Chapter Text
I.
He cleans the guns and shoots them, he sharpens the knives and carves with them, he creates untraceable bullets and places them in the hands of his brat'ya.
This is what David does with his time, most of it in the basement of The Fold. Well underground, it is the only hell left standing in Hell's Kitchen. The walls are gray and soundproof, the floor is gleaming white tiles with dark grout. Above him, hundreds of bodies dance to heavy bass, under the spell of lights and lust and vodka. It’s the city's most popular graveyard.
The Darkling has no affinity for messy murders, and David is tidy — that's why he's still alive. All his toys are lined up under glass along the walls, a various assortment of torture and pain. All his playthings go into the incinerator. No trace, no evidence, no jail time in the Bratva anymore.
Some of the men who went past secondary back home call him The Boatman after Charon from the Greek myths. The morons call him The Nutcase Downstairs. Both nicknames give him pleasure.
He is the man who makes the knife that The Darkling will use to cut Alina Starkov's throat.
He makes the handle from mother of pearl, delicate, not unbreakable, like her. Makes the blade small and narrow and and sharp enough to make sure she will never take another breath without thinking of the Bratva, never take another gulp of water without paying for her mistake, never open her mouth to sing again.
David wonders if he will miss her voice. Realizes the entire world will.
Delicate little thing, throats.
II.
Police raid three of their strip joints one Monday in November, a display of coordination so unheard of in the NYPD that it almost impresses him. It would have been no bother, really, there will always be girls from home desperate for the promise of better in the land of the free, except:
On Tuesday, the Irish fucking mob plants a bomb on their shipment of blow out in the pier – it blows his fucking boat to smithereens, that’s what got to him, the fact that his beloved The Motherland is gone. And of course, three of his own men were dead in the explosion too, but the boat! The fucking boat.
And on Wednesday, the Italians stage a drive by in one of their dens in Brooklyn. Fedyor had been in there – fucking Fedyor! – a bullet grazed his left shoulder and another grazed his right thigh before he went down. He comes out of it scraped, bleeding a bit and unlike the ten men he had brought with him, alive.
His boat, and then his husband. Thirteen of his brothers are dead, and thirteen million of his dollars are sinking in the bight. Two 13s, and it was only Wednesday.
тринадцать. Ivan convinces himself it’s a curse.
He convinces himself it’s Alina. He never liked her.
On Thursday morning, Ivan rushes to the office above The Fold. The boss’ eyes are heavy with fury. Silent as a shadow as his Vory – him, Zoya, Fedyor – attempt to make sense of the bullshit coming for them on all fronts. The minutes wear on and still, the Darkling says nothing, wearing his rage like it is composure.
Your whore has turned traitor, says Ivan, finally, what other explanation is there?
No other explanation, not for him. Ivan trusts the Vory, trusts his men, trusts himself, trusts his husband. He, however, does not trust some Американец singer whose cunt sings a special song for the boss.
The Bratva has no rats, vory v zakone runs strong here. They may not have military precision, but they learned one thing from the American government: clearance. And no one has clearance to logistics and addresses except for the people in this room. Them, and the people they are careless with.
No one sings like her, eh? Perhaps she's been singing to the wrong people.
Watch your mouth, Ivan, The Boss' voice is as cold as winter, soft as a knife.
Watch your back, Otets, Ivan snaps, temper sharpening into insubordination. She's stabbing it and has you thinking it's a kiss.
I think he’s right, Zoya says. She never liked Alina either, always wanted to be the Queen. Who else could it be?
III.
Matthias watches Alina Starkov's blind side, or rather, her security’s blind side. He’s not high enough to sit in the big boy meetings, but trustworthy enough to be watching the boss’ heartbreakingly beautiful mistress – no, that word is too dirty for someone whose eyes are as innocent as hers – the boss’ girl.
It’s a privilege, especially for a Fjerdan, and he appreciates the vacation from breaking knees all the goddamn time. The Bratva has made a monster of him, and he finds it makes him not sleep so well at night.
On his first day on the job, he meets the girl’s publicist. Nina. Curves everywhere, flaming red hair, skin the color of milk. He walks behind them watching her ass instead of doing his job. Good thing, then, that the most dangerous person they will ever encounter is the person he’s working for.
He learns little Nina-shaped things over the next eight months. How she likes her coffee, how fast she can type in a crisis, how little she knows of her client’s new boyfriend, how Alina isn’t just her client at all, but her actual best friend, how she eats an ungodly amount of waffles, how her eyes pass over the tattoos on his hands when she thinks he’s not looking.
He tries not to hate The Darkling when he stops seeing Alina – would be in bad taste to keep doing so after he almost kills her, after all, he gets it – but he mostly fails.
No more Alina means he’s back on the street, retribution walking.
No more Alina means no more quiet mornings with Nina, waiting for hair and make up to be finished, no more late nights in her penthouse apartment during the little best friend sleepovers, trying not to touch her soft, bare thighs while she’s making him tea, no more of her secretly sneaking into the guest bedroom to snuggle up behind him.
Sleeping with her meant sleeping period.
No more Nina meant the restlessness comes roaring back.
He feels bad that that feels worse than knowing Alina is somewhere with an open, bleeding neck. She didn’t end up in any of the hospitals in New York State – they checked. The boss did it personally, called ERs two days straight, used a fucking Excel sheet and everything. Nothing. She’s gone.
Nina also disappears. Moves to a new apartment in the fall out, but he finds her after four weeks of meticulous searching. In a four-story walk-up in Queens, very unlike her, Ms. White Marble Penthouse. When he knocks on her door, she answers it by slapping him across the face. Payment for someone else’s mistake. Being hurt by her makes the longing in him flare up as anger, because men like him don’t know how to respond with any other emotion, and he pins her to a wall and slams the door shut.
She says things he doesn’t like to think about, to process. How did you find me? You’re a monster, stop touching me! You hurt her.
I didn’t hurt her, that wasn’t me, he says.
You people hurt her. What’s the difference?
He doesn’t expect to cry, she doesn’t expect him to cry. Men in the Bratva do not cry, and yet he falls on his knees and apologies fly out of his lips like well-worn prayers, a sinner to a goddess. He may or may not have said he loves her.
Matthias, she bends down to kiss him on the cheek, and it feels like an apology he doesn’t want nor deserve, stand up.
It’s a short walk to her bedroom, and the stained yellow walls make him hate himself a little more. The place is a shithole. He can’t believe how much more he’ll do to her, this beautiful, scared girl he loves so much, before this is all over. He’ll never be able to sleep for as long as he lives.
She pushes him to sit on the bed and strips the black puffer jacket off him.
He’s armed, and she bites her lips, full and red, as she runs her fingers over the .45 holstered to his chest.
I’m not going to hurt you, he says, unsure if he’s lying. She puts his gun on her bedside table.
You look terrible, she says, have you been sleeping?
She tries to get some shut eye snuggled up to his chest, listening to his heart beating for her, mumbles, you’ll die of a heart attack if you don’t find another job. He takes in the strawberry scent left by her shampoo and puts his hands on her, memorizes the violent curve between her lower back and her ass, his favorite place in the world.
When her breathing evens out and he’s sure she’s knocked out, he betrays her. Stands up and puts his weapon in its place. He doesn’t look back because it’ll hurt too much to leave. He’s too afraid he will never want to.
He swipes her phone from where it was charging in the kitchenette and rams it angrily into his pocket. Takes her laptop from the table. Finds her tablet in the bathroom – he shouldn’t know that she likes to draw when she shits, but he does. Love is knowing things about her. Stealing from her is probably not love. But it’s better than going through with what he’s actually been sent to do.
Matthias is loyal, but always to the wrong people.
He drives to the The Fold and prays she can forgive him for this.
The Vory are all gathered in the office when he arrives, pale faced and drinking whiskey. The Darkling is nowhere in sight and yet, the air crackles with tension too thick to be pierced by the thumping and frankly idiotic music that plays in the club – they made too big a mistake with Alina and the boss wasn't feeling all that forgiving anymore. Ivan’s eye is swelling shut, his cheek a mangled mess of flesh, his stitches visible — no hospitals for the Bratva, only vodka and David.
Matthias nods in greeting and sits next to Fedyor. His wedding ring gleams in the darkness. Like his husband, he is also missing a pinky. Wounds fresh, still wrapped in gauze.
No more forgiveness from the boss. His loss is everyone's pain. Matthias wonders how long he can keep Nina safe. Wants these morons to find Alina before he finds out the hard way.
Zoya tosses him a bottle of American beer — in a can, a disgrace. In return, he throws Nina's phone on her chest. Is subtle, but he puts his back into it. Drops the laptop and the tablet on the low table.
They're best friends, he tells them, Alina would get in touch sooner or later.
Why bring me this shit? It'll take three hours to crack this, it would take less than an hour with David to crack the redhead, Zoya says. She sounds angry.
David doesn’t touch the redhead. No one touches the redhead, Matthias says.
Except you? Ivan's tone is dark and threatening – or it would be, if he wasn’t a dead man walking.
Yes. No one touches the redhead except me.
Zoya sighs, Maybe I should get Kaz on this. Kaz can find anyone. Jesus, where the fuck are you, Alina?
IV.
They don’t stop – the leaks to the police, to the Irish, to the Italians – not even after Alina disappears. A month passes, two. Five months turn to six. They start speaking in code again. Even then, the rat catches on.
The Darkling loses his humanity first, and then his sanity. He spills enough Italian blood that there’s no mafia left to stage attacks. He kills the O’Brien’s only daughter, flays her alive. She was 19 years old. He sends her back to her father piece by piece. The Irish get the message. It’s not enough. He kills the mob’s heir, too, and then his pregnant wife. Then, they really get the message.
It seems every week now, there’s a parade for a fallen policeman, they start dropping like flies on the street. It gets sloppy. David has no use anymore. The boss breaks his hands.
Ivan dies first – he joins his boat and his millions in the bight.
Feydor next – his grief makes him useless.
Zoya watches The Darkling watch her like he can’t bear she’s alive. She understands that she’s next.
She wonders if he will kill himself after everyone is dead. He’s the one who made the cut, yet his loss is everyone’s pain. There are more orphans in Hell’s Kitchen now than there ever was.
He starts fucking women that look exactly like Alina – everyday a new woman. Treats them like sex toys, uses them and discards them. He doesn’t kill a single one of them, at least.
His men look at him in fear when they’re in his face and in pity when his back is turned.
After eleven months of absence, Alina’s publicists start spinning it like she’s on some sort of extended break. The tour for her new album is cancelled, everything is cancelled, her social media goes private. She’s been under the spotlight since she was 14, she just needs a little break, that’s all. That’s how The Darkling figures out they know where she is. Nina Zenic is pulled in for questions, she is hung on a meat hook. The boss put out cigarettes on her unblemished skin and makes Matthias watch her scream. It takes an hour or two before he believes she has no information to give him.
Zoya waits for her turn to die.
Nothing for months. The rest of Alina’s management is in Los Angeles where The Darkling has no power. And so they wait. A year, a year and a half.
Finally, her manager, a Hollywood suit named Jesper Fahey, goes missing. The LAPD say he was last seen leaving his office in Beverly Hills.
He is placed on the same meat hook that was used on Nina. He bleeds in his Prada. Has no idea why he's being tortured. He says he knows nothing, too, but the boss can spot a liar from a mile away. Beats Jesper nearly to death with his own fists before he fesses up.
Jesper thinks the handsome man with the dark hair is just a deranged fan.
She’s in Dresden, in a coma.
Zoya thinks she is spared. The Darkling doesn’t even give her a proper burial. Puts a bullet in her head and has one of the men toss her body upstate.
He never thinks about her again.
V.
Kaz finds her immediately. Almost immediately. Tells no one. Lets the boss sweat, lets him kill his Vory one by one in his rage. First, Ivan, and then Fedyor, and then Zoya. All of them dead within two years. Watches from afar as the Fjerdan boy ascends, along with Nikolai, Genya, Oretsev. Old hounds, new power. Eager to please. Not to be trusted.
He finds Alina two days after she disappears, finds out she didn't really disappear, wasn't really hiding. Her management had her flown to an Otolaryngology - Head and Neck surgeon in Dresden, a Dr. Inej Ghafa. Has no idea how they stabilized her in the flight, but the good doctor sews Alina's neck back together, saves her voice box, cries in her room when she thinks the nurses aren’t looking. Great doctor, the best money can buy, terrible bedside manner.
Conveniently finds her lonely in a bar one night, introduces himself as Francis, a vague job vaguely in finance. Francis, the Finance Dude. Buys her three bourbons, and not even then does she talk. Doesn't crow. After the fourth bourbon, flips the script and starts asking the questions.
You have a limp, why? You don't smile, why? What do you do for a living again? Finance, hmm, why? What's your last name? Your name is Francis Holland? Really? Why?
Respects that. Asks her if she’s free for dinner sometime. Just for the job. Not because she's the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Not because she's clever. Not because her hands did the impossible and fixed the unfixable. David isn’t called The Boatman for nothing, knew The Darkling himself is death walking. Alina Starkov should be dead and yet.
Kaz takes Dr. Ghafa to an expensive French restaurant that does nothing to impress her. Makes her laugh eating escargot. Somehow lands a second date, and a third, and a fourth. Fucks her on the fifth, and it doesn’t feel like fucking at all, feels a bit more than that, deeper, and it frightens him but not enough to not continue seeing her, not enough to tell her the truth either.
He thinks maybe she understands more, knows more than she lets on, his clever girl, because she never moans Francis when he pushes his cock inside of her. Not even once.
Is in the middle of being in love before he even knew he’d began.
They're lying in the floor of their – yes, their, he’s knee deep in this lie, has no idea how to crawl out, if he even wants to – living room one cold December night, wearing ugly Christmas sweaters and celebrating their first anniversary, when she turns to him and says, I have a patient, she's a singer. I'm not sure you know her, but she's a very talented young woman, very beautiful. I listened to her all the time in med school. I was a really big fan. Called her Saint Alina, she got me through so many tough nights.
Is it hard, treating someone you admire so much? He asks.
Yes, she gulps like she's about to start crying, like she can barely hold it together. He watched her cry in Alina's room for weeks when he first arrived, but he's never seen it close like this. It’s different watching her cry when she owns his whole heart. He can see her eyes creating the tears, can see the light draining from her face. Guilt, ugly and disgusting, simmers in his stomach. Kaz decides then he will never do another job for The Bratva again.
Someone sliced her throat open. My colleagues think they wanted her dead, but the cut — how do I explain? It was too careful. They missed the arteries altogether, no, they cut right at the —
Inej reaches across the distance and draws a line at the very top of his throat, knuckles grazing the underside of his chin.
Right where her voice box would be. They didn't want her dead. They just wanted her to suffer. Wanted her to be in pain for the rest of her life.
She drops her hand and it flops down on the floor between them, defeated. She rests the side of her face on her shoulders.
Kaz takes her hand in his, but she doesn't seem to register his touch. Too lost in the tragedy of it all.
How could someone do such a thing? she whispers, more to herself than to him.
Did you fix her? He asks.
No, yes, barely, she says, I tried. She will never be able to talk like she used to, never sing again.
VI.
In the Spring, Alina Starkov wakes up.