She does. “Gradually Maxim began to trust me. He had to, I think. I overheard so much of what they said here, him and his men, and eventually he began to show off the estate to men from other sects of the Bratva. Sometimes they stayed as guests—others, well…”
“Prisoners.” I ascertained as much very early after my arrival at Roza Dom. There was a smoothness to the process; I assumed Max had done it before. Now I step out of my clothes and into the bath. Lilly rises, gathering my clothing off the floor and folding it over her arm to be washed. “What else does he trust you with?”
Lilly looks at her feet. At first I think I’ve been too bold and showed off my true intentions of milking her for information. Then I see the glitter of tears in her eyes. She sinks onto the toilet lid, looking for all the world like a fifteen-year-old girl.
“I visit Alexei in the hospital. I clean him, make him look presentable, dignified. But it’s terrible. Alexei was always very sweet to me. Sweet to everyone, really. When he was shot…” She wipes tears from her eye with one hand. “Maxim was here when he got the news. He fell to his knees. All of the guns and power in the world and he couldn’t even protect his little brother. As good as he is at hiding it, I think it broke him. And when Alexei dies…”
“It’s good of you,” I say, putting my hand over hers when she can’t continue. “To look after Alexei. And Maxim. All of them. They’re lucky to have you.”
She smiles through her tears, then nods gratefully. After a moment of composing herself, she rises and goes to leave. “Annika,” she says, stopping with one hand on the doorframe, “he’s a good man. In the end, he’ll do what’s right for you. I know he will.”
“I wish I shared your faith.” But I smile until I hear the bedroom door close and lock behind her.
I settle into the steaming, aromatic water, alone for the first time all day and finally able to process what I’ve learned: my father is trafficking human beings.
The notion sets goosebumps pricking up and down my arms, turns my gut to lead. Of all the deplorable things the Bratva has done, this is the worst I’ve heard of. Unforgivable. I’d left my father’s world behind to protect my children, and I have little love for him. But I must admit, his world and his work suited me for a long time. Or, at the very least, itmademe. For so long, it was all I knew. Somewhere deep inside, I think I always thought I’d return to it, one way or another.
But knowing what I know now, that is impossible. Even I have to draw lines in the sand, I who have done so many terrible things and made so many awful choices. I shake my head, eyes fluttering shut. I try to relax, but every inch of me is steel-rigid with the weight of my knew knowledge.
And Alexei…what of his part in all of this?
To think that one of the Bratva’s own was operating against my father, manipulating him—and quite brilliantly—to protect the lives of innocents. It makes me wonder, for the first time in my cynical life: could this horrid crime syndicate be capable of…good? Real change?
If it was, would that change my opinion of it? My place in it?
My view of Maxim Volkov?
Since I was roused from Seattle, all I’ve focused on is escape. I thought my door to the free world was my father.Blood is blood, after all, I said so myself. If my father heard from my own mouth, if somehow I was able to communicate to him that I wanted rescue, he would find a way. I know he would. Maxim’s ransom may fall on deaf ears—but mine wouldn’t. Because despite everything, I am valuable to my father. Well-trained and heeled. The only true descendant of Viktor Desyatov.
Now…I’m not so certain that’s what I want. My side felt clear, based on the simple reality that I was here against my will, here as the Daughter of the Snake.
But what if I chosethisside? What if I stood beside Maxim as Annika Destry, a woman made by her own choices, not those of a gangster so set on wealth and power he would deal in human lives and suffering?
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. I expect Lilly again, but it’s Maxim who appears in the bathroom doorway.
“Finish up,” he says simply, throwing something made of black plastic down on the gold marble countertop. “We have a train to catch.”
Without another word or a look in my direction, he leaves. I reach for the object he left, and turn it over in my hands. My blood runs cold.
It’s an ankle monitor.
I narrow my eyes at the blank space where a moment ago Maxim stood—perhaps I will withhold judgement a little longer. Neither side is looking particularly promising at this point. Who knows if I will even live long enough to choose?
* * *
Our compartment is cozy but lavish, red velvet benches and beds above them. A pair of Maxim’s men, Sacha mercifully not among them, takes the compartment across from us. I don’t need to look closely to know they’re heavily packing—how the hell they get on trains loaded up with guns and ammo is beyond me.
Well, no—that’s not entirely true. Before my father owned a private jet, he often took the train just this way. Folded bills or cash wired, untraceable, to bank accounts was enough to gain access almost anywhere in Russia. I look Maxim over—not so different from my father, after all.
I slide open the velvet curtain, but the world beyond is night-drenched snow, streaking whorls of it, and frost spiderwebbing the window. Maxim is on his phone. He looks even more beautiful today than usual—wearing a fine black sweater and black pants, his dark curls swept back as though by an idle hand. Again I spot that swirl of ink beneath his collar—if I traced it, what would I find beneath his shirt?
My operation to seduce him has taken something of a backseat, but the underlying desire is in no way lessened. Especially when we’re alone like this.
Then again…I kick off my boots, then deliberately stretch my legs, resting woolen-sock-clad feet beside Maxim’s thigh. He looks up from his phone and I give an overly sweet smile. “Sorry. It’s just socrampedin here.” I tug the leg of my trousers up, revealing the ankle monitor he felt empowered to force upon me. “I hope you don’t mind.”
He looks back at his phone screen, and I read the worry in his face. It’s hidden beneath layers of machismo and cool, but I see it anyway. We’ve only been together a few days. Why do I find it so easy to read him?
“Alexei?”
