I open my mouth. Close it. I know there is nothing I can say that will save me. It's clear Father is baiting me, wanting me to give him a reaction. But I learned a long time ago that to give Father what he wants is just as dangerous as not to.
He reaches behind his back and pulls out a gun. I've never seen him point it at anyone before, though I've always known he carried one. In the past, some of the few good memories I have are of Father teaching me how to shoot his gun, and how to reload it.
MyMomochkamakes a sound then—a garbled, choking noise , and I realize her tongue has been cut out. I recoil in horror, watching a mixture of blood and saliva trickle from her mouth. It runs down her chin, soaking into her already stained nightgown, before making its way to the no doubt priceless Persian rug. I remember our family trip to Turkey.Momockhaand Father carefully selected rugs for the house, and we were so happy. At least I thought we were.
Father steps between us, interrupting my thoughts, careful to keep himself at an angle so that we never lose sight of each other. He lowers the gun level withMomochka'shead. Then he pulls the trigger.
It happens so quickly. There is no warning, not a single sound uttered, his face a mask of indifference as the gun fires. Her blood and brains splatter across the room, across me, coating my face and dress. I feel hard chunks of what must be her skull, and my eyes slam shut. I scream—a sound that comes from somewhere deep and primal, something that isn't quite human. When I open my eyes, I see Volk's eyes are slightly wider than normal as his gaze darts from the corpse to my blood-soaked face.Momochkalays in an unnatural position, her legs keeping her somewhat propped up. The top half of her skull is missing and the sound of blood hitting the floor fades away.
Later, I will spend hours researching how quickly someone dies from a gunshot to the head. It's the only comfort I can find whenever I relive that moment.
"You should get the same fate," Father says, turning his attention back to me while tucking his gun away. "But I thinkyou owe my men for all the years you've been tempting them, making them work to protect you, when you weren't even mine." He shakes his head. "All the fucking resources I've wasted on you. All that time and money and you're nothing but the bastard child of a whore and a traitor."
I normally flinch at his loud voice, his harsh words, but shock consumes me. My eyes remain onMomochka. I feel more than see Father give Volk a signal before turning his back on me. This is when Volk moves. He grabs my arms and jerks me to my feet. I struggle to stay balanced. I look at my feet and notice one of my shoelaces is untied. For one crazy moment I think I should ask Volk to stop and let me tie it. Instead, I keep my mouth shut and take one last look at what was once myMomochka. Volk roughly turns me toward the now open door, shoving me through. He marches me through the servants' hallways. A web of doorways and hallways that I've never ventured into before. I see the exit and a few shadows darting around from the corner of my eye. Clearly the maids are watching but know better than to be seen by Volk.
Volk opens a door to the outside, shoving me into the blazing sun. I lower my gaze, too afraid to completely shut my eyes. I notice my Converse are no longer pink. After my eyes adjust I notice a black Jeep waiting, the open top lets me see the three men sitting inside. Volk doesn't bother to lower the tailgate for easy access, and I'm unceremoniously shoved into the back storage area. The hard plastic simultaneously burns and scrapes me. The Jeep begins to move before I'm fully inside and for one desperate moment I hope I fall out. Volk doesn't come with them, but I recognize the other men as Igor, Ivan, and Anatoly. They used to smile at me sometimes. Today they leer.
What happens over the next several hours is something I've taught myself to remember without feeling. I can never forget, and I never want to. There are different kinds of pain thatserve different purposes. Some are meant to break you. Some are meant to teach you. This is the kind meant to destroy. The kind of pain that makes you wish for death. I have no doubt in my mind that when they finally kill me, I will feel nothing but gratitude.
I learned what the human body can tolerate, which turns out to be far more than you can imagine. I learned that there are always more ways to hurt someone. I learned that I can endure things I didn't think were possible. I learned what it is like to wish for death, to realize that even taking my own life would be better. I learned that you can lose consciousness but still feel pain, that it's waiting for you the moment your senses return.
At some point, when I think surely this must end soon, Volk returns. Between the blood loss and various injuries covering my body I know that whether they want it to or not, my life will be ending soon.
"You're done," Volk tells the others. "Pakhan wants her taken care of and for you to come back. He has a job for you."
There's arguing. Anatoly is especially disappointed. He's enjoyed himself the most.
"I'll finish her off," Volk says, and I accept this. At least it will be over. Volk isn't dramatic like Father or vengeful like Igor, Ivan, and Anatoly. He will make this efficient, make it quick.
He leads me to a black SUV I never heard approaching. He raises me to my feet but releases me once I'm precariously standing on my own. There is no point in continuing to hold me, I'm too broken to run. As if I could even figure out where to run to in this barren desert.
"You're going to kill me," I say. It's not a question.
"That's the plan," he answers as casually as if we're discussing the weather or a book we're reading.
He drives deeper into the desert and then stops. The darkness is complete, and I have no idea how he identified thespot to stop at. He opens his door, exiting the car and casually strolling over to help me step out. I look at him expectantly, waiting for the end. I remind myself that in a few moments this will all be over. No more pain, no more Father.
Instead, Volk speaks. "You're going to be in pain for a long time," he says. "That arm"— he nods toward my left arm that is hanging at a weird angle, clearly broken—"probably won't work right again. But you are standing on your own two feet after all that. You can choose to be a fighter. You're not even crying anymore." He nods toward my face, searching my eyes. For what? I don't know.
"You're not completely safe yet," he continues. He points behind us, into the darkness. "That way is home. Nothing waits for you there but certain death, and trust me when I say it won't be as quick as out here." He points in the opposite direction, leading further into the desert. "That way gives you a fifty-fifty chance. That way the ending will be on your own terms. The choice is yours." He hands me a crinkly, plastic water bottle and turns his back on me, getting back into the SUV. He drives away without a single look, leaving me in the desert with nothing but the dark and a choice. Well, the illusion of a choice. We both knew there was only one real option.
I take a sip of the water, tear the bottom of my destroyed dress off, fashioning a sling for my arm. And then I start walking.
It was a park ranger that found me hours later. Turns out the desert Volk left me in was a national park with regular patrols. I wonder if he knew. Of course he did. The rangers take me straight to the hospital, and I'm admitted immediately. I refuse to talk, feigning amnesia. Everyone is quick to maketheir own explanations for my situation. The hospital staff sees a trafficking victim. The social workers see an opportunity to help someone. No one asks the right questions because no one knows the real answer.
I'm allowed to leave the hospital a week later, still bruised and my arm in a cast. I'm sent to stay with a foster family while they look for my family. How they look when they have no information and a fake name to go on, I don't know. Eventually, when I'm healed enough to remove the cast and make my own way, I empty my foster Mother's wallet, leave the house, and disappear. That day fifteen-year-old Yelena died completely.
That's the day that Sofiya was born.
And Sofiya wants only one thing: revenge. She wants Father to understand what he took from her. She wants him to feel what she felt. She wants him to know the girl he tried to destroy in the desert has come back, and she'll be waiting for her chance.
I will wait as long as it takes.
I will get close. I will listen. I will learn where he is vulnerable. Everyone has a weakness, even the Pakhan of the Bratva. I will make my body strong again. I will wait for my moment to make sure he sees my face and recognizes me. Only then will I let him understand that some debts can only be repaid in blood.
This is not a thought that keeps me awake at night. This is the only thought that lets me sleep at all.
CHAPTER 1
