I hate when she calls me that. I don’t know exactly what it means, but I know it has to do with my skin color. I can tell by the way she looks me up and down, curling her lips every time she says it.
I don’t talk back no matter how much it burns me up. I’m powerless down here and reacting will only get me spat on or punished with even less food than I already get.
I look at the bowl in the center of the tray. It’s some sort of porridge again. Pale, thick and gluey enough to turn my stomach even though I’m starving. I want to eat. I really do, but I can’t swallow another spoonful of it. I’ve been eating this stuff for weeks. My stomach seems to not care, churning and twisting in on itself, begging for food. I don’t care. I won’t eat it.
Maybe this is how death from starvation begins. I hope so. If I can push through the hunger pangs, maybe I’ll stop feeling anything and just never wake up one morning. The thought makes me smile inside my head. I’d never do that in front of Madam Belova; it would get her too angry.
“No eat?” She gestures at the tray as she starts backing up the stairs. “Too good for my food?”
I stay silent, not letting her goad me into reacting. She glares at me and keeps going. At the door, hand on thehandle, she turns back. Her red lips carve into a snarl. "Think you're special. Because Grigori Ivanov sees you.”
She frowns, pointing a finger at me. “You…not special. You…nothing but black bitch with party trick.”
She nudges her chin toward the ceiling. “Soon, you work upstairs. All kinds of men. Bratva men.” Her smile stretches wider. “Girl like you. Bad attitude. Used. Then—” She slices a finger across her throat, mimicking a knife.
She fixes her gaze on me, nodding to herself as if she’s already picturing my death at the hands of those men and loves the image. She opens the door, closes it again and locks it.
I try not to think about what she said. Bratva. Or rather, Volchya Bratva.
Killers and extortionists. They’re the men who control Moscow, using legitimate businesses as fronts for their illegal activities. These are also some of the men I’m forced to monitor for the Pakhan, using my gift to see past events, intentions and things people try to hide. I also know a lot of people die because of what I tell him.
It’s not my fault.
It isn’t, I remind myself. It can’t be. For seven years, Grigori Ivanov made sure I understood that if I didn’t cooperate, it wouldn’t be me who truly suffered. It would be my little sister, Kayla.
The last time I saw her was the day my family drove me to the airport for my school trip to London. She was nine at the time. She was the same age when my parents were murdered.
All because of me. Me and my stupid gift that I wish I could give back to whoever, whatever gave it to me.
Grigori Ivanov spared my sister’s life, so he’d always have a weapon to use against me. And like a puppet, I tell himeverything he wants to know. I always do and I will again when he comes down the stairs. Any minute now.
I don’t have to wait long. Outside the door, I hear voices. My stomach clenches, this time not from hunger. My heartbeat kicks up, racing now. It’s him.
The door swings open. I close my eyes, inhaling a slow breath, trying to calm myself, my heartbeat and my nerves. This man terrifies me. Even after all these years, the closer he gets, the more it feels like I’m about to vomit. I force my eyes open, afraid to anger him if I look away. He’ll see it as a sign of disrespect.
He comes down the stairs, his broad shoulders and stomach poking out in what looks like an expensive suit. Grigori’s an ex-KGB agent who inherited the title of Pakhan from his uncle, a founder of Volchya.
The man coming to stand before me is powerful, deranged and extremely paranoid.
"Nala."
He says my name without sparing a glance at me, stepping over the untouched bowl of porridge as he heads for the wooden chair in the corner. I’m never allowed to sit in that chair.
My legs wobble as I stand. I can’t tell if it’s from fear or hunger.
"Sit.”
I lower myself onto the cold concrete floor, right at his feet. My usual spot. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a photo, dropping it onto my lap like he's tossing scraps to a dog.
"Tell me about this man."
I pick it up.
It’s someone I’ve never seen before in my past readings. He looks around Grigori’s age— mid-fifties and balding. He’s also wearing a suit similar to the Pakhan’s, a thick gold chainaround his neck.
"I need to touch him," I say quietly, hoping it won’t set him off. "Something he recently touched.”
The Pakhan knows my gift can’t work from a picture alone. This is the second time he’s tried to push me to read that way, knowing full well I need to be close to the person. I can’t get a clear reading if I can’t grasp something that carries the person’s energy. That’s the only way I can explain how my gift works, becauseIdon’t even understand how I’m able to see and hear the things I do.
