Innocent Brie and the Mafia King

ON A NORMAL Wednesday afternoon, Angela sat on the living room rug eating popcorn slightly hot from the microwave and flavoured in salt. Her brother, Vossi, sat on the couch, curled around a blanket and watching television with a glass of milk in hand.
Angela was always different from her brother; her long brown locks remaining straight while her brother's were short and curly.
It wasn't only that. She thought differently too.
Through her eyes, the world was numbers and shapes rather than colours and letters. She would calculate rather than observe, and think instead of enjoy.
Her parents brushed her off as just special.
Vossi yawned and stretched, pressing his cheek against his sister's leg.
Outside the sun was shining, scorching with the asphalt of driveways. Lawn mower engines whirred, and children splashed in the backyard pools.
Dad was somewhere out back, mom in the kitchen preparing dinner. It was an utterly normal and compliant day - nothing seemed to be out of place.
When in the far hallway a clatter of some left over boxes came, Angela hopped up to check on it. She hoped it might be her cat Whiskers, screwing around and in the mood to play.
Instead, a man stood in her hallway - how he got in she didn't know - and glared down at her through his face mask.
He wore a beige leather coat from his neck to his toes despite the blazing heat. His shoes were decorated with silver metals and more beige leather, and they rang in a deafening pitch as he stepped over the threshold towards Angela.
"Mom!" Angela yelled, "Someone's here!"
Her mother came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her jeans. When she saw the man she stopped and stared in confusion, until it melted into fear.
"Go upstairs." She spoke. "Run."
"Whose child is this?" The man asked. His face wasn't readable as all Angela could see was his daring eyes, but his voice was oddly accented, "Mine? His?"
"No one's," Mom's voice croaked, "She's no one's child."
That wasn't right. Not one bit. Angela and Vossi looked just like their mom. Everyone said so. There was no denying the three of them were related.
Angela took a few steps towards the stairs but didn't want to go alone.
Vossi, Angela thought. He was older after all - definitely not wiser - but braver.
Yet Angela couldn't seem to make herself move any farther.
Mom seemed speechless. Her body was visibly still. Angela wanted to take her hand and squeeze it, reassure her, tell her that everything would be okay and he would leave soon, but she didn't dare.
The man stepped forward towards Angela's mother, and still, Angela couldn't move.
"Did you seriously think a happy ever after would be this easy?" The man asked again with a scoff, the notes on the ends of his words leaving rough cords with his accent.
Mom stared at him still, breathing heavier, shivering more clearly.
He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. He would make a move; she would fall.
As Angela watched what was happening, the numbers and shapes would come to life, and she'd see a bishop and a pawn.
There was something wrong with this man. He moved stiffly as though he was hesitant, but stiffly as though he was confident.
"I was never going to be happy with you," Mom said as tears glossed over her eyes, "Your world wasn't made for me, if I knew sooner, I would have never talked to you."
The tall man regarded her for a long moment before speaking five cruel and empty words. "But you made a promise, Hope." He said finally.
Mom lifted her chin. "And then I broke it."
Pawn doesn't move, not forwards, nor backwards, Angela thought, still not sensing the amount of danger she was in.
The man's gaze went to Angela.
Little eight-year-old Angela, a girl barely able to lift a bucket.
Although she should have been scared, Angela was still trying to decipher his mannerisms and figure out what his next move would be.
She couldn't figure it out. For once, her mind wasn't capable enough to transcribe his movements.
Angela dashed into the living room.
Vossi was still drowsy. The television was still on. He looked up with half-lidded eyes. "Who's at the door?" He asked, "I heard mom speaking."
"A stranger," Angela told him, "come upstairs with me."
With a sigh, Vossi unfolded from the couch and followed Angela into the hallway, expecting nothing of her ramblings.
As they started towards the stairs, Angela saw her father come in from the backyard.
He warily held a shotgun. It wasn't weird to see him holding one. What was odd was the way he held the weapon, as if he was going to-
Her father aimed the gun at the tall man.
The knight made his move.
Angela and Vossi's father never raised a hand on either of them, even when they got into big trouble. He wouldn't hurt anyone. He just wouldn't.
And yet...
The gun fired, skimming the tall man's ear as he barely dodged it, the bullet biting into the wood trim of their front door.
The tall man drew a ridged dagger from beneath his coat.
Dad was trying to reload his gun when the man plunged his dagger into his stomach, holding it there before twisting it and shoving it upwards.
There was a sound, like sticks snapping, and then an animal cry.
Dad fell to the carpet, limp, and unmoving. Although now, the carpet was tracked with blood. Crimson, bright, red, blood.
Bishop takes knight.
Mom screamed. Angela screamed. Vossi screamed. Everyone seemed to be screaming except for him. Except the man with the actual blood on his hands.
"Come here." He said, looking towards their mother.
"You killed him!" Mom shouted instead, moving toward the kitchen, "You killed him." She sobbed as she did.
"Do not run from me," The man declared, "Not after what you've done-"
But she did run. She was almost around the corner of their kitchen island when his dagger struck her back.
She crumpled to the floor, arms knocking magnets off the fridge in the process.
The metallic smell of fresh blood was heavy in the air, like wet, hot metal. Like some cleaning equipment mom would use on her spring cleaning days. Smelly, overwhelming, and everlasting.
Permanent.
Something that would leave a scar.
Angela ran at the man, slamming her tiny fists against his chest and kicking at his legs with her feet. She wasn't even scared. She wasn't sure she could feel scared when all she could feel was rage.
The man paid no attention to Angela. For a long moment, he just stood there, as though he couldn't quite believe what he'd done. As though he wished he could take back the last five minutes.
Then, he sank to one knee and sobbed.
He cried. He cried after killing Angela's mother.
Angela could only feel more annoyed at what an inconvenience this all was.
If he was going to cry, then why did he do it in the first place?
"I'm going to fucking kill you!" Vossi roared, tears streaming down his face as Angela dropped to her knees and subconsciously soaked them in her mother's blood.
Even though Vossi was stronger than Angela, his fourteen-year-old self holding more years, the man didn't budge when he wrestled him.
Instead, the man abruptly stood up. He stared at them with his disinterested eyes before turning around, and leaving out the front door as sirens echoed in the distance.

Angela Collins


MY WHOLE LIFE has been a train wreck.
When I was six years old my parents thought I was mute. They took me to a doctor who ended up giving me a fake diagnosis that stuck - until I turned seven and started reciting passages from 'Principles Of Mathematical Analysis' resulting in my parents switching districts for a better environment - and also a better doctor.
I could never really communicate what I was trying to say, and because of this, my talents never breached the surface from where they hid within me. Although my brother's talents definitely had. Mom and dad adored his work in literature as well as his capabilities in football.
I was never jealous though. Never. Because my parents never treated me like I was less. I just feel like I could of given them more and made them more proud if they knew me now.
Truth is, I could run faster than any girl in my year at school. Any guy too. And although I didn't really understand poetry or narrative, my ability at math was uncanny. I just never applied myself.
Or...really showed my self per sé.
Then, my parents were brutally murdered on what was supposed to be a normal summer day but turned out to be an obviously shitty kind of one. Only two days after that, the police came to tell me that I also seemed to have OCD. Which turned out to be a delight.
Things just always seemed destined to go wrong for me.
Except for today.
Today, my bitchy ass is going to be pampered with pats on the back and congratulations as I walk around the office.
Because recently, I found and brought in Alex Romanov. A narcissistic name, I know. What's more interesting about him, though, is who he is.
Alex Romanov is the leader of, what we now know is called, the Romanov Mafia. A Russian mafia that was transported here to America over decades ago. The mafia is notorious for some of the biggest drug rings in the country, and also most known for never leaving a loose end.
Until some rookie detective who's only been on the force for four years showed up. That would be me by the way.
"Collins!" A voice calls, echoing through the small office.
My head perks up at the mention of my last name, scanning entryways for the voice with squinted eyes only for them to relax once landing on Jonathan Wilds.
Standing up, I walk over to him with a practiced smile etched into my features and give him a quick, polite hug.
Jonathan has been here for over a decade, and he was the one who actually showed me around and introduced me to this line of work three years ago. It seems like a nice thing to do. But it was indeed a very passive, aggressive introduction when he was spewing facts about how women in the force don't really contribute much.
Which is why it feels so much better that I arrested Alex Romanov and not him. Especially when it's the case he's been looking at for years.
"I heard you brought in quite the bounty." He smirks as we pull away from the hug. I give him a small scoff and roll of the eyes as I return and sit back down at my desk with him following closely.
I have some idea what this is about.
"Are you perhaps upset someone solved it before you?" I suggest, gathering papers from different corners of my table.
"No, actually." Jonathan says, and I shoot him a mocking look of surprise.
"I know, I'm surprised too," he chuckles. "It's just I can't really be mad when the case that's ruined my life for ten years is finally over."
"Well," I spin in my chair to give him my full attention. "You're welcome."
"Don't get too cocky now; although your work is ineffable, I'm sure you're about to regret all the extra work that comes after." He shakes his head with amusement.
"Oh, but you underestimate me, Jonathan," I shake my head. "The afterwork is my favourite part."
"Why? Who in their right mind likes doing all the interrogating and paperwork when they're done bringing someone in?" He asks, scrunching his face up.
"It's the part that puts the story together," I shrug. "It's the most interesting."
Jonathan stays silent for a moment before speaking, "I guess you're right. I'm just more into catching the perp."
"You're more into the Die Hard Soniry," I roll my eyes with a scoff, "You're like a douchey version of Jake Peralta."
"Douchey?" He frowns. "Why am I douchey?"
"Because you only care about bringing the bounty in and not ridding the streets of drugs and blood." I answer swiftly. Stuttering is something I never do. Not once. Which should be a good thing, but my parents thought it was odd when I was younger - and would you look at that I was sitting across from a shrink.
"That doesn't make me douchey!" Jonathan exclaims with his hands in the air to exaggerate his point.
"You're wearing eighties cop sunglasses inside." I deadpan.
"Good call." He agrees quickly, taking them off and putting them in his shirt.
My shoulders shake slightly from the silent laughter that escapes my lips as I shake my head and stand up to make my way towards the interrogation rooms.
"Hey! Wait up!" Jonathan calls from behind, jogging up to me and stopping me in place. "Can I...work on this with you?" He asks.
"Why?" I ask, trying to sound curious.
"Kid, I've been working on this case for ten years of my life. I need to know how it goes down. I need a result." He says.
"No." I hum.
"Whyyyy?" He wines.
Because we both know how this goes, I'm a young female and you're an older guy - If I let you put even a fingerprint on this case all the credit goes to you, I want to rant.
"I've worked hard on this. And I plan to finish it alone," I answer.
"I won't take any credit - any work either," He pleads, "I just want to be there to know."
Squinting my eyes at him accusingly, I continue walking down the hall with him on my foot as I shuffle the papers in my hands to neaten them.
"Your name doesn't go down on anything, hear me?" I say.
"Yes ma'm."
"You will not be talking to my perps and clients. Only watching from the two way mirror, or receiving information when I give it to you."
"Fair." He nods.
"And you will not give your opinion on anything. I work my way, or no way."
"Okay, but-"
"Nope."
"Fine. Deal." He says, putting out his hand for me to shake.
I deny it, turning around and walking to the glass frame that sits in the centre of the room. I'm not shaking his hand for anything - I don't like using some physical connection to promise things. I use my word, or declare debt. Those are the only ways.
"Well then, meet Brianna Romanov, Alex's secret daughter."

Angela Collins


Jonathan's MOUTH IS agape as he stares through the two-way mirror. He eyes the young girl with so much curiosity that I can already hear the questions he's going to ask. It's inevitable.
"H-he had a daughter?" Jonathan whispers seemingly to himself.
"Yup." I say, popping the p.
"How did you know? How did you find out?" He turns to me and questions.
"I didn't." I respond. "We just found her when infiltrating their quarters."
"Holy shit." Jonathan breaths. "This changes so much-"
"Don't get too excited. You're on the sidelines." I warn with a pointed look.
"Right. Of course." He quickly shuts up - probably grateful I'm even allowing him in here before I go out there and talk to Brianna. "So...what do we know about her?"
"She's fifteen. A February baby," I note. "She's lived in her father's quarters her whole life and never left because he kept her undocumented and a secret from anyone in the outside world, including other mafias. Honestly, the girl was just born into the wrong family."
"You're telling me that," Jonathan gestures to the window, "Is an innocent little puppy caught in between two worlds when her father is literally Alex Romanov."
I don't like the accusation in his tone. Or the mocking.
"Yes." I answer simply. "It's my theory currently."
Jonathan gives me a doubtful look. I want to shove into the gutters and slam against the pavement several times before disposing of his body in a forest far, far away.
But I ignore it.
"Have you questioned her yet? Or did you just get that information from things you found back at Alex's base?" Jonathan asks, changing the subject—possibly after noticing the energy change on my end.
"I haven't spoken to her yet actually, this is all information I've been given." I answer.
"And you're already making assumptions? I don't think that's very smart." Jonathan says, and I suddenly have no idea why I even agreed to letting him come here in the first place.
"Since I've actually caught Alex Romanov, I think I'll just stick to my roots as they've been working out pretty well so far." I answer with a hint of mocking smug. Jonathan takes obvious notice - I wasn't trying to hide my tone—but says nothing.
I walk towards the two-way mirror myself and observe the fifteen-year-old in person for the first time.
She looks nothing like Alex. She's got blonde hair that cascades down over her shoulders and back, wavy and ethereal—practically the opposite of my hair. You can tell from a mile away that her eyes are blue, maybe from the size of her eyes or the deep blue sea that they drown in, but in either case, they're blue.
The girl looks...nothing. She looks nothing. I can't grasp any form of what her personality will be by what she gives me. For once, I can't observe.
As if she knows I'm there, she looks up, stares directly through the window she shouldn't be able to see through, although it seems like she does, and gives a knowing sort of look. One that says, 'I know you're there'.
I squint.
Without any regard for Jonathan, I turn and walk out of the room, ready to see her. She makes me curious. More curious than usual. Because usually, I can at least get some definite answers from just looking at someone. None with her.
All I know about her is that she's Alex Romanov's daughter.
When I enter the room, Brianna immediately stares at me. Her eyes don't hold fear, nor do they hold surprise. They do seem to be observing like me though.
"Hello." I speak first.
She doesn't say anything.
"If you don't speak English, I've already called a translator that's on their way. Otherwise, just tell me." I attempt.
She says nothing. Instead, she continues to stare me down with her ocean eyes.
"Right." I thin my lips, tapping my pen on the table. She's not cuffed, but she's not really granted access to leave either. I'm not sure if she's angry, terrified, confused, or anything. I can't tell anything. "I'll get a translator-"
"You have pretty hair." She says suddenly. A very thick Russian accent peaks through her words as she does.
"I - what?" I ask confused.
"Your hair. Very pretty." She says, using a small gesture with her hand to point towards it.
"Oh—uh—thanks. Thank you." I say before clearing my throat. "Is your English good? Can you understand everything I'm saying?" I ask.
"Yes." She responds simply.
"Okay," I give a soft smile. "Great, let's, uh, let's get started."
"I have questions first." She says before I can continue.
"You do?" I raise a brow.
"That's what I said." She gives a confused look.
"I know—just—never mind. What questions?" I ask.
"Where is my father?" She asks. Her face and tone don't give anything away. I can't tell if she doesn't know what's going on, I can't tell if she's happy that he might be in jail or even if she's just upset and wanting to see him.
"He's in custody right now. He has a court hearing coming up and will likely end up in jail. Money isn't enough for him this time." I answer.
Brianna scoffs. The first time she's shown an ounce of emotion that can even help me depict her character or personality. And yet, nope. Still nothing.
"Money is always enough," she says quietly to no one in particular, "if you have enough of it."
"Except when you have the duo of two badass women, one a cop, and the other a lawyer on the case." I respond. It's not meant to be funny. It was just me speaking without thinking. But Brianna cracks a smile nonetheless.
A beautiful smile. One that would have kids her age falling to her knees. One that makes me want to squish her cheeks at how young and adorable she suddenly appears.
"Do you have any...other questions?" I ask.
"Possibly. I'll ask after I hear you speak." She answers.
"Great. I just need to go through some basic questions about your age and stuff, and then I'll get into the more deep ones. Does that sound good?" I ask to which she nods casually as if she isn't being held in custody right now because her father is a mass murderer.
"First off, can you confirm these are your dates?" I ask, slipping over a piece of paper that holds her birthday information.
Brianna takes a moment to look at them before returning the paper and nodding.
"Good," I hum, "Now, do you have any schooling? How were you educated down there?"
"I had tutors." She responds.
"Did you ever learn anything that wasn't academic?" I ask.
She tilts her head to the side, some locks falling behind her. "What do you mean?"
"At your, home, were you taught anything other than educational matters?"
"No. I was taught math, English, history, geography, science, and Russian." She answers.
"Okay, that's also good." I say. "What do you know of your father?" I ask next, trying not to wince at how serious this conversation could go.
"My father works with serious people and does serious things." She answers.
"Do you know the severity of these things?" I ask.