Page 57 of Bratva Sacrifice

“Because I was sixteen, and Anatoli was nineteen. The punishment was lesser for me. Three years, instead of maybe eight or nine. And when I was released, my status in the bratva was higher still.” Because loyalty is rewarded, and silence is rewarded further still.

“But three years in prison,” Katya says. “I can’t imagine it. What was it like?”

“I would not recommend.” She nudges me in the ribs. “It is over, Katya,” I sigh. “It has been over a long time.” And the truth is…I do not want her to think of things like this. I do not want her to imagine things she should never have to experience. “Maybe it was not so bad as you are thinking. I was strong enough, even then, to protect myself. Others were not so lucky. Most times, nobody cares if a prisoner dies. But I survived.”

“Thank goodness,” she breathes against my chest. Like a prayer, she says this. Thankful I survived this experience. Unexpectedly, there is a twinge in my chest. Maybe her inconvenient conscience is infecting me.

“If I had not, you would not be here,” I remind her, and my hand cups the back of her head, my fingers sliding through her hair. “You would be safe at home, in your own apartment. Maybe you would prefer this?”

Katya is quiet a long moment, but I feel her heart skip into a restless rhythm. Maybe she is imagining what her life would be like if I had never entered it. She would be a teacher, probably, like her mama. Her brother probably still would be dead, but not by my hand. Maybe her papa would be less distant with her. Maybe she would meet a normal man. Go on normal dates. Have a normal life. Raise a boring, normal family. Maybe this is something she wants.

“No,” she says at last. Slowly her fingers creep across my chest until her palm comes to rest over my heart. “No,” she says again, and I feel the sweep of her lashes as she closes her eyes, the sigh of her breath as she exhales.

This, I think, is as close to love as Katya to bring herself to confess. There is that twinge again in my chest, that tiny stab of pain. Even this is more than I deserve from her.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Catalina

I have a bookcase in the library to myself, now, one Alexei had cleared out just for my own books. It used to be filled with the rare volumes he’s collected. Now the ones I haven’t already ruined are in storage, in case I get spicy again. And as I slide my books—arranged first by genre, and then in alphabetical order by author—onto the shelves that belong to me, I realize…I’ve read the last of them.

A strange and almost ominous feeling settles unpleasantly in my stomach.

Since Anatoli has been in Moscow these last two weeks, Alexei has less time for me. The things he usually lets Anatoli handle on his behalf now fall on his shoulders, and so I have more time to myself. But even though I’ve split my copious free time between reading and swimming and binge-watching shows on Alexei’s numerous streaming subscription services, I’ve still finished every last book. At this rate, I’ll finish filling up this whole bookshelf in a couple of months. Six at the most. Will Alexei clear another bookcase for me—and another after that? How long will it take me to fill up the library entirely? How long until I need another room just to hold the books I’ve acquired?

In this moment, they’re not just books. They’re tick marks. Just because I haven’t carved the lines into the stone walls of a cell doesn’t mean they don’t represent the very same thing. The straight lines of the spines set neatly upon the shelves function in the same manner, marking off hours, days, weeks of my time.

I’ve borne my captivity more willingly than most lately. My cell is luxurious and comfortable, spacious enough that once I settled in, I hardly noticed the bars. It’s filled with creature comforts and a few pleasant distractions to keep me occupied, keep me from throwing myself against its constraints.

But a cell is a cell. How did I let myself forget that?

I think…there’s something wrong with me. Some injured part of me that is so weak, so wounded, so fucking desperate to belong somewhere that I’ll suffer all manner of things if they just come with a side dish of affection. I’ve convinced myself that the attention I receive is close enough to love. That the gifts and the trinkets constitute caring instead of consolation prizes, material things to fill my time when Alexei has other things, better things, to do.

And still I want to stay.

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. I’m stupid, to have let myself be pacified with something so simple as an armful of books. To let myself forget that I had plans for my future. Dreams. Goals I’ve worked hard for. Years of college courses I took, exams I aced—and for what? To give up when I was so close? To let someone else tell me what I’m allowed to do, where I’m allowed to go?

All my life, I wanted to be like my mom. Strong; a fighter. Paving her own path in life, even when Papa made it difficult, even when life made it difficult.

She never let Papa keep her like this; never would have accepted less than she deserved. A fighter, right up until the bitter end. She went out still fighting the cancer that killed her, and I—

I walked right into the cage Alexei built for me. Settled down inside it. And pretended I couldn’t see the bars.

∞∞∞

Alexei’s in a bad mood. I can sense it even before I see him, hear it in the clipped Russian syllables audible even from behind the closed door of his office. It shouldn’t bother me. It is his native language, after all. But he uses it like a shield sometimes. When he speaks to his men in front of me—even to the ones who speak English proficiently—he always does it in Russian. So that I don’t know what’s being discussed, what’s being ordered.

When I rap on the door, everything goes quiet within for a long moment. And then I hear Alexei say gruffly, “What, Katya?”

Probably I’m the only one that would dare to knock on his door while he’s plainly otherwise engaged.

When I crack open the door, I’m startled to find that it’s Piotr in there with him. And relieved. He’s been absent so long that I’d begun to worry that maybe Alexei changed his mind. Maybe he wasn’t one of the people Alexei sent to the pit for punishment…but to be forgotten. Maybe I would be expected to forget, too, what had happened to him.

It’s one of the numerous things we don’t talk about. Things that Alexei says aren’t my concern, but which concern me anyway. I’ve just learned not to ask the questions I don’t want answered.

Piotr…doesn’t look healthy. His skin is sallow, his eyes sunken. Rising just above the collar of his shirt, I can see an ugly purple bruise that is fading to a sickly yellow-green around the edges. It’s a week old at least. He’s thinner than he was, I think. Whatever happened to him in the pit—it was bad.

“What, Katya?” Alexei asks again. He gives a sharp jerk of his head and utters a sharper word to Piotr, and without argument, Piotr turns to leave.