Page 79 of Bratva Sacrifice

But she does not do this. She does not do anything. She spends days in the same set of pajamas, curled up in a chair, or laying listlessly in bed. She eats only delivery pizza, and barely more than a bite or two before she loses interest and the box sits abandoned on the counter until the housekeeper inevitably cleans it away.

She drinks too much still, and never the sweet wines I once purchased for her. She drinks red wines which I know she has never enjoyed, as if she can punish herself in this manner. She drinks hard liquor straight from the bottle.

She does not paint her nails, or watch her documentaries, or read her romances or her biographies. She doesn’t live like she was meant to do. Like I wanted for her.

Instead, she cries. Often. And there is nothing I can do at such a distance, spying upon her like I have been. This cut was meant to be a clean one. Swift for her and brutal for me. These cameras hidden in strategic positions are the only concession I have given to myself to feed my raging addiction.

At my own demand, Anatoli made these arrangements with my resources in utter secrecy. I am never to know her exact location. I am never to know her address, her phone number. I am never to know her new name.

I promised her safety, even from myself.

So I tell myself that she will recover. She has to do this. This is what she wanted. The only thing she had asked for. I tell myself that she will be happy.

And yet, every day, I am confronted with the fact that I was wrong once again. That I do not know Katya at all. I would prefer to think it is only that—that she remains a mystery to me—because the alternative is unthinkable.

That I ruined her entirely.

Katya’s pain is my pain. Watching her suffer is unbearable. And I know, finally, that in a moment of weakness I might do something truly drastic. Maybe I do not know her address—but I can see the sandy beach on the cameras. I can see the sun set in the evening.

She is in California, then. And if I can divine this much only from what I can see on these cameras, how long will it be until that is not enough for me? How long until her tears break me down so much that I pick and pull at this carefully-constructed protection which has been built for her? How long until it unravels entirely and her new life comes apart at the seams? How long until I ruin even her brittle, tenuous peace?

I need to put an ocean between us.

Chapter Thirty Nine

Catherine

November comes around. The air is crisp and clean, always scented with the tang of the ocean. I don’t think it snows in San Diego, and I’ll miss that as the winter approaches. I’ll miss the soft impact of my footsteps into a thick layer of snow, the windburn on my cheeks. I’ll miss a winter that feels like winter.

I’ve settled into a routine of sorts. It’s not one anyone would be proud of. Mostly it consists of moping. I think, a lot. I cry. I try to unpack the last months of the short life of Catalina Russo.

The sweet little paw print bowls collect dust. I can hardly take care of myself.

I’ve been toying with a thought for the last few weeks. An idea. Mostly it started as a vengeful fantasy. But it’s morphed into something else, and the more time I have to ruminate on it, the more certain I am of what I want.

Alexei has ruled enough of my former life. He doesn’t get to ruin my new one before it begins.

It’s with that thought in mind that I buy myself a first-class ticket to Chicago. I could charter a jet—I could probably buy a jet, with the money stashed away in my bank account—but I want to test out my new credentials.

They pass muster with flying colors. Apparently, the mafia has connections everywhere. My documents are legitimate as far as the United States government is concerned. It’s still strange to hear myself addressed as Ms. Miller, but I’m growing accustomed to it. Every day she feels more like me. Or maybe I feel more like her. Maybe she can become whoever I want her to be. Maybe she can become everything Catalina Russo never could and never will.

So I tell myself the things I hope will one day become true. I tell myself that Catherine Miller is not a coward. Catherine Miller lives her own life and does as she pleases. Catherine Miller is strong, confident. Confident enough to rout a known mafia boss in his lair. To demand an explanation. To demand an apology. I think I’m owed one. Several. Dozens.

But right now, Catherine Miller is mostly a seething mass of indecision and fury and confusion. The weight of unfinished business rests heavily upon her shoulders. It’s the rage of a woman scorned, the unspent frustration of violation, of dismissal. Of abandonment and loneliness.

I’m done with decisions being made for me. I’m done with being treated like a possession, like an object, a toy—something to be played with and cast aside when I cease to entertain. I’m done with the futility, the patronization, the assumptions made on my behalf.

My car pulls up outside the sprawling mansion I once shared with Alexei. It wasn’t hard to find. I paid attention on my rare trips out; I remember the turns.

The last time I arrived at this gate, I was broken, bruised, and bleeding on the rear floorboards of my father’s car. The last time I left through it, I had no idea it would be the last time.

I press the intercom button outside the closed gates.

“Peterson residence. May I help you?” The voice over the intercom is clear, mild, and without even the slightest inflection of a Russian accent.

Peterson residence? Is this another deception, some line of defense to weed out uninvited callers?

“I’m here to see Alexei,” I say. “Tell him Catherine has come to see him.”