The engine starts up. As the car rolls forward smoothly, the finality of the situation sinks in, followed by a wave of nauseating fear.
We’re here.
There’s no turning back.
The car picks up speed, transporting me to an unknown future.
2
Kate
The drive passes in silence. I stare at the scenery through the tinted window, taking in the apartment blocks that eventually make way for statelier buildings. We follow a broad river for several miles before crossing a bridge. The signposts are in Russian. I have no idea where we’re heading, and the uncertainty adds to my fear.
As if reading my mind, Alex says, “We’re going to Krestovsky Island.”
I have no desire to look at him, but the sound of his voice pulls my gaze to him in a reflexive reaction.
“I realize this is all new and strange to you,” he continues. “If you want to know anything, you only have to ask.”
One question runs on repeat through my mind. “How long before you’ll let me go home?”
The tall buildings throw shadows over the road that intersperse with the bright winter afternoon sun. They play over his face as we speed along, making the laugh lines etched from his nose to his mouth appear deeper.
“Katyusha,” he says after a tense beat. “I’m trying to be patient, but don’t push me. Not on this.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to say? It’ll make the road forward considerably smoother for both of us.”
He clenches his jaw. “This doesn’t have to be hard on you.”
“Are you for real?” I twist in my seat, facing him squarely. “What did you expect? That I’d be excited about this trip?”
“You could be.” He lays his arm on the backrest behind me and rubs a finger over the curve of my shoulder. “Think of this unforeseen getaway as a vacation.”
I shift to the edge of my seat, escaping his touch. “This is not a vacation, and I’m not in the habit of lying to myself.”
He lowers his arm to his side. “Your attitude is only making it worse.”
My attitude? What about his? My nails dig into my palms. “What I think and feel doesn’t matter, right? So why do you even care if it’s new, strange, or scary for me?”
His eyes crinkle in the corners. “That’s not true, kiska, and you know that. If you want a reminder that I care about you, you don’t have to search very hard. The fact that we’re here spells it out in bold letters, don’t you think? Now stop being difficult. You’re looking for a fight to appease your anger, and it’s not going to happen.”
I grit my teeth in powerless fury and angry frustration. This isn’t about picking a fight, but there’s no winning this argument with him. There’s no way of making him see the situation from my point of view.
When he reaches for my hand, I wrap my arms around my body. Rejecting him hurts me, especially when I fear more for his life than for my own, but I don’t know if I can forgive him for what he’s done, not when he doesn’t show a stitch of remorse.
He drops his hand, letting it rest on the seat between us, close enough for his knuckles to brush against my thigh. “We’re going to a house I own on the island. It’s one of the best neighborhoods in St. Petersburg.”
I want to ask if that’s supposed to make me happy, but I bite my tongue. Things are bad enough, and further conflict won’t help. We’re talking in circles. A sudden spell of exhaustion washes over me. These bizarre circumstances are emotionally draining. I’m too tired even to think.
Leaning back, I sink deeper into my seat, escaping my thoughts by focusing on the sights through the window. We cross over another bridge and continue to drive along the river. My jaw drops as I take in the mansions set on generous, snow-covered gardens facing the river. The deeper we drive into the island, the more luxurious the properties become.
These aren’t houses. They’re palaces, and their gardens are parks.
One property is so big it takes up the whole block. A green metal roof, maybe oxidized copper, is visible through treetops from behind a high wall. The driver pulls up to eight-foot-high iron gates that swing open as we approach. The garden we pass through is a winter landscape dotted with naked trees. Right in the middle of it stands an imposing four-story sandstone palace with a turret on each corner and decorative balcony rails in front of the windows.
The tires crunch over the gravel driveway that has been cleared of snow. The car slows to a stop in front of the dwelling. Two cars from our convoy are already parked outside, the men carrying our luggage into the house.
I turn to look through the back window. Another two cars are entering behind us. Movement in the garden catches my eye. Men dressed in white combat pants, matching snow jackets, beanies, and yellow-tinted anti-glare sunglasses walk along the perimeter of the wall that surrounds the grounds. They’re armed with automatic rifles and knives strapped to their thighs. They’re so well camouflaged, blending into the white scenery and the stark, charcoal lines of the winter trees, that I didn’t notice them until they moved. There must be at least two dozen of them. I stop counting at twenty.
When I turn back in my seat, Alex is studying me. Yuri and Igor get out. Igor heads toward the back of the mansion while Yuri gets Alex’s door. Freezing cold air barrels into the car, but Alex doesn’t make a move to get out.
“Ask me,” he says.
I blink. “Ask you what?”
He lifts his gaze to the landscape beyond my window. “About the men.”
I requested that he lay his cards on the table, and I’m not going to waste an opportunity to gain a better understanding of my situation. “What are they? Soldiers? Guards?”
“They’re here for our protection.”
Another vague answer. So much for hoping he was finally going to give me something. “Right.” I look through my window. “I suppose a job title doesn’t apply then.”
“I don’t tag them with a label like soldier or guard.”
“Or mafia,” I say under my breath.
“Look at me.” When I obey reluctantly, he continues. “They’re well trained and they’re loyal. That’s what matters.”
If he says so. “How many of them are here?”
“Thirty, give or take a few. The rest are training at a base camp on the outskirts of the city. I want my men to keep in shape and up to date with their weapons.”
“Thirty?” I exclaim. “How many are there in total?”
“I have two hundred men in this particular line of work in my employ at any given moment. They rotate between here and my offices, taking turns with patrolling, training, and resting.”
Shivering from the cold that has invaded the car, I glance up at the façade of the house. The building is huge, big enough to house twenty people. “Do they all stay here?”
He takes my gloved hands and rubs them between his, warming them through the butter-soft leather. “They live in the barracks at the back of the property.”
I gape at him. “You have a barracks?”
“It used to be a barn—storage space for foliage and a stable for horses. I had it converted into a dormitory for the men.” He takes my arm. “Come. You’re cold. We’ll talk more in the house. I just wanted to put your mind at ease about the presence of the men before we went inside.”