I remember the way Mom stood there, frozen, spatula in hand, sauce bubbling over on the stove behind her. She didn’t say a word. Just turned back to the kitchen, blinking fast, her mouth a thin slash.
I was still a kid, but I understood more than I should have. When you’re born in the lap of organized crime, you learn to grow up fast.
That was the day I learned what it meant to be powerless.
She gave him five children. Three sons, two daughters. She was a loyal wife, a loyal friend, and a loyal subject.
And in exchange for that, my father gave her nothing but grief.
By the time I was ten, he didn’t even have the decency to pretend anymore. He just kept strolling in with a new woman on his arm each night for dinner, younger and younger, shinier and shinier. Like changing Rolexes.
He forced Mom to cook for them, too.
I will never forgive him for that.
By the time I finally turned twelve, she was a ghost in her own house. She stopped looking people in the eye, started apologizing for every little thing. Things that weren’t even her fault. Her food got saltier. I think she cried every day by then. In the kitchen, though, where no one could hear.
But there’s one day in particular I remember.
Mom had just finished setting the table for a dinner party. Twenty place settings, crystal glasses, linen napkins. She was smoothing out the runner when Dad walked in with a girl barely out of her teens. Introduced her as “a friend.” The girl wore a dress that could have been a napkin. She smirked smugly at my mother the entire night, taking shots at the food, her age, anything she could hide behind a fake smile and a polite laugh.
That’s when my mom stopped eating. From that night on, her calories came from wine alone.
Lara and I tried everything to shake her out. To make her see that she still had people who loved her, even if our father didn’t. But it was too late. She’d given her life to anundeserving man, and now, she was just what that sassy little blonde had called her:old.
Too old to start over. Too old to run.
But I wasn’t.
I swore I’d never end up like that. And then, when Lara got married off, I swore I’d never marry at all. I’d never let a man cut pieces out of me until there was nothing left but a pretty, lifeless doll.
And yet, here I am. Married—to a Bratvapakhan.To public enemy number one. The man who looked at me, picked me out like a shirt on sale, and decided that I would suffice.
Now, he wants an heir from me.
And I can’t say no to him. I know too well what happens to women who displease thepakhan.Different Bratva, same rules. I’ll be lucky to escape with my life, if not all my limbs.
I fist the sheets until my knuckles go milky white around the bloodred fabric.
How will he do it? Will he be gentle, or will he be rough? Will he ask me first? Will he let me say no?
Will he even care if I do?
I shiver. Hug myself tighter. The prospect of being raped hours from now by a man who could make me disappear with a snap of his fingers… It’s more than I can bear.
But the worst part is, I’m not sure I would say no.
I feel gross for even admitting it to myself. But I can’t ignore the fluttering in my chest, the tingle on my skin that has nothing to do with fear. Part of me—I suspect the lower part—doesn’t even recoil that much from the idea.
I want to blame it on the loneliness, the years and years of self-imposed celibacy. The fact that I’m still a virgin at twenty-four because I couldn’t trust anyone with that. Any man, ever.
I close my eyes, and I can see him. His hands, his mouth, his liquid amber eyes. I can hear his husky voice in my ear, a low whisper that grates at some primal part of me, makes the coating flake off like so much cracked plaster.
He’d touch me like he owns me. Like I’m a wedding gift he plans to unwrap slowly, inch after inch of skin.
I slap my cheeks so hard it bounces off the walls.
Stop it,I chastise myself.This isn’t you!
