“Do you really trust her?” Sacha asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
It takes me a long moment to answer. And when I do, even I am surprised. “Yes,” I tell him. “With all my heart.”
Chapter Twenty
Annika
Black bag over my head.
Hard plastic zip-ties around my wrists.
My heart is slamming against my ribs, my breath ragged and labored. I consider forcing myself to calm down. After all, the Annika my father knew was fearless, ruthless, as cold and hard as steel.
But to sell the image of my abuse and escape, I let both my fear and pain show. Besides, it’s been three long years since I last saw my father. I’ve had two children in that time; I’ve reconnected, albeit barely, with my mother. This Annika, the girl I am pretending to be, is soft at the edges. A mother and daughter. She is the girl who will throw herself on her father’s mercy.
Fear—fear is good.
I’m shoved unceremoniously into a truck, which jerks onto the snowy road and speeds uphill. I can’t see anything through the black fabric, but when the snowy daylight suddenly darkens, I assume we’ve driven inside. Metalchk-chk-chks outside the windows—some kind of garage sliding open and closed?
Soon enough, the car door opens, and one of the guards takes me roughly by the arm, dragging me out of the truck. We walk for what feels like forever, doors opening and closing, the percussive sounds echoing down endless hallways. It’s freezing in here, almost as cold as it is outside, and I wonder if the guards are even going to tell my father—if they’re just going to drag me down into the cement labyrinth below, and hurl me into a cell.
I try not to think about how much that terrifies me.
But eventually I’m guided into an elevator, not a cell. I stand trembling in the silence, the guard’s hand still locked around my upper arm and no doubt leaving bruises. When the door glides open, I’m hit by a wall of warmth, and the familiar, gut-wrenching pair of aromas: cinnamon and tobacco smoke.
Father.
I don’t mean to dig my heels in when the guard pulls me toward the hall. A rough jerk uproots me, and then I’m being pulled along, buoyed like a leaf in a current, toward the man who once ruled my life, who lost me, who now has my children and is ruling me yet again.
I hear voices, low and harried. A man and woman, speaking Russian too quiet for me to distinguish. Then cool, feminine fingers take me by the elbow. Her grip is tender, gentle even, but somehow it’s even more intimidating than the violent handling of the guards.
I’m directed through another doorway, into a heated chamber that seems to seal out any noise. My boots sink into plush carpet, and I feel my proximity to a hearth, the sweet sting of fire as it begins thawing my frozen bones. A door closes.
And all sound evaporates.
Then: “Sit.”
I do as he says, but my stomach bottoms out. My knees go weak.Father.His voice, after all these years, still has the capacity to make me tremble with fear. I’m grateful for the fine, studded leather chair beneath me. Because for all my cockiness and posturing, I don’t know if I can remain standing now that I’m here.
Oh, Father.
The girl who left him three years ago still wanted this man’s approval, his pride. Those things were at least possible to attain.
But that girl also wanted the impossible—his love.
Years apart taught me what so many years together couldn’t: that Viktor Desyatov is not capable of love. If only I’d known that as a child, as a young woman, I could have been spared so much pain and self-loathing.
But all my life, up until the day I got on that plane and flew to the United States, I lived for my father. I did everything he said. I fought for him. Manipulated for him. Committed crimes and served time for them. I killed for him.
What has he done for me? He ignored Maxim’s ransom. He kidnapped my children.
I don’t even want to think of what he’s done to my mother.
All of the fear in me slowly dissolves, replaced by a hot, deeply-burning rage that’s been building for years.Convince him you’re still loyal, I command myself.And the minute he shows you his back, put a knife in it. For your children. For your mother. For Maxim.
For me.
The black bag slides slowly from my head. I blink, eyes assaulted by the low, warm light of my father’s opulent office. Every inch of the chamber is red velvet and ivory and chrome and varnished mahogany; classy. Beautiful. Expensive.
