10. Katya
CHAPTER 10
KATYA
I don’t know his name, and I never have, but he sat in a box seat at almost every performance I’ve had since I started with my old company. He’s impossibly tall. So much so that as he carried me, the ridiculous dress suddenly seemed to make sense. I’m a child compared to him.
He shot Franco.
I know I should feel something more about that than violently satisfied, but after he watched that woman spread me open, I don’t have much pity for him. I’m still so fucking hungry, and I have no clue if my opinion of his death might change when I feel less like an animal and more like Katya.
Katya is a good religious girl, certainly not one who would watch a murder and feel a frisson of satisfaction right alongside the terror. Sweet Katya, who Pietro loved, never would have enjoyed the light leaving his fucking miserable eyes—the eyes that checked for my hymen. They were close enough to friends, Pietro and Franco, what a miserable damn joke.
It’s hard to breathe, but the mammoth presence in the driver’s seat keeps me whole and tears me apart simultaneously. It’s been so long since I had anyone stick up for me, and he’s done it twice, without hesitation, inside of a couple of minutes. Knowing what he’s capable of now, part of me wishes he did worse to that bitch who deloused and violated me.
My hatred for her burns in every part of me, nearly as hot as my hatred for the person who killed Pietro, but that piece of shit died in the crash too. I would spit on the ground if I wasn’t in his fancy car. The yearning to die I felt on the steps doesn’t leave with the anger. If anything, it morphs and grows stronger. I’m too tired for righteous indignation, too exhausted in my soul for this kind of fury.
But his presence feels like something else entirely, danger and safety mixed up in one. Dark black hair with shocks of gray, matching black eyes like midnight or coal. Strong, broad features, he’s intensely masculine, handsome, but not pretty. He’s too hard to be called something like that, but God is he beautiful.
This is the first time I’ve had a real chance to look at him—close-up, I mean. Though this is far from the first time I’ve thought of him, I wondered what drew him back over and over again, and I worry now it was me. I only saw him when the lights brightened, and we took our final bows, but he always sat in the same spot, watching me the same way. He never stayed on my mind once the show ended, but part of me felt I knew him well.
That illusion crumbles away in front of my eyes with the truth to compare it to. He’s a killer, the leader of the Bratva, and the monster I’ve heard stories about. My thoughts race with one another, and there’s no winner.
I said I know him, but that was a lie. I should have said I recognized him because knowing implies knowing something about a person. Was he there just to pay for a chance to fuck me? Was this some kind of a plan? Will I see all of that money now that Franco is dead? The fear that he lied to me about the circumstances of this event has been on a constant simmer since he dropped me in the basement, but with him dead on the floor of the club, they’re screaming.
I have no answers, but I do have a dark fascination with the creature beside me. I suspect he’s in his late 50s. I never noticed myself having a particular attraction to older men, but I think you’d have to be dead or blind not to notice him. The feeling of safety and care in his presence is truly insane, and when my heart beats a little too fast at being this close, I tell myself it’s only fear.
He’s massive in the arms and chest, filling out this car and encroaching on my space without trying. Those black eyes are mysterious and alluring rather than dead. His button-down shirt sits open, revealing a section of his skin, and running up the base of his throat is the strangest network of scars.
They’re not disfiguring enough to be burns. Perhaps they’re slices—but there are so many that the idea doesn’t make sense. Who would cut another person so many times? The bend in his nose likely isn’t genetic, but the product of being broken a few times.
“Do you like what you see?”
I’m not sure what answer I should give him. He’s paid three million dollars to be the first man to fuck me. Well, he bid that much, but I’ve not seen him pay. Maybe I should just compliment him. It is the truth after all, but part of me doesn’t want to admit anything that would give him more power. There’s already none of that left for me. Not after that gunshot.
Then there’s the guilt of finding a man other than Pietro attractive…
“You’ve been told you’re a handsome man enough times in your life. You don’t need to hear it again from me.”
The side of his mouth quirks up, making him instantly ten years younger. My guilt intensifies, and my heart cries when the expression makes my stomach wobble.
“Maybe I want to hear it from someone so young and pretty.” I breathe slowly to hide the fact I’m suffering, and I’m certain the mask I slide into place is a convincing one. This situation doesn’t need to be more complicated than it is, and falling to flattery isn’t on my list of missteps.
“I’ll tell you you’re handsome if you answer one of my questions.”
“Go on.”
“What’s your name?”
He thinks about it for much longer than necessary, and I’m sure he’s going to reject me when he says, “Fyodor Domalachego. Though you might have used that question better.”
My heart races halfway out of my chest, but I ignore the dig. This isn’t just some obsessed older man who watched me dance and decided to buy my virginity. He can’t be the Bratva Pakhan. I didn’t mishear.
“You said you knew me,” he continues with a slight rise to his brow. “I thought that’s what you meant, my reputation.”
“No,” I don’t elaborate, the feeling that he wants something from me dancing at my fingertips. Everything around me is alive and vibrant. Terror pitches my stomach from side to side, guilt cuts at me, and a sick thrill sparks inside me. I haven’t felt alive in months. I’m not sure I do now, but this is something .
“How did you know me then, Katya?”
The silence answers for me.
“Katya.” His tone cautions me. “You’re so small, so fragile, like a little kitten with broken legs. Kotyonok . That’s what I’ll call you.”
Another stab to my gut, the name my own father called me when I was a little girl. A large hand ever so gently touches the side of my face, and I remind myself to be afraid. He’s a killer.
“Small things can get hurt entirely by accident.”
His threat has the intended effect. “The theater.” But I’m surprised by the tingle left in my skin.
“My box,” he confirms. “You pay attention to your benefactors. Wise of you.”
My priorities were once very different. Unfortunately, I don’t have any remaining relationships that would help me now that I can no longer perform for them. I don’t have a use for those benefactors anymore—well, except for one.
“I suppose I have no choice in that now.”
His dry laugh shakes me to my core.
“I suppose you don’t.”
A bit of time passes in silence, and I imagine Franco dead on the floor, hanging on to it like the gruesome image might drive the one of Pietro dying out. He says nothing as we drive, and I have too much to think about to try to strike up a conversation on my own.
Eventually, we arrive outside a tall building. I’ve seen it before in the distance, making up a tremendous piece of the skyline, but I’ve never actually stepped foot on the block. That doesn’t change now as we sink into another garage rather than stepping onto the street. I wonder if he has underground entrances everywhere he goes. I can’t imagine the size of the target on his back or how many people would be willing to shoot at it. I’m sure what happened tonight has to insult some people.
Will I be safe when this is over?
“I wasn’t expecting this arrangement ,” he answers one of my questions without any prodding, and I take that as a sign of good faith. “I have a spare room, but it isn’t particularly comfortable.”
“That’s fine.” It’s not like I’m staying. If he wants to screw me in some uncomfortable guest room, that’s his prerogative. I guess it’s better than lying in an old man’s bed wondering if he’ll clean the sheets before he sleeps there with his wife.
The faintest hint of embarrassment snakes through me. I didn’t used to be so hateful and crass, but pain and loss have a way of changing everything about you. My fingers aim for the door handle, but it doesn’t budge.
“I’ll get it for you.”
A gentleman who buys a woman’s virginity—talk about an oxymoron.
He shoots me a sharp look before climbing out of his seat. The door opens, and I’m floored again by how large he is. He shocks me by dropping to a knee.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he reaches out and helps me lift the heavy boots out of the car. He places them each gently on the pavement, and I breathe hard both in pain and relief. That was much easier than doing it on my own.
“When do these come off?”
It doesn’t matter to him, but for the purpose of keeping things smooth, I answer, “A couple more weeks.”
I’m possibly also a bit grateful for his kindness. The lights from the parking garage cast a sinister glow over his features, and being a crime boss and murderer should warn me against him, but I’m actually touched that he spared me pain.
He gets back on his feet, tucking his big hands under my arms and pulling me up. It’s then I realize my crutches are back at the auction. What the hell am I going to do? My cheeks turn a deep, humiliated pink, and I realize my options are to hobble, crawl, or ask him to carry me.
He moves his hands out from under my arms, but rather than letting me fall, he scoops me into his arms the same way he did when he carried me off the stage.
A shocked breath whooshes out of me as he does, quickly carrying me across the parking garage and to our destination. His arms are incredibly warm around me, and I melt into the sense of comfort. Something strange is happening to me. I’m still scared. I don’t want to have sex tonight, and I know I’ve put myself in a dangerous situation, but it’s been so long since anyone has been soft with me that a tear trickles down my cheek.
I miss Pietro and the way he used to kiss me. Maybe Fyodor would kiss me. There isn’t a lot of room left for shame in me after all the indignities of recovering alone in that hospital, but I keep my gaze pointedly away from him as we move. I can’t let him see how something as simple as helping me out of the car and into the building is reframing my entire view of him. Maybe I’m in shock from watching Franco die.
There isn’t another car anywhere to be seen, with the exception of six lined up against a wall, and I wonder if those belong to him or his men. An elevator sits at the far edge, simple concrete and metal with one button that leads up. He presses it with my booted cast, and the move is so cheesy I would laugh if there were anything left in the world to find funny.
I’m about to give this man my chastity, and while he’s being much kinder than I had any right to believe, I’m not happy he’s going to be inside me in just a matter of minutes. I have this strange urge to beg him for some time, another night, but that’s silly. Once this is over, I can get my money… hopefully.