My father’s laughter floods my skull. A laugh I never forgot.
His dark voice is clear.
You want her, Gustav. You crave her. You are weak. While you long for her, she’s moaning for Boris. Right now. Don’t be a lustful whore.
I see it. Some bastard railing her like I did, but she likes him better.
The room spins. My breath stutters. I can’t think over the mocking echo. I stagger upright and lurch to the bathroom mirror. My reflection is a blur of pale skin and wild stormy eyes.
Father’s laugh. Whispers. Screams.
I grab the razor blade from the counter.
If I can cut it open, the voices will fall out.
I press the blade to my temple. A line of red breaks the surface. Then more. The sting is sharp and cleansing. Blood runs down the side of my face in a warm trail.
The voice croons.
Good. Da. Open your head. Let us out.
I press the blade deeper.
A hand closes around my wrist.
Her.
The woman steps into the reflection behind me. Raven-dark hair braided neatly down her back, hourglass figure wrapped in a cream blouse and fitted skirt. My age. A face too beautiful for the darkness in this place. Calm and composed. Sweet.
Sophia.
She eases the blade from my fingers, wiping the blood with her sleeve.
“You cannot cut yourself open every time your marriage stresses you,” she says softly. “Or kill every guard who annoys you.”
I glance past her.
A body lies sprawled in the doorway. Another by the fireplace. I vaguely remember snapping one man’s neck. The other tried to intervene. I don’t remember finishing him, but the evidence is clear enough.
She steps around the corpses as if they’re laundry someone forgot to fold.
“Councilmen came by earlier,” she says. “They asked questions about the Morozov boy.”
A pulse thuds at the base of my skull. My jaw twitches. “They won’t leave me alone.”
“They won’t,” she answers. “You’ve been reckless. If they decide you executed a rival boss without cause, we will all be in a grave.”
I wipe the blood from my temple with the back of my hand. The sting grounds me. “I will fix this.”
“You said that yesterday,” she taunts.
She isn’t convinced.
Then the thought hits me, bright, violent, and exhilarating.
“I should kill out of the country instead,” I say. “Not Russian men. Americans. Her father, perhaps. For lying to me through her. For raising a dishonest woman.”
Sophia freezes.
