Chapter 6 Nadya
NADYA
"Pass the bread, Aunt Nadya."
Anya reaches across the kitchen table while balancing her homework against her dinner plate.
"I need to finish these problems before bedtime."
I hand her the basket and watch her tear off a piece while simultaneously working through multiplication exercises.
Eight years old and already managing multiple tasks like someone twice her age.
Our mother would have been proud of her determination.
"How was school today?" I ask Mikhail, who's been unusually quiet during dinner.
"Good," he mumbles around a mouthful of soup.
"We learned about animals that live in the forest."
"What kind of animals?"
"Bears and wolves and foxes. The teacher said wolves hunt in packs because they're stronger together than alone."
His blue eyes light up with enthusiasm.
"Just families helping each other survive."
Irina smiles at his explanation while clearing empty bowls from the table.
"Families do help each other survive. That's what makes them special."
I feel my nerves prickle at the back of my neck as I think of what I'm having to do to help my family survive, and it's my fault they are in this position to begin with.
I should’ve taken her advice and gone back to school.
None of this would be happening if I were in class instead of helping cover up murders.
And Irina is hovering over me all the time.
All week long, every time the phone rang, she was there, watching me jump.
She asked me twice if I was okay, but I'm not and I can't tell her.
"Speaking of family support," Irina continues, settling back into her chair, "have you considered returning to university now that you have steady income? You only need six more classes to complete your degree."
I wince wistfully at her question.
"I've thought about it," I tell her, which is true.
"But working nights would make attending classes difficult."
"Morning classes exist. Part-time schedules. Distance learning programs."
Her persistence reveals how much she wants this for me.
"The state university offers flexible options for working students."
Her heart’s so pure.
She knows what her nursing degree has done for her and what finishing school could mean for me.
But it's naive to think I could do it now.
"Maybe next year."
"You said that last year. And the year before."
Irina's voice grows gentle but insistent.
"Mamochka wanted you to finish school, Nadya. She was so proud when you enrolled in the forensics program."
Our mother believed forensic science would give me stability and purpose.
The reality that I now use the skills I learned to eliminate evidence for murderers would've broken her heart.
"Things changed when she got sick," I say quietly.
"Some changes can't be undone."
"But some can be. You're young, intelligent, and you have most of your education completed."
Irina reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.
"Don't let grief stop you from building the future she wanted for you."
The irony cuts deep.
So deep, I can't even think of going back.
Xander would know if I did, and he'd make me use it for him even more.
"I can't go back," I tell her firmly. "Not now."
Something in my tone convinces her to drop the subject.
She releases my hand and begins helping Anya with the multiplication problems that have been frustrating her throughout dinner.
Unable to sit here anymore, I wash dishes while listening to their voices discuss homework and school activities.
They're going about their normal routine while the horrid, terrible things I'm witnessing are traumatizing me.
But I'm providing much-needed relief to Irina's budget and allowing her to have a few days off now and then. I can't quit.
"Aunt Nadya, will you read to me before bed?"
Mikhail appears at my elbow holding a storybook.
"Of course."
I dry my hands and follow him toward the living room where Anya has spread her completed homework across the coffee table.
We settle onto the couch together, Mikhail curled against my side while I read about heroes who defeat monsters and save innocent people.
Fairy tales where good triumphs over evil, where courage and virtue receive rewards instead of punishment.
Stories that bear no resemblance to the world I now inhabit.
The children fall asleep during the third story, their breathing becoming deep and regular.
I carry Mikhail to his bed and help Anya gather her homework before tucking her in beside her brother.
They share a room in this small apartment, but they don't complain about the cramped conditions or the lack of individual space.
"Goodnight, Aunt Nadya," Anya whispers.
"I love you."
"I love you too, sweetheart."
The words feel like lead weights on my heart tonight.
Love means protection, means making sacrifices to keep them safe and happy.
Love means doing what I'm doing because the alternative is watching them go without food or warm clothes or presents.
Irina has already gone to bed when I return to the kitchen.
Her nursing shifts at the hospital start early and end late, leaving her exhausted by evening.
Her teacup sits on the counter where she left it, so I rinse it in the sink and finish the dishes before feeling fatigue slow me down.
But I can't sleep with the way I'm feeling.
So I sit alone at the kitchen table counting the money Xander gave me after the warehouse cleanup.
There is enough money here to allow Irina and the kids to have a week-long vacation to St. Petersburg, or somewhere in Europe if they wanted to.
More actual cash than I've ever seen in my life.
But if I tell her I have it, she will be instantly suspicious and scared.
The burner phone sits silent on the table beside the money.
I stare at it for a long time wondering why that man placed an ad in the newspaper like a common employer looking for an average worker.
Surely, he didn't suspect he'd get a forensics student who knew what they're doing.
It's like fate's red string had tied me to him in some past life, and this is my karmic punishment or something.
The phone buzzes at eleven thirty, vibrating across the kitchen table.
I sit in a trance watching it light up and spin but don't answer it until the fifth ring.
I don't want to go.
I don't want to be a part of this or be anywhere near that man.
Especially after the way he made me feel the last time I was with him, when he suggested that I could "work" for him every night.
The gall of that man, thinking I’d fuck him for money…
But if I don't answer, I'm risking my family’s lives.
So I reluctantly answer.
"Yes?"
"Apartment Four-B at Sixty-Seven Leninsky Prospekt. Come alone. Bring medical supplies."
Xander's voice sounds different tonight, strained and tight with pain.
"Medical supplies?"
"Bandages, antiseptic, anything useful for treating wounds. Move quickly."
The line goes dead before I can ask more questions.
Now I feel frantic.
I gather first aid materials from Irina's nursing supplies, taking bandages and antiseptic she keeps for treating minor injuries at home.
Whatever happened tonight requires medical attention rather than crime scene cleanup, which suggests whatever the fuck he was doing didn't go according to plan.
The taxi ride across Moscow takes forty minutes through empty streets slick with fresh snow.
My heart is pounding the entire time.
If he needs medical help, this is the sort of thing Irina would be good for, not me, but I won't involve her in this.
The best I can do is clean him up, but if it's bad, I'll have to insist that he go to emergency.
The apartment building looks abandoned from the outside, windows dark and entrance unguarded.
I climb three flights of stairs to the fourth floor and find the door to apartment B standing open.
Xander's voice calls from inside when I knock.
"Come in and close the door behind you."
He sits shirtless on a kitchen chair, pressing a bloody towel against his left shoulder.
The wound bleeds steadily through the makeshift bandage, dark stains spreading across his chest and down his arm.
Pale gray eyes meet mine when I enter, and I see pain mixed with fury in their depths.
"What happened?" I ask, setting down my medical supplies.
This is nothing like seeing a body in a puddle of blood.
I feel entirely unprepared and ill-equipped.
"Sokolov's men were better prepared than expected. One of them got lucky with a pistol shot before he ran off."
His jaw tightens against the pain.
"The bullet went through cleanly, but it needs proper cleaning and bandaging."
I approach cautiously, examining the wound while trying to ignore how close I'm standing to his nearly naked body.
The bullet hole is clean through muscle above his collarbone, blood seeping from both entry and exit wounds.
It looks like it was a clean shot that missed major arteries, but it’s deep enough to require stitches and professional medical attention.
"This needs a doctor, Xander," I tell him, "or someone with surgical training."
"You're the medical professional I have available tonight."
He removes the bloody towel, revealing the full extent of the damage.
"Fix it."
"Fix it? What the fuck? I took anatomy, not trauma medicine. You need a hospital."
His hand reaches for his belt and he produces a weapon from behind his back.
"I said, fix it," he growls, and my pulse leaps up until I'm shaking and feeling dizzy.
I open my supplies and begin cleaning the wounds with antiseptic solution, my hands trembling slightly as I work.
The medical knowledge I gleaned from first aid courses and anatomy classes is insufficient training for treating gunshot wounds, but it’s better than nothing.
I feel entirely out of place and overwhelmed.
He needs antibiotics or he's going to get an infection, but with a gun on the table ready to be used on me, I don't argue again.
Xander removes his belt and places it between his teeth while I irrigate the bullet holes.
The leather muffles his groans as the antiseptic burns through damaged tissue.