Page 60 of Bratva Sacrifice

“She worked so hard to give me a good life,” Katya says. “Because she loved me so much more than she ever hated Papa. And I—I’m not a fighter like she was. I’m not as strong as she was.”

How can she think this of herself? She is so much stronger than she knows. So much stronger than she believes herself to be. Can she not recall how fiercely she fought me the night I took her from Minneapolis? The constant battles she waged against me in the following weeks? She is a fighter.

But she does not feel like one. She feels like a daughter who has disappointed her mother’s hopes for her. And I wish I could have met this woman who raised her. Who gave to her the sweet smile and the softness I love.

She says, so softly, already near to falling asleep, “I can’t keep living like this, Alexei.”

I do not chide her for this. Not tonight. Not when I think she sees herself losing the last part of her mother that remains in the world, the part of her mother she has carried on like a torch. It is a different sort of death, but no less painful for her. “We will figure these things out, koshechka,” I tell her.

I cannot have her love while she suffers this loss. Somehow, I am going to have to find a way for Katya to achieve her dream of teaching. Without this, she cannot be happy, and I will lose her to her resentment. And this—this is unacceptable to me. As she relaxes into sleep, I murmur into her hair, “I will never let you go.”

∞∞∞

The mall is just as crowded as it was the last time we came. It is not a weekend, but it is still summer, and so families and children weave through the space in chaotic patterns. Katya and I have to fight the flow of a crowd to reach our destination. This is not so much a problem so long as my men, who trail behind us at a discreet distance, can see us clearly.

The presence of them makes Katya uncomfortable still.

But her complaints—if she has them—she keeps to herself. This in itself concerns me. I would prefer her anger to her complacence. Her disrespect to her silence. There is an apathy that hangs about her shoulders, pushing them down into a disconsolate slump that aggravates that twinge in my chest.

The sigh that drifts from her lungs is the echo of the one she made last night. Resigned. Reconciled. Fucking sad. She does not have to tell me this. She has already told me—what she needs. What she cannot be happy without.

I can’t keep living like this, she said, and she thinks I do not listen to this. So she does not bother to tell me again. She does not waste her energy on something she thinks she cannot make me understand.

She flicks another glance over her shoulder.

“You don’t need to do this, Katya,” I tell her. “They are for your protection.”

“Are they?” she asks, and the words are dispirited. And she adds, in a listless monotone, “Because I feel like a dog on a leash.”

She feels like this because she is permitted so little freedom. And I think—if she had not been so much a secret, if her father had truly embraced her and made her part of his family, she would understand this better. If I had shielded her less from the realities of my life, she would understand this better.

She startles as I grab her hand and pull her out of the crowd, into the shadow of an awning. This is not the time or the place to explain these things to her, but maybe I can make her understand a little.

Maybe I should have made her understand yesterday instead.

“Yesterday,” I tell her, “when you interrupted me with Piotr. I was—”

She gives a humorless laugh. “You were kind of a dick.” Her voice is scratchy. For a moment her eyes are misty, as if she is recalling this wound.

“Da,” I tell her. “I was dick, because I was angry. My men waste too much of my time on bullshit things.” Stealing my time away from Katya, who deserves more of it than she is given presently. “And then you ask to go out. You want to teach. And I know that when this happens, eventually it will become impossible to keep you secret.”

Katya’s shoulders stiffen. “What?”

“This is not insult to you,” I tell her brusquely. “This is precaution.”

“I don’t want to be anyone’s secret,” she says slowly. Softly, as if the words are painful to utter.

I don’t want this, either, but some things are unavoidable. “I need you to understand this,” I tell her. “Powerful men have powerful enemies. When I keep you secret, also I keep you safe. There are many who might think to use you to hurt me.” I jerk my head toward my men, who linger twenty feet or so away, waiting upon us. “They are for your protection, koshechka.” Because she is the most precious thing in my life.

Her eyes glisten. “How long were you going to keep me a secret?” she asks. “Was I just…supposed to stay hidden for the rest of my life?”

“Nyet.” My fingers squeeze hers. Her hand is cold in mine, even in the unrelenting heat of summer. “But I do not know how to do this yet.” I have never had to do this before now. It is a logistical problem I have never had to solve. The problem of keeping her safe while permitting her this freedom she needs from me.

She looks down at my hand on hers. “I can’t go on being a prisoner,” she says.

“I need time for this, koshechka. This is not no, you understand?” But her safety is in my hands. “You trust me with this. In return, I will trust you. Okay?” I dig into my pocket for my wallet. Withdraw a stack of hundreds and stuff them into her hand.

She stares down at the money without comprehension. “What is this for?”