Page 61 of Nemesis

Sitting back behind his desk, he looks every bit the powerful mob boss Vasiliy prepared me for. Gone is the gentle glint in his eyes from last night, when he held my hand and begged for a chance to get to know me. The message is clear.

That was personal.

This is business.

“I’d like to know why we’re currently sitting in a safehouse in New Jersey.”

I keep my tone even. Nothing but a costume over my childish fear.

He shares a look with my uncle, no doubt wondering how I deduced our location, but my mouth screws shut. I’m not about to tell him that Vasiliy spent his morning hanging from our windowsill.

“How…”

“I’ve been informed that you have the resources to extricate us all to Chicago at the drop of a hat. Why would a man with access to private jets and additional security stick around in a suburb?”

“Oh, you’ve been informed, have you?” my father drawls, shooting a glare at the figure behind me.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I mutter, digging my finger back between the loose threads of the upholstery tear. Some people can’t stand lying to your face. They have to look out the window, check their watch, or do anything to draw attention from their betrayal. I can already tell that my father isn’t one of those people.

His green eyes gleam as they meet mine. “Well, love, we happened to have a safehouse nearby, and we wanted to give you time to heal and rest⁠—”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear,” I interrupt, leaning forward. “I am not one for half-truths, and patience is not one of my virtues, so I will ask once more. Who exactly are we hiding from?”

Dark brows furrow, annoyance and begrudging respect warring in my father’s expression.

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

I recognize the weapon well enough. Most people can’t stand silence. Most rush to fill it. He doesn’t know I’ve spent every day of the last decade staring at a wooden ballet barre with my mouth shut for hours on end. He has no idea who he’s dealing with, and I’m going to use every bit of that to my advantage.

“Kroshka, we’re all on the same side,” my uncle jumps in with an anxious plea, hovering on the other side of the desk. “All you need to know is that you are safe. You’re unfamiliar with Bratva dealings, and the last thing we want to do is overwhelm you⁠—”

“Twenty-four hours ago, I was tied to a chair, having my nails ripped out because of my relation to those Bratva dealings,” I snap. “Please. Overwhelm me.”

A thumb swipes my back. I’m not fighting the battle alone, for once.

“We don’t involve our women in our business, Octavia.” My father casually settles back in his chair. The words are said with an easy cadence, as if I’m supposed to accept them upon delivery. “It’s a safety precaution. The less you know, the better off you are if you end up being questioned.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not one of your women, then.”

He sighs, like I’m choosing to be a pain in his ass for my own amusement. “Trust me, love. You don’t want to know these things. Just like you haven’t asked me what happened to those men who were keeping you locked in a cage.” He leans back, resigned. “Some part of you knows you’ll be better off if you don’t ask. Ignorance is one of the greatest privileges you can hold in this life.”

Vasiliy’s calming touch falls from my shoulders as I rise from my seat. My uncle flinches back, as if he instinctively recognizes the warning signs of a mad woman. Not my father, though. He stays utterly still as I walk right over to the bar cart and palm the bottle of vodka.

My blood burns five degrees hotter. He stares back, utterly satisfied with his assessment. As if he can’t imagine a world where a woman needs a fucking day to collect her bearings after being tortured. In the haze of my father’s blatant misogyny, I hear my own voice from when I brushed Bambi’s hair.

Crazy is an outfit. I just throw it on when the situation calls for it.

“I don’t think it’s wise to drink on those meds…” my father starts, only to trail off when he meets my gaze.

“You know what’s funny?” I ask the room, popping off the lid and taking a deep swig. The sharp liquor burns my lips. “Everyone always says that. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.” I do my best to imitate his low, serious voice.

“Except,” I continue with a finger in the air. “When I was being questioned by your enemies, I had a needle shoved into my skin every time I couldn’t answer the questions right.” I turn, catching the lift of Vasiliy’s lip as he fights to maintain a passive expression. “Vas, you worked in collecting information, yes?”

I can practically feel the fumes of my father’s ire, but my attention stays on the quiet smirk beside me. A dark wave falls forward over his brow, and for some reason, my finger itches to brush it back.

“Correct,” he responds. Only I can hear the laugh coloring his flat voice, spurring me on.

“And what exactly did you do to the individuals who were too poorly informed to be of use to you?”