“What is it?” I say, though I already know.
“I think . . . I think I need to go to the trial.”
“Lara—“
“I know! I know why you don’t want me to go.”
She’s sitting on the bed, cradling her belly. We both have the same reason for not wanting her to go.
“But I have to, Dom. I’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to let it go. I just can’t do it. I can’t be at peace until I’ve faced him.”
I don’t want to agree to this. I want to hide her away, lock her up, do whatever I have to do to keep her safe.
But then I’d be no different than Avo Kazarian.
What I want doesn’t matter. It’s Lara’s choice.
I take her hand. It looks so small inside of mine.
“I hate this,” I tell her. “But whatever you have to do, I’ll be there by your side.”
30
Lara
The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy's not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him; not on the chance of his not attacking, but rather on the fact that we have made our position unassailable.
Sun Tzu
The trial is held in Moscow’s Chertanovskaya District Court. It’s a plain and ugly space—a utilitarian box, with none of the Roman grandeur generally associated with judicial buildings. Pavel tells me they’re holding it here because all the security has just been upgraded, after an embarrassing incident where a government official smuggled a pistol into his own extortion trial and shot himself dead upon hearing the guilty verdict.
Now the building has double the guards of most courthouses, as well as metal detectors at every entrance, omnipresent surveillance, and a bulletproof enclosure within the courtroom itself, known as “the aquarium” because the prisoner sits behind glass like a fish in a tank.
It’s strange seeing Pavel again. It feels like a lifetime ago that we shared that tiny flat on Sadovaya Street. It looks like the lead-up to the trial has put more gray in his hair, but maybe I’m only imagining that.
All I know for certain is that I feel a rush of affection at seeing his prim, carefully-maintained person once more.
Pavel must feel the same, because he gives me a small smile and says, “How’s my grandchild doing?”
I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him make a joke before.
Maybe it’s not a joke. In truth, I had considered asking Pavel to be my baby’s godfather. And not just so he’ll refrain from arresting Dom.
“It’s a boy,” I tell him.
“That’s wonderful,” he says.
I’ve already met with the prosecutor and several other members of Pavel’s team. Dom insisted on speaking with the head of security for the courthouse because his primary concern is, of course, my safety. Even so, he won’t let me out of his sight. Anywhere I go, he’s in the same room, constantly scanning everyone present, his shoulders hunched with tension.
It was an awkward meeting between Dom and Pavel. They each gave the other a stiff nod, and Pavel said, “Thank you both for coming.”
Now, while Dom and I wait alone in one of the dreary offices, Dom says, “It’s not too late to leave. We could walk out right now.”
“I know,” I say.
There’s a long silence, in which I can hear the buzzing of the digital clock on the wall.
Then I say, “I can’t believe my father is in this same building right now.”
“I want to kill him,” Dom says flatly.
“He’ll get what’s coming to him,” I say. “Pavel says that his conviction is certain. Especially with my testimony.”
“I don’t like that I can’t bring a gun in here.”
I sigh. “I’m sure that wouldn’t stop you.”
Dom told me about the day he almost shot my father. I know that if he wanted to, he would figure out a way to get a weapon in here, or to kill my father in whatever cell he’s being held. I know he’s only refraining out of respect for my wishes.
What I’m not certain about is my own choice.
Maybe Dom is right, and death would be the cleanest revenge.
Still, I feel compelled to face my father. I want to tell the world what he’s done. And I want the sentence of guilt to be heaped on his head.
I want him to rot in prison, impotent and enraged. Tortured every day by the knowledge that he’s trapped in there until his body and mind fall to pieces. Only then do I want him to die.
It seems like forever until I’m called from the room.
I walk down the long, deserted hallway, Dom close behind me.
I speak briefly to the lawyers once more, and then the bailiff takes me inside the courtroom.
As soon as I enter, I feel the soul-sucking presence of my father.
Avo Kazarian is already seated inside the glass enclosure.
My eyes are irresistibly drawn to him before I even reach the stand.
Having spent so much time with Dom as of late, my father looks small by comparison. That impression is amplified by his seated position within the large glass cube.
His salt-and-pepper hair is cropped shorter than usual—maybe they did that in prison. It’s almost buzzed to the skull, which shows how bare and patchy it’s gotten in front. By contrast, his eyebrows look thicker and darker than ever, and the lines on his face are more entrenched.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him without a suit on before. He’s wearing plain prison blues, his hands cuffed in front of him.
Neither the cuffs nor the enclosure gives me the slightest sense of safety. No—his beetle-black eyes bore into me, right through the glass. Though he hasn’t said a word, his voice fills my ears—soft, flat, and cruel.
I feel like a child again. Powerless and utterly terrified.
My heart is a stone in my chest. My brain is pounding in my skull. All I can think is, Run, run, run away!
I drag my eyes away from my father and look wildly around for Dom instead.
There he is, sitting in the second row of the gallery. He’s stiff with anxiety. But his broad shoulders, square jaw, and big hands give me strength. He’s right there. He won’t let anything happen to me.
I take my seat on the stand. I’m sworn in, and then the prosecutor comes to question me.
The questions go on for hours. They jump around in topic and time period. They’re specific, exhausting, and endless.
I’ve already gone over these things again and again with Pavel’s team—there aren’t any surprises. And yet it’s different saying it publicly, in front of the judge, the lawyers, and the spectators.
Most of all, it’s different saying it in front of my father.
He never speaks. But he also never takes his eyes off me.
At no point do I become numb to his presence. I can always feel him watching me. I can feel the outrage and hatred emanating from him.
In the world of the Bratva, normal morals don’t apply. Theft, violence, even murder are acceptable under the right circumstances.
But the one thing that is never, never allowed is betrayal. Loyalty to the family, above all else.
The head of the family is the boss. You obey him as you would obey a pharaoh.
I disobeyed my father when I ran away. And now, the ultimate betrayal. Testifying in a court of law.