“A better or worse version” He studies me. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
Better.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m not scared of you. Anymore.”
A look of genuine surprise crosses his features, then it’s gone. I don’t know why I told him that. It was only the truth. Somehow, knowing everything I do about him, he doesn’t terrify me. Maybe that means something’s wrong with me. Or he’ll prove me wrong.
“Alright,” he says, pointing to the food. “Eat. We’ll do it after.”
I eat. The food he brought home tastes delicious, reminding me of the meals I used to eat when I had a normal life. He doesn’t watch me this time, instead he disappears into his room, showers and comes back changed into sweatpants almost like mine and a t-shirt.
I try not to wonder what he looks like without a shirt on. I don’t know why I care, and I don’t think I’m supposed to wonder that about him. I also don’t think he’d like knowing I did.
I keep my eyes on my drink, finishing it quickly to pick up the pen he left on the table.
I feel him watching me as I close my eyes, making me nervous, but not in a scared way. In a different way, I can’t fully describe, where my stomach feels fluttery instead of tight and queasy.
I take a deep breath, welcoming the surge of images. They’re blurry at first, which is normal. Soon the faces begin to take shape, the voices grow louder, weaving into my mind until everything fuses together.
Dimitri’s in a bedroom. A woman lies on the bed, bored. Scrolling through her phone. She’s waiting for him to finish talkingso she can go shopping. He won’t stop pacing. He’s ranting. Cursing. His face is red with rage. Going out is the last thing on his mind.
He wishes he could put a bag over Grigori Ivanov’s head and watch him gasp for his last breath. The woman, his wife, tells him to calm down. Says maybe the Pakhan will reverse things. Dimitri gets angrier. He knows that won’t happen. He can’t keep losing territory and money. The humiliation is killing him.
I open my eyes and write everything down, hoping it’s enough to satisfy Roman. He reads it but says nothing. There’s no reaction, except to gesture at the pocketknife beside the pen. “Do this one next. This time, you tell me who the knife belongs to.”
I narrow my eyes and write:You don’t believe me?
“I never said that.” He slides the knife toward me. “Read him and give me his name. Don’t question me.”
I take the knife, run my fingers along the handle, then close my fist around it. The images fall into place faster this time.
A soldier in prison.
Yuri Kotov.
He was in prison for nearly beating a man to death. He’s loyal to Grigori Ivanov because Grigori got him out. He hates what Grigori is doing now. The bad decision, weakness, the changes. But loyalty comes first. Always will.
I open my eyes and tell Roman everything, including the name.
“Yeah,” he says, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “That’s him.”
“Next one.”
I take the lighter and this time the clarity takes longer to come but when it does it’s fast and unmistakable. This reading is short but clear.
I see Alexei. He respects Roman and watches his brigade.He tries to keep his own men as disciplined and tight as Roman’s
I report it the same way I reported the others. Roman re-reads the notes I wrote, completely focused on them, while a dull ache begins to form behind my eyes. It’s from reading three people back-to-back. It’s draining and painful.
I clear my throat, forcing my voice to work. “Upset about Yuri?”
He blinks, surprised by the question. “Not upset. It would be easier if he was on my side.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t need his help.”
“Aren't you worried your father will find out what you're planning?”
“I am.”
