5
Molly
I push the fruit around my plate and try to bite back a yawn. The wives of the Bratva have been in my dining room for going on two hours, and I’m exhausted.
Not just from today, but from the unending string of events that seem to come from being Viktor’s wife.
Before, people saw me as a girlfriend, at best. An on-call prostitute, at worse. They didn’t want to get to know me or understand me because they didn’t have to. They didn’t owe me any loyalty, and I showed no interest in them.
As soon as Viktor and I became “legally” wedded, however, their priorities shifted. Now, being close to me could benefit them. Perhaps their husbands will rise through the ranks of the family. Perhaps I can whisper in my husband’s ear and tell him who is most devoted.
Viktor claims the women simply want to be my friends, but we both know he is lying. He just doesn’t want another meltdown like I had in the car the evening of the loyalty ceremony. Viktor claims I didn’t make a fool of myself that night, but I saw the way the women watched me eat—like vultures circling over a starving animal. They were waiting to pick me apart. But as I continue on day after day, they put away their claws and replace them with smiles.
“Molly, aren’t you hungry? You’ve barely eaten, dear. You need to keep up your strength.” Nadia has dyed blonde hair and each of her boobs is as big as my head. I know that her husband is a lieutenant, but I can’t remember which one.
Another woman—Tasha or Mila, I can’t remember—wags her brows in my direction. “Especially as a newlywed. I’m sure Viktor keeps you busy.”
“Bratva men are insatiable,” Nadia says, adjusting her V-neck shirt to show even more of her cleavage. “Five years in and Michail still can’t keep his hands off me.”
I assure them I ate a large breakfast, but the truth is that pregnancy nausea has made it impossible to eat anything other than plain crackers or, bizarrely, onion rings from the diner George is working at now. He owned a liquor store, but after becoming my personal guard for a short time and getting tangled up in the Bratva mess, the location became too messy. So, he bought out part of his brother’s diner, and now sends Viktor home with giant bags of onion rings for me and the growing baby.
I could use some of those onion rings right now.
The women talk about the other Bratva wives who aren’t present at our little powwow, but I don’t recognize any of their names and don’t care enough to ask for further clarification. So, I just nod and smile with the rest of the group and hope they don’t notice I’m drinking sparkling juice instead of champagne.
It has been a week since the wedding, and I’ve only seen Viktor a total of ten hours maybe. He has been sleeping at his place, partly because I haven’t invited him to stay over at my apartment again, and partly because his place is closer to a lot of the motels the Bratva is running. Viktor is still working to undo the damage Fedor caused when he set fire to several of the motels and destroyed the product they had hidden away there.
A lot of the renovation is done, from what Viktor has said, but they are still trying to recover the money they lost in weapons and drugs. Ironically, Viktor is pushing for better promotion of the motels to bring actual customers in. Prior to the fire, they didn’t care about people visiting the motels at all since that wasn’t how they made their money, but now Viktor is accepting extra cash flow wherever they can get it. I joked a few nights ago that he was becoming a legitimate businessman, and he laughed at the idea. It was nice to see him smile.
Now, he is busy, and I have to keep the Bratva wives happy. Even though I’m surrounded by people, I feel entirely alone.
When the women finally finish the champagne and decide to leave, I’m happy to be alone. At least when I’m alone I don’t have to pretend.
The moment the women are gone, I change out of one of eight identical skintight dresses Viktor had delivered and into my favorite pair of gray sweats. I wrap myself in a fluffy white sweater, grab my design textbook, and head down to the living room. The class I’m in is online and mostly self-led—all of my assignments have to be turned in by the time the final is administered—so I have time to get everything accomplished, but with my new responsibilities to the Bratva, I’m going to have to set aside time to study if I want to stay on top of it.
Though, what is the point of it all now?
I’ve done my best not to think much about my future. If I think about things one day at a time, it keeps me from feeling an overwhelming sense of existential dread. However, the sudden realization that this might never end washes over me.
Getting out of this kind of lifestyle is hard. I know better than anyone that even the smallest amount of contact with the people in it can yank you in, too. So, what if I can’t leave? What if, even after the threat of Fedor has subsided, I can’t get away? The Bratva wives will find it strange if I want to get my degree or do an internship. I certainly wouldn’t need the money.
I try to push the thoughts from my head, instead focusing on the hope that it will all work out, but they crowd into my brain until I can’t think about anything else.
Just as I slam my textbook closed, there is a knock at the door.
Since the wedding, I don’t have to answer my own door, but I still get up out of habit. I’m halfway across the living room when the guard comes inside to tell me there is a woman at the door for me. I assume it is one of the Bratva wives who forgot something, so I don’t ask who it is and tell him to let her in. A minute later, the guard ushers in a woman I barely recognize. A woman I haven’t seen face-to-face in years.
“Hannah?” I ask, mouth hanging open.
Hannah rushes across the room and wraps me in a hug, and it is all I can do to force my arms to encircle her.
I told Hannah I’d ask Viktor about sending her some cash, but things have been so crazy that I forgot. About the money and Hannah, if I’m being honest.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, holding her back by the shoulders. “How are you here? What—?”
“All good questions,” Hannah says, tucking a greasy strand of hair behind her ear and turning in a circle to take in the apartment. Her sneakers are filthy, her jeans have worn holes in the knees, and she is wearing two oversized jackets instead of a coat. When she finishes her circle, her eyes are wide. “But my question is: what do I need to do to get a place like this?”
I ignore the question and grab Hannah’s arm, dragging her towards the couch. “Sit down and tell me how you are here.”
She runs her hand over the couch cushion, admiring the fabric, and then sighs. “I lost my apartment.”
I slide my touch from her elbow to her hand and squeeze. “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” she agrees. “I couldn’t have my son with me since I didn’t have a place to stay, and I couldn’t get a job to get a new place. I was in a shit-filled rut, and I thought a small trip would help me get out of it.”
“A trip?” I ask, trying to follow her thinking. “Like, a vacation? How is that going to help? What are you going to do?”
Hannah looks up at me, her eyebrows raised and expectant. “I kind of hoped you would be able to help.” As if to drive the point home, she looks around the apartment again. When she turns and sees my balcony and the view of the city, she sighs. “Wow.”