When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Heavier.
“It’s not a pretty story.”
“I didn’t expect it to be.”
“You might look at me differently after.”
“I already look at you differently. Every day since you tricked me into signing that contract.” I pause, choose my next words with care. “But I’m still here. And I’m asking.”
Another long silence. I can almost see him building up walls, then tearing them down again. Fighting instincts that have kept him protected for decades.
Finally, he pushes off the counter and walks toward the living room. He stops at the couch, turns to face me, and gestures for me to sit.
Chapter 16 - Menlow
I’ve never told anyone the full story before.
Not anyone outside the family who didn’t already live through it. Not even my cousins. The memories are locked away in a vault I built years ago, and I’ve never seen a reason to open it.
Until now.
Kirsten sits on the opposite end of the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, waiting. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t prod. Just watches me with those dark eyes that see far more than I’d like them to.
I take a breath and begin.
“My father was a violent man,” I start. “Not Bratva violent. Just… cruel. He drank too much, worked too little, and took his frustrations out on my mother. I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t hitting her. It was just part of life. Normal, as far as I knew.”
“How old were you?”
“When it started? I don’t know. Young enough that I can’t remember anything different.” I lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “My mother used to hide the bruises. Long sleeves in summer. Makeup caked on thick. She told us she was clumsy. That she walked into doors. We believed her, for a while.”
“When did you figure it out?”
“I was maybe seven or eight. I woke up one night to the sound of something breaking. Glass, I think. I snuck out of my room and found them in the kitchen. He had her against the wall with his hand around her throat.”
The memory surfaces unbidden. The flickering fluorescent light. The shattered vodka bottle on the floor. My mother’s feet dangling an inch off the ground.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I was seven. What could I do?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I just stood there in the doorway, watching, until he finally let her go. She saw me standing there and told me to go back to bed. So I did.”
Kirsten doesn’t say anything. She just listens.
“That was the first time I understood what was really happening,” I continue. “After that, I couldn’t unsee it. The bruises. The flinching. The way she’d go quiet whenever he came home. I started staying awake at night, listening. Waiting for the sounds that meant he was hurting her again.”
“That’s a lot for a child to carry.”
“It was all I knew,” I reply with a shrug. “But the worst part wasn’t what he did to her. It was what she did to us.”
Kirsten frowns. “She took it out on you?”
“On all of us. Me, Alexei, Pavel, the girls. She couldn’t fight back against him, so she fought back against us instead.” I close my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. “She hit us for the smallest things. Leaving a dish in the sink. Tracking mud on the floor. Looking at her the wrong way. And when she wasn’t hitting us, she was screaming. Telling us we were worthless. That we ruined her life. That she wished we’d never been born.”
“God, Menlow…”
“I was the oldest. It was my job to protect them. To step in when she got too rough, to take the blows meant for the younger ones.” I open my eyes and look at her. “I failed more times thanI care to count. But I tried. That’s what I told myself. At least I tried.”
“You were a child,” Kirsten states. “You shouldn’t have had to protect anyone.”
