“Papa.”
There is a sharp inhale. Then the sound of something hitting the floor. “Anastasiya?” His voice breaks on my name. It has not done that since I was a child. In the background I hear movement. A door opening. Feet moving fast.
Then he starts shouting, no longer the controlled leader. “Tikho! Tikho, chert vas vsekh poberi! Eto ona! Eto Anya!”Quiet. All of you, quiet. It is her. It is Anya.Another voice tries to speak, but he cuts them off. “Zamolchite! Nikto ne govorit!”Silence.No one speaks.Then he is back on the line, breathing hard. “Anastasiya. Tell me where you are.”
“I am safe,” I say immediately.
“Where are you, moya devochka?”Little star.He’s called me that since before I can remember.
My eyes burn with tears and I take a shuddering breath. “In America. He took me here.”
He pauses, I can feel him thinking. “Who took you?” He says in a low, dangerous voice.
My thumb traces the edge of the table unconsciously, back and forth, back and forth. “It was him. It was Volkov,” I answer.
There is a sharp crack in the background, like something striking wood. “He had help?” my father asks.
I shift in the chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor. I hate that Roman can see how rigid my spine is. “Da.”
“Names. Tell me who helped him.”
“I do not know their names.”
“You saw their faces, no?”
“Da.”
“And you remember?”
“Da.”
“Klyanus’ Bogom… yesli on polozhil na tebya ruku…”I swear to God, if he laid a hand on you…His voice lowers further. Controlled. Measured in a way that feels worse than rage. “On mertv.”He is dead.“On mertv v lyubom sluchaye,”he continues, almost thoughtful now. “No ya ub’yu ego tak medlenno… chto on budet molit’ o smerti.”He is dead no matter what. But I will kill him so slowly he will beg for death.“On budet zhelat’ ee,” he says quietly. “I dumat’, chto ona nikogda ne pridet.”He will wish for it. And he will think it will never come.
I close my eyes. “Papa…”
“Skazhi mne,” he says, the steel returning. “Kak on tebya ranil.”Tell me how he hurt you.
My free hand curls into my lap, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt. I stare at the grain of the table so I do not see the warehouse. The rope. The blood. “He wanted information,” I say carefully. “He did not get it.”
When he speaks again, his voice is ice. “Khoro sho.” Good. Then there’s silence. In the background, his voice snaps again. “Soberite lyudey. Seychas.”Gather the men. Now.“Podnimite vsekh.”Wake everyone.
“Volkov is dead,” I tell him.
The air on the line changes.“Who killed him?”
“The man I am with. And his friends.”
“And you trust him, this man?”
I look at Roman across the table. At the quiet strength in the way he sits. At the bruised skin across his knuckles. “Yes.”
Another silence. Footsteps in the background. Orders being given. “Location,” my father says.
“I will not tell you over the phone.”
His breath turns heavy. “I am coming,” he says immediately. “Send me the address. I leave within the hour.”
My chest aches at the certainty in his voice. He would cross oceans without hesitation. He always has. “You cannot simply—”
