“Father, I know that?—”
He keeps talking as though I haven’t said a thing.
“And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve removed the listening devices. Those were crucial to my business in ways you will never understand, Natalia, and now you’veruined all the plans I had for them. On the basis of what, a fleeting physical connection?”
“Father—” He cuts me off again. An unfamiliar edge of cruelty makes my father’s words harsh.
“Hear how upset you have made your mother? All because you couldn’t stop yourself from spreading your legs for the man who killed your brothers.”
He’s never spoken to me like this, and it makes me wonder whether the man I’ve known all my life is the real him, or a front he maintains.
“This is exactly why we had to keep you locked away from the rest of the Bratva. If you would spread your legs for scum like Zhukov, then anyone else could have gotten into your bed.”
A chill runs through my blood.
This is the first time I’ve disobeyed him. The first time I haven’t been the perfect, obedient daughter.And he’s treating me like I am worthless for defying his control.
“Father, Iknowwhat you did to Pyotr and Fyodor. Leks told me everything.”
There’s a pause on the line.Then my father’s voice turns to a venomous hiss that leaves me numb and cold.
“You know nothing, whore.”
30
NATALIA
The echo of my father’s words won’t stop playing in my ears. Since the call with my family, I’ve splattered my heart across the art studio.
In harsh, unforgiving black. For the darkness clouding my mind. For the fact that there’s no return.
In blood red. For betrayal. For everything I thought was true but was actually a lie.
In deepest midnight blue. For salvation. For the one piece of hope that I’m clinging onto like a life raft.
The canvas I’m working on at the moment is a darkened still life of rose petals floating in a basin of water.I’m in a rhythm with the paints that takes me far away from the thoughts that threaten to tear me open.
This is a picture of drowned innocence.
A fall from grace.
You might think that falling into the ocean was the worst thing that could happen to the rose — but actually it wasgrowing in the walled garden, a beautiful trap, that it was most unhappy. Because it was all built on a lie.
I reach for a new tube of oil paint, but my hand misses. Heavy, unwanted doubt about things that I’ve never second-guessed before has me feeling clumsy.
A strange light-headedness is creeping in, too, making me wonder how long I can keep doing this. I want to erase these feelings, to pour them out onto canvas, but a headache pounds behind my eyes and my vision is blurring.
A strong, steady arm catches me the second that I stumble.I didn’t even know Leks was here until his hand lightly closes around my waist.
“Do you think that’s enough?” He keeps his voice light but I can feel the undercurrent of concern. He’s never seen me like this. I’ve never felt like this.
I shake my head, pushing away from him. He’s too distracting. I need to work. Because if I stop, I’m not going to be able to keep these feelings at bay.
He lets me go but I can feel the disapproval radiating off his frame.
“Natalia, you’ve been here so long you can barely stand upright.” There’s a softness in his voice that brings tears to my eyes. I know it will only get worse if I look at him and tell him everything. The warm, intoxicating feeling of his part of the problem.
I go back to the canvas and think about what it needs. Suddenly it seems all wrong.Roses, what a terrible idea. The thorns lining their stems are much more interesting. Sharp, tearing, painful. That’s what I need to focus on.
