Good luck finding what’s not there in the first place.
Adrian Volkov might have thought he hit the jackpot by finding his dead wife’s lookalike, but what he doesn’t know is that he fell upon a shell.
And inside this shell, there’s nothing for him to bring out.
12
Winter
I remain slumped against the table long after Adrian leaves. I didn’t look at him, because if I had, I would’ve been creeped out by the total darkness in his eyes.
My shorts are still bunched around my ankles because I didn’t have the energy to pull them up. My dignity is somewhere on the floor, too, as I stay here, hugging the table even after the click of the door has echoed in the silent dining room.
I don’t want to think about what just happened or how embarrassingly I reacted to it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel it. The handprints, the flames on my ass. The damn tingling in my core.
Slowly closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath and straighten. The movement shifts the tingling, and it’s like my world is set on fire. I’m careful in pulling up my shorts, but my ass is burning. The friction causes me to moan. I don’t bother hiding it now since he’s not here and won’t be able to hear me.
This is so messed up.
I need a drink. Or two.
I’ve been sober for way too long and that’s probably why I’m reacting this way. If I’m half-drunk, as usual—or better yet, completely drunk—I’ll return to my robotic self, who barely feels anything.
Larry never approved of my drinking habits and I miss him, but I can’t see him, so this calls for more drinks.
I search the wooden cabinets on the sides of the room, but I find nothing. They probably keep alcohol in the kitchen.
After leaving the dining room, I follow the path Ogla showed me earlier until I find myself in the entryway. I go in the opposite direction, assuming that’s where the kitchen will be.
Sure enough, I find it. The space is large and way cleaner than any cooking space I’ve seen before. The white counters are shining and the stainless-steel kitchen tools occupy a portion of the counter, waiting to be used.
I’m nervous about touching anything in case I ruin something. But my need for a drink overrules that feeling. There’s a constant ache at the front of my head that will only ebb with alcohol.
I start with the fridge. There’s water, fruits, vegetables, and bottles of juice. But there’s no sign of any beer. So I move on to the cabinets, checking them one by one. I find cereals, probably for Jeremy, spices, some utensils, but there’s still no trace of alcohol.
My search turns more panicked as I open and close every cabinet, rummaging through them frantically.
“Are you looking for something, Mrs. Volkov?”
I flinch, jerking back, but my hand remains on the handle of the cabinet as I face Ogla. She stands at the entrance, expression closed off as usual.
“I…umm…do you know where the beer is?”
“We don’t have beer.”
Adrian seems like the type of snob who doesn’t drink beer, so that makes sense. I try again. “Whiskey?”
“No.”
“Wine?”
“No.”
“Do you have any alcoholic beverages here?”
“No.”
“How is that possible? Doesn’t Adrian drink?”
“Not in the house, Mrs. Volkov.”
I want to ask her why the hell he doesn’t, but her closed off tone and face deter me from it. I doubt she’d answer if I asked, anyway.
The lack of alcohol is hurting my head. It’s even worse than a few seconds ago. Every addict like me holds on to the promise of the next hit, a sip, something to alleviate the ache. Contrary to common belief, we do endure, but only because our brains are attuned to the idea of instant gratification after a certain wait time. Now that my brain has figured out there will be no alcohol, it’s actively trying to split my head open, and so I give in to its demands.
“I’ll go to the grocery store to buy some beer. Can I tell them to put it on Adrian’s tab?” I ask Ogla ever so casually, attempting to get past her.
She raises an arm, blocking my exit. “Mr. Volkov gave clear instructions that you’re not to leave the property.”
The asshole did mention that.
“It won’t take long,” I bargain.
“No.”
“You’re not the boss of me, Ogla. I can push you away and go.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that, Mrs. Volkov. You’ll be stopped by the guards outside with less gentle methods.”
He has more guards outside? I thought Bulky Blond and Crooked Nose were the only ones, and I’d assumed they followed him wherever he went.
“So you go,” I say hopefully.
She shakes her head once.
“One of the guards can go, then?”
“No alcohol is allowed in the house. You’ll have to get used to it.”
I can’t just get used to it. I’ve been drunk for most of my life. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I’ve always been kind of drunk and that’s how I’ve managed to stay out of my head. That’s how I’ve numbed my feelings.
If I’m sober, all my emotions will be unfiltered and raw, like everything I experienced this morning. Come to think of it, I probably had the nightmare because I didn’t sleep drunk. I don’t want to find out what will happen if I stay like this.
I’m not ready to experience it.
I wish I could get in touch with Larry so he could smuggle me some beer. But that would be as hard as searching for a specific ant in an ant farm. Larry has always been the one to do the finding, not the other way around. Besides, I have no clue where this mansion is located and how far it is from the city.
And if I attempt to escape, Adrian will turn me in without a second thought.
Ogla is still watching me as if expecting me to bargain again, but I already know she’s a lost cause. I have no doubt that she’ll report everything I say or do to Adrian, so I have to be smart about dealing with her.
I stare back at her, meeting her quiet maliciousness with contemplation. Adrian said that I can ask her about anything ‘I don’t remember.’ Hmph. Manipulative bastard.
“Hey, Ogla.”
“Yes?”
“What does Adrian do exactly?”
She pauses as if she didn’t expect that question, then says, “Why do you want to know?”
“He said to ask you for anything and I believe this belongs in that category. I’m sure I knew all about his work before I lost my memories, so you’re just going to have to refresh them for me.”
I expect her to shrug me off, but she says, “Mr. Volkov is part of the Russian mafia.”
He’s not a spy, after all, but that’s not a shock. He can pass for a mobster, even though his style and features are sophisticated.
The conversation I overheard from the Giants fans about the Bratva rushes back again and I swallow. They said they were dangerous people who didn’t hesitate to kill. Not that I should be surprised that Adrian is a killer, but this information puts everything into real—and terrifying—perspective.
He’s one of those dangerous people. It’s not only the vibe he gives. His entire existence is set to elicit fear in the hearts of anyone who talks about him or his organization.