitting the wooden boards the only sound in the room.

“Do you mind?” I tilt my head to the side, and my hair flows out of the way to give him a full image of my neck and cleavage.

Without answering, he grips the bottle and makes eye contact from beneath his eyebrows, as if we’re sharing some kind of intimate moment.

Just like I want him to believe.

I watch him unscrew the cork, and then — “You’re not an easy woman to deal with, are you, lass?”

“Mm,” I slide an empty glass — his glass — closer to him, and I wait for him to pour the wine. “If you have to ask, I’m probably not showing it well enough. Still, should I tone it down a notch for you?”

The subtle smile dancing on his lips tells me the opposite.

“Good. Didn’t think so,” I say, bringing the glass to my lips.

“My, my,” Ramien leans back in his chair, dragging my attention to him. “We might have to leave the room for these two.” He looks around at the other men, and they laugh, Mr. O’Neill included.

“Actually,” I say, and I swear even the walls hold their breath for me, “Perhaps Mr. O’Neill would like a more… detailed examination at what he’s about to purchase. Somewhere more… private?”

Dangerous, dangerous territory.

I don’t fail to notice the surprise on Ramien’s face. I might be good at hiding my real feelings, but my brother is no idiot. He catches on to what I really want more times than I’d like.

But not tonight, it seems — and I guess it’s because no one would ever expect me to do what I’m about to do.

“I told you, gents, she’s a gem. I swear, if it wasn’t for those rats closing in on our business…” he says, and my heart ramps up at the mention of the Havillard brothers, “I’d never give her away. But the stronger our families, the better for all of us.”

Mr. O’Neill nods. “And to think that Mr. Volkov took them in… trained them up. It’s a shame, really.”

“A shame,” the man to his left echoes.

Ramien clicks his tongue. “The Bratva was no place for them anyway.”

No, it wasn’t.

Cassian, Hadeon, and Ivar Havillard are French.

My father took them in when they were boys, turned them into monsters to carry out his dirty work, and made them bleed — each one of them for different reasons, leaving scars on their souls no human should be able to survive.

But they did.

And now, after escaping my father and going into hiding years ago, they’re back.

Now… they move like the wind. They’re everywhere and nowhere, waiting, listening, leaving no trace behind as they slice through our men and resources like it’s the only thing that keeps them alive. They very well might be at this party tonight and we wouldn’t know it.

And God, if I could just… be that — no one and nowhere, disappear and start over somewhere else… Somewhere where Meline Volkov doesn’t exist. Where the people she loved haven’t met their death because of how much of a coward she was…

“Miss Volkov?” My eyes flutter in Mr. O’Neill’s direction, whom I haven’t even noticed when he got up. “Shall we see about that examination, then?”

Mr. O’Neill’s calloused hand rests heavily on the small of my back as he leads me through the hallways of my family’s manor, two of his men a few steps behind.

His sharp cologne snakes into my senses like poison, and no matter where I turn my head, I can’t seem to escape it.

Barely anyone else is here at all — most of the guests are either in the lobby, in the garden, or in my brother’s office. To say I’m nervous would be an understatement.

Ramien told him not to touch me until the auction, but you never know with men like them. And other than the cocaine that keeps my senses alert, I’ve got nothing on me if shit hits the fan.

Stupid. Dangerous. But absolutely necessary.

When we reach the end of the wing, where the guest rooms are, he leans forward and opens the door for me. A sly smile blooms on his thin lips, the lights casting down on his head creating shadows around his eyes.

“Don’t go shy on me now, lass.”

I bite my lower lip and fake a scoff, flashing him my hooded-doe eyes before I step inside. A grunt rumbles out of his chest behind me while I make my way deeper into the room.

He follows.

Like a black widow weaving my nest, I draw him in, step by step, until we’re mere inches apart.

I start drawing slow circles around my chest, lowering my fingers to unbutton my top from the last one up.

A shaky breath wants to come out, but I shove it down, down all the way back into my lungs until it comes out smooth, careless.

Mr. O’Neill lifts his chin, watching me, only watching me as I pull the edges of my shirt away from my shoulders, revealing my black lace bra.

I slip it off completely, then sprawl my arm to the side, my shirt held loosely by my thumb and index finger in the air. His eyes shift to the feathering movement it makes when I let it go, making it a mess at my heels.

“More,” he growls, and I purse my lips, slowly walking around him.

“So impatient, Mr. O’Neill. Your pockets must be running pretty deep to snatch me away from the Bratva like this.”

He grunts, and I embrace his torso from behind, sliding my hands under the seam of his jacket, searching, groping for the damn USB.

“Your brother said no touching,” he smirks, his voice growing tauter.

“To you, Mr. O’Neill. Not to me. My hands can roam wherever they please.”

“Oh, yeah? And where do they please to roam, in that case?”

Panic coils around me as I keep searching but feel nothing in his chest pockets at all. He has it. I know he has it — I heard Ramien talk about giving it to him next.

My brother didn’t want to hide our most important asset some place where the Havillards could infiltrate and find it.

So he’s been passing it on to our allies every day, making it a real challenge to pinpoint exactly who has it when you need it most.

“Everywhere,” I say, my hands traveling to his belt, the expensive leather smooth under my skin.

“Come back around. I want to see you.”

And so I do, my hands sliding down to his pockets ever so slightly as I come around his torso.

There. Over his right pocket, my finger grazed against the sturdy figure of a small device.

“Take off your skirt,” he commands, impatience reading in his eyes.

“Take off your pants.”

“What?”

“You heard me. This is a game for two people, Mr. O’Neill. Is it not?”

“Your brother would kill me.”

I smirk. “Not if he doesn’t find out.”

A scowl, a moment to consider. But before I give him any more time to react, I lower myself to my knees, fumbling for his belt.

I set it free, and when I pull his pants down, I lightly dip my fingers into the pocket, exiting it swiftly with a gray USB.

Hiding it in my fist, I force him to look into my eyes as I get to my feet, confusion etched on his battered-down face.

“What are you doing? Get down, bitch — “

“Now, now, Mr. O’Neill. Did I say I was done?”

“You seem pretty done to me, thief,” a low voice coming from behind the Irish gangster startles both me and him, just moments before a thick line of fresh blood slaps my face and makes me stumble backwards.

“What the fuck — “

Mr. O’Neill falls to his knees, with his pants down and all, and chokes on his own blood as the figure of the man responsible comes into view.

I open my mouth to scream, the blade now headed toward me as I struggle to recognize that face from when I last saw it… ten years ago.

But as soon as that door opens in my mind, the image etches itself deeper and deeper until there’s no doubt about the man standing before my eyes.

Cassian Havillard is here. And he’s going to kill me tonight.