Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Twenty-three years ago:

“Wait here, boy,” my father grunts, patting my shoulder. “I won’t be long. Mr. Brancovich and I need to talk business.”

Past him, I see the enemy smiling at me.

Like a fucking jackal.

A year ago—less—this man would have shot me on sight. He still might; the day is young. Honestly, I still might do the same to him.

But we’re here because the times, as my father keeps saying, are changing.

We’ve seen the blue helmets of the UN peacekeeping forces for a few years. But recently they’ve simply taken over. They’re everywhere, now that the fighting has stopped. The jaded part of me that comes from fighting wars before you even become a man wants to be bitter about that.

The realistic part of me is glad they’re here.

I’m not so sure how much more war I could take. Not “before I break”. More like before I get shot and killed, and I’m literally no longer able to continue.

I’ve been fighting for almost three years, since war came to Kosovo when I was ten. Since the entire Balkan region and whatever remains of Yugoslavia deteriorated into chaos and pure anarchy. Neighbor fighting neighbor. Words like “extermination”, “genocide”, “crimes against humanity” and “ethnic cleansing” have become my entire world.

We’re not a country or even a region of the world anymore. We’re just an open pit looking into Hell, brimming with carnage and violence and belching hatred and distrust into the filthy air.

In the beginning, it was nearly impossible to know who was friend and who was foe until they started shooting at you. We’re—my family and I—Serbian, mostly, mixed with a little Russian. But we live in Kosovo.

The politics are messy, confusing, and tiresome. All I know is that one day, our neighbors were Serbians just like us. And then the next day, they were the enemy. Or we were their enemy. We’re not even Albanian, but apparently, that’s the side we’ve fallen into: Serbs and Albanians fighting Serbs and Yugoslavians. All the same people giving themselves different names, and fighting over who gets to seize control of a little piece of the world no one gives a fuck about.

And as that war drew to an close, another one began: the war over who got to sift through the rubble and keep whatever they find.

I’d never heard much about the Brancovich family before. Just that their family made their money the same way we made ours: outside the law. And when the law disappears completely, the lawless take over.

My father called it a power war: a clash of criminal enterprises to see who would lord over the remains. It’s been a bloody few years. I’ve probably killed a dozen or more of Brancovich’s men. They’ve probably killed just as many of my father’s.

But it’ll be ending now that I’m to be betrothed to Mr. Brancovich’s daughter.

We’re standing on the massive front steps to the Brancovich estate—more of a compound, really. High walls surround their sprawling acres and woods. Notorious for being insular and hyper-protective of his family even before the fighting, Mihajlo Brancovich has only doubled down since the war for criminal power started.

My father’s told me no one—not friend, and certainly not former foe—has been inside the walls of the estate for years. And definitely not inside the house itself.

“This is an honor,” my father told me on the drive over. I asked him why it was an honor to meet the dogs we’d been shooting in the rubble-strewn streets for years.

“An alliance, Drazen,” he said. “In the end, we all must die. But we don’t have to rush into it. And the continuation of our family line is more important than a useless war over scraps.”

“Drazen.” Mihajlo smiles as he walks down the front steps of his sprawling home and extends a hand. I hesitate, eyeing it dubiously. But my father clears his throat and then digs his thumb into my shoulder where he’s holding it. My hand slowly extends to shake my future father-in-law’s.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, young man,” he growls. “It pleases me to think that our children will have a future. That even despite these blood-soaked conflicts and senseless wars, there’s a future waiting to happen.”

He smiles at me.

“Your papa and I need to talk business. But if you go around to the back of the house near the gardens, I’m sure Annika’s there.” He chuckles. “I’m sure you’re anxious to meet your bride-to-be!”

He and my father laugh, the latter tousling my hair and telling me to be good and play nice. Then they both disappear into the house.

Play nice.

I haven’t “played”, nice or otherwise, in years. I traded make-believe and toys for violence and war. And I haven’t the slightest interest in meeting the ten-year-old Serbian mafia princess who’ll be my stupid fucking wife when she turns eighteen, almost a decade from now.

Just the same, I follow the bluestone path around the side of the house and through a manicured rose bush patch. I’m nearing what looks like a pool when I hear a commotion in the hedges in front of me. I frown, my senses sharpening as I instantly go on the defense. I reach for my rifle before I remember that I don’t carry one of those anymore, since the truces.

I do have a knife, though.

It comes out with a lethal flick as I creep around the corner of the rustling hedge. A soft voice whispers hoarsely. Then again.

Then, right before I lurch around the hedge and grab whoever is hiding there so that I can slit their throat, the bushes in front of me suddenly part.

And fire comes pouring out.

I frown as it stumbles to a stop in front of me and then looks up with big blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across the nose.

Not fire. Just bright ginger-red hair with the sun glinting on it. My brows knit as the girl stares at me, then at the knife in my hand.

“What do you have that for?” she says curiously in English, with an American accent.

My jaw clenches as I glance past her. “Who else is in there?”

She shrugs. “No one.”

“I heard you talking to someone. It sounded like you were wrestling.”

She grins. “I was.”

“With?”

The redhead giggles. “My imaginary friend.”

I scowl. “What?”

“My friend. She’s imaginary. And invisible, so you can’t meet her. Sorry.”

I grin slightly and I drop my hand, folding the knife up and slipping it back into my pocket.

“Who are you?” she inquires.

“I’m…looking for Annika,” I grunt.

“You found her.”

My brow arches. “You’re Annika?”

She glances back at the bushes behind her.

“What are you doing?”

“Just telling my invisible friend that it’s okay.”

I smirk as she turns back to me.

“I’m Annika.” She sticks out a hand. “Who are you?”

“Drazen,” I reply, feeling awkward as I shake the hand of the girl I don’t know, who I’ll marry one day.

“Oh!” Her eyes widen a little as she steps back. Then she looks me up and down, clearly sizing me up.

“Oh?”

“You’re…not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Papa used to call you and your family monsters and demons. But I guess I wasn’t really expecting you to have horns or anything.”

“Maybe I do,” I smile. “Maybe I am.”

“What—a monster or a demon?”

I nod. She shakes her head.

“I don’t think you are. I don’t see any horns.”

I chuckle. “Your English is perfect.” I frown. “I’m surprised.”

“We can talk in Serbian if you prefer.”

I shake my head. “No, I like it. It’s good practice for me.”

“My mother is American. So is our housekeeper.”

My brow lifts. I didn’t know that.

“You’re here with your father?”

I nod.

Annika shrugs. “Wanna play while they talk?”

“I…don’t really play. I’m a soldier.”

She eyes me. “But you’re a kid like me.”

“I’m thirteen.”

“Soldiers aren’t thirteen.”

My skin crawls, and the memories I try not to think about start to creep through my mind.

“I think I’m just going to go wait back at the car with my father’s men⁠—”

“Do you play Nintendo 64?”

I pause, frowning. “A…little?”

“Do you know Goldeneye?”

“The James Bond movie?”

Annika rolls her eyes. “The video game.”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” Her brows knit in confusion. “But…you’re a soldier.”

I nod.

“So you’re good at shooting stuff?”

From anyone else, anyone older, it would be a tasteless, asshole thing to say. From her, it’s just funny.

“Yeah,” I smile, shrugging. “I guess so.”

“Then you’ll be great. Let’s go.”

I flinch a little when she grabs my hand, but she doesn’t let go, and the strange sensation from her hand in mine goes away. Annika is starting to tug me in the direction of what looks like the pool house when she stops and glances back at the hedges again.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m seeing if maybe next time,” she laughs, “my invisible friend will come play with us too.”

I smile curiously. “What’s your invisible friend’s name?”

She grins as she turns to me. “Annika.”

I laugh, and it genuinely feels like the first real, heartfelt laugh I’ve laughed in years.

“You’re kind of weird, aren’t you?”

She shrugs, nodding. “Yeah, well, sucks to be you. You’re the one that’s gonna have to live with me someday.”