"Madam would like you to wear it," she says, lifting her chin as if daring me to refuse. "You're expected downstairs in five minutes."
"Fine. Get out."
Once she's gone, I put on the dress because there's no advantage in not doing so. I run a brush through my hair and wipe the remnants of makeup from my face. I'll play this game but I'll do it my way.
When I open the door, two large men are waiting in the corridor.
"Dining room," one of them says.
"Oh good," I say. "A family dinner. I can't wait."
As I walk through my former home I find myself longing for the simplicity of Gabriele's Roman villa. This place is a monument to excess. At one time I embraced it but not now. It looks tacky to me. I congratulate myself on my growth.
When I enter the dining room I find the gaudiest room of all. I think since I last ate in here my mother has managed to incorporate even more gold embellishment into the fittings. Bratva women do love their bling and my mother most of all.
"Sit, Katya." My father doesn't look up from his phone. Why would he acknowledge the daughter he had drugged and brought here?
I take my usual seat next to my mother. The table is set for four. I don't ask who else we're expecting because I know even before Sergei Litkov drags his shriveled carcass into the room that it will be him.
He's shorter than I remember and suddenly his arrogance makes sense. He has a Napoleon complex. He settles in his seat opposite my mother and smiles with the satisfaction of a man who believes he's about to collect what he's owed.
He doesn't talk to me, barely glances my way. He addresses my father, discussing me like I'm a piece of furniture they're deciding where to put.
I try to curb my anger as the appetizer arrives. It's borscht, a dish I've never enjoyed. It's a reminder of where I belong. Only I don't anymore. My place is in Italy, at Gabriele's side. Whenmy mother nudges me, I pick up my spoon but I don't eat. I just swirl it around in the bowl.
"I'd have preferred her intact, of course," Sergei says to my father. "But she'll bear me fine sons so I'll take her."
"Oh will you?" I slam down my spoon. "I am not cattle to be traded."
My mother's hand connects with my face so fast I don't see it coming. The slap stings and I work my jaw to ease the pain.
"Keep your tongue still, Katya. Nobody wishes to hear your opinion." She turns to Sergei, bowing her head submissively. "I am sorry, Sergei. My daughter has been allowed to run wild."
The old bastard laughs. "Don't concern yourself, Irina. I will soon break her."
Like hell he will. I don't say that. Instead, I look around the room, figuring out my next move.
They made a mistake in bringing me here. I know this house, every entrance and exit. I know where my father stations his guards and which are liable to disappear for a smoke.
With me here security will have been increased but all is not lost. I know this place well. I can navigate it in the dark if I have to.
Sergei has brought two guards inside the dining room. He'll have more outside. Three cars full, I'm guessing. He has an inflated sense of his own importance.
"What do you say, Katya?" My father's voice cuts through my thoughts. I haven't heard a word they've said for the past few minutes.
"Sorry, Papa?"
"Not to me." It seems he was looking for an apology from me. "To Sergei."
I look at the old man across the table. "I'm sorry, Sergei." There's not a hint of apology in my tone.
He sniffs. "You're defiant now. Let's see how long that lasts."
"Until you take your last breath," I say.
"You should consider," my mother says, in the tone she uses for observations she considers particularly clever, "that she may already be carrying that monster's heir."
Cold slides through my veins. How could she be the one to raise this issue? My mother. How could she put any child I might be carrying at risk by mentioning it in front of these men?
