There’s nothing to do but drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. My reflection confirms what I already suspected—I look like a wreck. My blotchy cheeks match the puffy, swollen state of my eyes. I turn the tap and splash icy water on my face, then drag my damp fingers through my frizzy mane until it’s smooth enough to bundle atop my head. It isn’t a real improvement, but it’s all I can manage.
The silky pajama set I’d changed into last night will have to do for now. My skin crawls at the thought of slipping back into last night’s dress.
When I open the door, the woman standing in front of it looks nothing like I’d already imagined. For one thing, she’s older. She has to be at least fifty. Her pepper-dark hair has been scraped back into a severe bun that puts my makeshift top-knot to shame. She looks like she hasn’t smiled since the Cold War. She fits Yuri’s lair perfectly.
I try to leech some comfort from her eyes, which aren’t empty or cruel.
Helpfully, she introduces herself instantly. “I am Oksana. I manage this household. Come with me.”
“Uh,” I grapple, stumbling forward when she gestures me onward. “Hi. Good morning. I’m—My name is Janella.”
“Yes, I know, Miss Driscoll,” she says brusquely.
She turns on her heel without another word. It is clear I am supposed to follow her. I do. I’m regretting not putting my shoes back on, even if they were stiletto heels. The marble is cold beneath my bare feet, padding down the hallway.
The apartment is even more staggering in the cold light of day, with cathedral ceilings and a floor plan that makes it feel like a showroom.
One thing’s for sure—I don’t belong here.
What’s worse is that, now that some of my shock has worn off, there’s nothing to keep me from clocking the cameras. Last night, I’d been too out of it. It had been all I could do to keep up with Iosif, trying to meet his demands and follow his directions. The full scope of it all hits me now, like a mallet.
As Oksana leads me straight to the dining area, I can’t miss the men.
There are men everywhere.
Two of them stand by the windows, their arms crossed in front of their broad, muscular chests. Their expressions are vacant, and their watchful eyes piercing. Another one of them—this one, I recognize from last night, the man who had brought Iosif the first-aid kit—leans across the counter, phone in hand. He’s speaking… Russian. Rapid Russian down the line, his thick, dark brows knit together in a frown.
They are all armed.
Including the fourth man already sat at the table, casually reading the newspaper.
It isn’t Iosif.
I whip around to stare at Oksana, eyes bugging out of my head.
“Where’s—?”
“Sir is out,” she says. Clearly, she is not a chatty woman.
“He’s—”
“Out,” Oksana snaps, and pointedly pulls out a chair for me. “He had business to attend to. He left early this morning. He will return in the evening.”
Disgruntled, I slowly sink into the seat, trying to process that. Am I meant to be relieved or petrified by his absence? Oksana does not care. She doesn’t look back at me before she strides to the kitchen.
She bats the man in the kitchen away, grunting, “Podvin’sya,Ivan,” whipping at his arm with a stray dishtowel.
A moment later, she returns with a tray laden with too much on it. She sets it down, then begins to arrange the items in front of me. Swiftly, I snatch my hands off the table. The space is filled with a platter of fried eggs, another with a pile of bacon, a basket of toast, a bowl of fresh fruit, and little pots of different jams.
Once she steps back with an expectant nod, I reach for the teapot. My stomach is in knots. I doubt I can keep a single bite down. I pour the tea mostly just to have something to do with my hands. Still, even the familiar comfort of the cup warming my palms can’t quell my unease.
None of the men so much as acknowledges me outright. There are no merry greetings, that’s for sure. Yet I’m anything but invisible. Their attention burrows into every side of my skull like laser beams. When I squirm, Ivan catches my eye from the kitchen. I splash hot tea onto my fingers with a yelp.
This is nothing like the men Dad keeps on. Sure, he has security. He has his poker games and his… clients. I’ve never been more keenly aware of the difference between a couple of beefy guys posted at the door and men who would kill without blinking twice. The men at the Pit monitor the goings-on on a grainy feed they’re usually too drunk to pay attention to by the end of the night. Every single one of these men is stone-cold sober. And a stone-cold killer, too.
This is something else.
I understand the fear in my father’s eyes last night, viscerally. It echoes through my own bones now, sitting here. Surrounded, wearing silk pajamas that probably cost more than our monthly groceries’ budget, and sipping tea from fine china.
