Ilya laughs, a deep, resonant chuckle. “Like money, Bohdan.”
“Oh, yeah, well I can pay. How much do you think?”
“He’s fallen on hard times recently. You offer him something substantial, and I think he’ll tell me. I won’t say the money has come from you; I’ll simply state that I need to know for reasons of my own and offer him the money.”
I think. If he’s on hard times then fifty thousand euros will go a long way; more so in Russia if I offer it in gold. “How about the equivalent of fifty thousand euros, in gold?”
Ilya whistles through his teeth. “I was thinking along the lines of ten myself, but yeah if you give him fifty, he’ll talk; I’m sure. Probably make the old fucker feel important to have someone wanting to listen to anything he’s got to say too.”
“I’ll transfer the gold to you if you give me your bank details.”
“She must be important.”
“She is,” I say simply.
More though, I need to know. Now that I’m convinced that Dasha didn’t do it, the mystery of who did is driving me crazy. Who else could have known? Did my uncle himself drop a hint by accident? Were some of Arseni’s men following me? For all these years I have been blaming Dasha when I was the one who led the men to discovering my uncle’s secret?
There was another reason I’d hated Dasha for what I believed to be her betrayal, and that’s because she was the only person I told about the shit my father used to pull. She knew about the way he let his supposed friends try to molest me during those damn card games. I’d always believed her telling the Bratva about what my uncle was doing, to be particularly callous somehow after I’d shared the secret with her. It doesn’t make sense logically, but it’s how I had felt about it at the time. Sometimes our feelings and logic are a million miles apart.
I watch her on the screen. The conversation between her and her mother has moved on from me, to the possible upcoming solo show Dasha might be sponsored for. Her mother is more excited than Dasha, it seems.
“You don’t seem excited,” her mother says as if reading my thoughts.
“Oh, I am. You know me, Mom, I love to dance. I get more excited about the dancing, though, than the other side of things, and from what Jasper told me before he left for business, this particular show will involve a lot of media interviews, and I hate all of that.”
“All of that is what pays for this,” her mother says, waving her hands around the room.
“I’m well aware of that fact. It also pays for your house,” Dasha points out. “It also pays for Jasper’s jet-setting, his ridiculous insistence on dressing like some Edwardian gent, and his penchant for antiques. It pays for everything. Or rather, it would be more accurate to say, I do. It’s my feet that bleed, my bones that ache. I’m the one dancing and dancing and dancing, not anyone else, and yet I’m the one controlled by everybody.”
“Because, my darling.” Her mother takes hold of Dasha’s hand. “You’re the artist. You’re the creative, talented, precious one. You need the headspace to simply go out there and dance. Jasper sorts all the other nasty stuff, so you don’t have to think about it.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” Dasha shakes her head. “Mother, do you know how vulnerable we both are?”
Her mother frowns and sips at her tea, so Dasha pushes on.
“He’s got control of everything. I’ve been looking into it in recent months because frankly his behavior has grown much worse, and I’m scared he’s going to really harm me. I looked into how easy it would be to leave, and he’s tied me to him so tightly I don’t think I can ever get away.”
Her mother shakes her head and pats at her hair, smoothing it down. “Darling, you’re tired, overwrought. You’ve just done something very foolish with that Russian boy, and you’re clearly not thinking straight. Why would you leave Jasper? He has made you who and what you are! All men can be tricky. We women must learn to handle them. You think Jasper is bad? You think it’s bad to live in this beautiful house and be world famous as a dancer? If we’d stayed in Russia, you’d have been married to a man who would probably drink too much and beat you daily. That’s the fate of many women living in poverty the world over. You have to deal with Jasper’s temperament, yes, and he can be tricky, but he’s hardly turning you black and blue. I would know.”
“Mother.” Dasha stands. “I think you should leave. Surely you have things to do, and I need to practice. I’m fine, and Bohdan, whatever you may think of him, is capable of looking after me, so you can leave.”
Her mom laughs. “Oh, darling, I’m not leaving. God knows what you and that street urchin will get up to. I won’t tell Jasper, I promise, but until he returns, I’m staying.”
“Fine, stay. I need to go to the theater and practice. Make yourself at home.”
Dasha sweeps out of the room, and I hear her footsteps on the stairs. I close the window down quickly and pull up Google, typing in news so when she storms into the room, it looks as if I’m browsing the latest headlines.
“God, my mother is impossible sometimes,” she fumes. “I am so sorry about the way she spoke to you. I love her,” she says. “Of course, I do. She’s my mother. She brought me into this world, and she gave me the start in life I needed by moving us to London. Of course, I love her; she’s simply difficult.”
I don’t say anything, but it sounds to me like Dasha is convincing herself, not me.
“What do you want to do today?” I ask her.
She turns to me and grins. “I’ve told Mother Dearest I need to go practice, but do you want to play hooky? Fancy lunch along the river somewhere and a walk through the park?”
“I’d love to,” I say.
We both get ready, and then we leave. I feel her mother’s gaze on my back as we go. “Don’t think your mother likes me,” I say with a smile to Dasha as I hold the passenger side door open for her.
“Yes, well, she does like Jasper, so she’s a bad judge of character.”
I climb into the driver’s seat, automatically patting my side to check I have my weapon. I know I have it, but it’s just something I do these days whenever I get into the car.
“Does she know how badly he treats you?” I ask as I pull out of the drive, and then I remember. I’m not supposed to know all the details of how badly he treats her, only what she’s told me. Damn, I need to be more careful.
She doesn’t pick up on it, though, and simply shrugs. “She knows he can be a dick, but she doesn’t know he hits me.”
“You’ve got to get out of that marriage, Dasha.”
“And do what?” she demands. “He holds all the assets because he’s been very clever.”
“Firstly, he can’t legally claim everything. No judge on earth isn’t going to understand that you put a lot into that relationship and the money you have. Secondly, you’re living on your knees.”
“What?” she asks.
“You, you’re living on your knees. Some say it’s better to die on your feet than to live on your knees. So why not leave? Get up off the floor.”