"Because she wanted more."
Semyon doesn’t look convinced.
"I need a shower," I say finally. "Real clothes. And about twelve hours of sleep."
"I'll find you something to wear. We're about the same size still, even if you're..." He doesn't finish.
Even if I'm twenty pounds lighter and carved into something harder than I used to be.
The shower is scalding hot despite the rundown appearance from the outside. That’s all by design. I know Semyon doesn’t live here full time. It’s his hideaway, but my friend enjoys the finer things in life—like hot showers, comfortable furniture and good food.
I stand under the spray until my skin turns red. Six years of cold water and occasional hose-downs in Georgian winter don't prepare you for the luxury of temperature control. I watch the water circle the drain and try not to think about all the blood I've washed off in prison.
All the blood I'm going to spill now that I'm free.
When I emerge, Semyon has laid out clothes on the bed in the spare room. Real clothes—jeans, a sweater, and socks. My God—socks. I will never take such things for granted again. I dress slowly, my body protesting each movement. The scars pull tight across my back, my shoulders, and my chest. A roadmap of torture written in raised tissue.
I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the man staring back. Harder. Older. Eyes that have seen things no one should see.
Semyon is waiting in the kitchen with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He pours without asking.
"To survival," he says, raising his glass.
"To revenge," I counter.
And then we drink.
Chapter Three
Kira
The dining room feels like a cage the moment I walk into it.
My father sits at the head of the table—his table, in his house, even though I'm the one who paid off the mortgage and kept the lights on for the past six years. Anya is already seated, looking nervous in a way that makes my instincts scream.
She won't meet my eyes.
"Kira." My father gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit. We need to talk."
"I'm not hungry." I remain standing. "Whatever this is, just say it."
"Sit. Down." His voice carries the weight of paternal authority he hasn't earned in over a decade.
I sit. Not because he told me to, but because Anya's hands are shaking, and I need to understand what fresh hell is unfolding.
The food arrives—traditional Russian fare, prepared by the cook my father can't actually afford but keeps anyway because appearances matter more than solvency. Borscht, pelmeni, black bread. My stomach turns at the sight of it.
Food is a necessity. I don’t enjoy it anymore. I’m an angry, bitter woman that survives solely on my pain. I’ve lost weight but I feel stronger than ever. Wrath is my driving force.
"This is nice," my father says, like we're a normal family having a normal dinner. "The three of us together. We should do this more often."
"Cut the shit. What's this really about?"
Anya flinches. My father's jaw tightens, but he smooths his expression back into something resembling paternal concern. He's always been good at masks—right up until his gambling debts ripped them all away.
"I've been in deeper discussions with Roman Belsky," he says carefully.
I glare at him. As if I don’t already know what he’s been doing.
