Rain dripped down the car window, blurring my view of remote Russia as Albert drove us to our destination. Snow capped the pine trees, outlined the horizon, and covered the ground.
The winter wonderland melted and turned to mud in front of my eyes.
My mind returned to an hour before, when Ronan slipped my arms into a mysterious yellow faux fur coat. I hadn’t said a word as he zipped it up before sliding my feet into a new pair of ankle boots. I hadn’t realized how dirty and worn my others were until then. He rose to his full height, pulled my hair out from beneath my coat, and said, “Poydem.” Let’s go.
Outside, I turned to give the house one last look and saw the menacing stone fortress in a different light. It was where Yulia’s eccentricity dwelled. Where Polina’s shouts and home-cooked meals could be found. Where rumpled black sheets lay undisturbed. Where doors, mirrors, and hearts were broken. And where sparks were made . . .
I turned to head to the car but stilled when Yulia appeared in the open doorway. We never acknowledged she’d taken care of me in the shower yesterday. The moment could have never happened, but I’d always remember it did.
Her permanent severe expression didn’t falter as she shut the door.
I continued my trek to the car, unable to glance at the kennel where I’d returned Khaos this morning, but I knew he was sitting outside watching me. I’d break down if I had to say goodbye to him. I wished I could take him with me, but I didn’t have a clue where I was even going, let alone if I’d be able to take care of him properly.
A single tear slipped down my cheek then and now, while I watched snow turn to mud through the car window. I wiped it away knowing if I let the tears fall, they’d never stop.
Ronan was unnaturally quiet, running a thumb across his bottom lip and watching the scenery pass by. I wondered if he cared he was devastating my life by murdering my father. My papa’s actions may be unconscionable—and unforgivable—but Ronan wasn’t his judge and jury. I wondered if Ronan cared at all that this would be the last time he’d ever see me. By his indifference, I couldn’t believe I was even in his thoughts.
Maybe I was just a fleeting amusement that had already passed. So many insecurities and fears wreaked havoc on my mind. Nothing made sense in this state—with my chest squeezed tight in terror of what would happen when this car came to a standstill.
To find some relief from my thoughts, I asked, “Is my papa still married?”
“Da.”
“What’s she like?”
“As far as I can remember, she’s agoraphobic and addicted to coke,” Ronan answered without looking at me.
Oh. She sounded nice. Though maybe she had some trauma from my papa’s lifestyle as well.
“How many siblings do I have?” I continued.
“Three brothers.”
“Will they be there today?”
“Adrian and Dimitri probably. Dima’s in prison.”
When I imagined having a family, it never occurred to me they’d be mobsters. I guessed I should have lowered my expectations when I thought of magical family Christmases. I’d jinxed myself.
Ronan traded Russian words with Albert. I only caught the smallest pieces of the conversation, but by their serious tones, it was clear they were discussing details of the trade. It should be fairly simple, I thought. Swap me for my papa. Though the more they spoke, as if they were preparing for the worst, the colder my blood grew.
We took a turn off the road and into an empty plot of land occupied by a couple of worn silos. Two black cars were parked on the far side of the area, their windshield wipers flicking back and forth. My heart ricocheted in my chest as mud sloshed beneath tires.
When we pulled to a stop, Ronan finally turned to me. He unzipped my coat and slipped a roll of cash into the inside pocket. Turning on my phone, he handed it to me. I watched him with a serene feeling as he zipped my coat back up like I was a child.
He didn’t say anything to me, and the pain splitting my chest overrode my fear of anything else. Before he could open the door, the heartache escaped my lips with a desperate breath.
“Proshchay.” The word sounded soft, but its meaning held a poignant note. It meant goodbye forever.
Fingers on the door handle, Ronan watched me for a long second. I could practically see D’yavol rising to the surface of his eyes. Soulless sophistication.
When he didn’t respond, my throat tightened. He had to say something. He had to let me know this—I—meant something to him. I deserved the words, or I knew they would haunt me forever.
“Aren’t you going to say it too?”
“Nyet.” The reply was so cold, its ice burned the backs of my eyes, sending a single tear down my cheek. It wasn’t until he watched it fall that I noticed the tightness in his shoulders; the turmoil he hid so well behind Giovanni.
A rough thumb wiped the tear away. “Ya ne govoryu togo, chego ne imeyu v vidu.”
Then he opened the door and stepped out, gesturing for me to follow. I did without a word, my thoughts too chaotic to muse on what he said.
I stayed close to Ronan as doors slammed shut and men filed out. I knew Victor drove another car that had followed us here. I’d hoped it was just a precaution and not because we were going to war. I’d be a sitting duck in my bright yellow coat.
Six men stood across from us, my papa and Ivan taking the center. My papa wore a gray tweed suit I’d bought for him last year. The silver in his hair was more pronounced than I remembered, but nothing else seemed to have changed. He still looked like the papa I’d always known and loved.
Though when my eyes met his, pictures of the child he’d tortured flipped through my mind. Then the faceless girls he’d trafficked. And the memory of my mother lying dead on our library floor.
“Papa, your friend . . . is she my mother?”
His gaze softened. “No, angel.”
The truth was, my heart had mourned my papa since I was that little girl. I mourned the father I wanted him to be. I mourned the love I needed to receive. And now, I had to mourn his death.
The wind whistled through the silos as rain dripped to the earth. Mud separated us from the men who were supposed to be my family; the ones to save me from D’yavol’s clutches. Yet in my gut, it felt like I belonged on this side.
“We did not think you would show. You are an hour late,” one of the dark-haired men beside Papa said, cracking his knuckles. Tattoos trailed up his neck, and his nose was crooked as if it’d been broken many times.
“It’s called fashionably late, Adrian,” Ronan said. “Don’t tell me you’re the guy who shows up to the party five minutes early.”
I guessed the man who spoke was my brother. Doubtful I’d ever see him in a Christmas sweater.
Adrian scowled. “You are lucky we are even going through with this trade after you have used our sister up like a whore—”
“Zatknis’,” Papa growled. Shut up.
Ronan didn’t blink beside me, but an almost imperceptible tension radiated from him.
“Do you think just because you kill our father, we will not become a bigger problem for you?” another man said. His gaze was empty, like he’d seen so much death the lifelessness had snuck into his eyes. I somehow knew this was Dimitri, my other brother, and another probable no on the Christmas sweater.