Chapter 10 Nadya
NADYA
The key turns in the lock and I step into the warmth of our small apartment, carrying a shopping bag that contains evidence of my secret life—the black dress Xander bought me and a pair of diamond earrings that I've not shown her.
After a few days with him, and wearing this little number to a club where I sat and talked with men who terrified me, I'm glad to be home.
The scent of borscht fills the air, and I hear Anya's laughter from the kitchen where she's probably helping with dinner.
This is all perfectly mundane and the sort of normal I crave, except I'm no longer normal.
I've crossed lines that separate decent people from criminals, and the expensive fabric in my bag proves it.
"Nadya? Is that you?" Irina calls from the kitchen.
"Yes, I'm home." I hang my coat carefully, making sure the shopping bag stays hidden behind it.
"Sorry I haven't been around a lot. Working doubles…"
My hands are like ice, but my heart is warm.
Even in the fear of what this strange situationship with Xander might mean for me, it's bringing me some sort of satisfaction.
I join them in the kitchen where Mikhail sits at the table working on a drawing while Anya stirs soup under Irina's supervision.
I've drifted so far away from the simple life my mother would've wanted for me and I feel out of place standing here in the presence of such innocence when I, by contrast, am stained blood red.
"You look tired," Irina observes, studying my face like she's trying to diagnose me.
"More tired than usual."
"The hotel's been busy. Holiday season brings more guests."
The lie flows automatically now, polished smooth through repetition.
"Extra shifts mean extra money, though."
"Extra money is good, but not if it destroys your health."
She ladles soup into bowls while keeping her concerned gaze on me.
"You've lost weight. Your color isn't good. Maybe you should ask for fewer night hours."
The suggestion for any average person would make sense, but Xander's dirty deeds are done in the dark.
Even if Igor and Ivan could manage a clean up or two on their own, Xander would want me to be there to look it over.
They're doing more, but not well enough to replace me.
The thought makes me shudder as I remember how I replaced the last guy.
"I'm fine," I tell her.
"Really. The work is manageable."
Mikhail looks up from his drawing, blue eyes bright with excitement.
"Aunt Nadya, when is Ded Moroz coming? Anya says he brings presents to children who behave well."
The question tugs at my heart.
His innocent faith in Christmas magic contrasts sharply with the darkness that now inhabits me.
I sit beside him and examine his artwork—a crayon drawing of a bearded man in long, bespangled red robes carrying a sack of gifts.
"That's a beautiful picture," I tell him.
"Ded Moroz looks very kind."
"He is kind. He helps families who need presents but don't have enough money."
Mikhail adds more details to his drawing.
"Do you think he'll come to our house this year?"
Before our mother died, we celebrated with traditional foods and small gifts exchanged for Novy God.
The past two years brought only meager celebrations, scraped together from Irina's tight budget.
This year could be different—will be different.
I just don't know how I will live with the guilt of where the money came from to supply such lavish things in our modest lifestyle.
"I think Ded Moroz always comes to houses where children are loved," I say carefully.
"And you're very loved here."
"Will you help us make cookies?"
Anya asks, abandoning the soup to focus on me.
"Mama said we might have enough flour and sugar this year."
"Of course."
I ruffle her hair, seeing how trusting her big eyes are.
"We'll make the best cookies in Moscow."
We eat dinner while the children chatter about school and holiday plans.
Their enthusiasm should lift my spirits, but guilt gnaws at me with every bite.
I'm foolish and stupid.
I've let Xander's dominance and good looks cloud my judgment.
I shouldn't be letting him get under my skin and lavish me in gifts.
My moral compass has been destroyed and I can't find my way back to what is good and true and right.
I eat, but I have to force myself to choke it down past the lump of guilt in my throat.
After dinner, I help Irina clean dishes while the children work on homework in the living room.
The longer I'm here, the more shame I feel.
I go through the motions while my mind replays memories of Xander's hands on my body, his voice claiming ownership over me.
"Nadya."
Irina's voice interrupts my distraction.
"You're washing that glass for the third time."
I look down to find myself scrubbing a perfectly clean drinking glass.
Heat rises in my cheeks as I set it aside and reach for another dish.
"Sorry. My mind wandered."
"Where does it wander to these days?"
She studies me with a penetrating gaze.
"You've been different lately. Distracted. Absent…"
The observation sends panic through my nervous system.
If Irina notices changes in my behavior, how long before she starts asking questions I can't answer?
How long before my lies collapse under her scrutiny?
"I'm not secretive. I'm just tired from working so much."
"Working or something else?"
Her tone carries gentle suspicion.
"You come home at strange hours. You jump when the phone rings. You have new clothes that hotel maids don't typically own."
My blood freezes. "New clothes?"
"The sweater you wore yesterday. I've never seen it before, and it looks too expensive for someone earning housekeeping wages."
She sets down her dish towel and faces me fully.
"Where did you get it, Nadya?"
The sweater.
I'd forgotten about the cashmere top Xander bought during our shopping trip, and I'd worn it home without thinking about how it would look to my sister's trained eye.
Now she's noticed, and I need an explanation that won't give away what's really been going on.
"The hotel sometimes gives employee bonuses in merchandise from lost and found," I say quickly.
"I picked it."
"Guests leave behind cashmere sweaters?"
"Rich guests leave behind expensive things all the time. The hotel lets staff keep items that aren't claimed within thirty days."
I turn back to the dishes but my cheeks are burning.
Irina doesn't look convinced but she doesn't press, either.
The silence between us grows uncomfortable because I know how stupid I’m being and how dangerous it is for all of them now.
"I should show you something," I say, deciding to control the revelation rather than let her discover it accidentally, though being preemptive doesn't quell the fear bubbling up.
"Wait here."
I retrieve the shopping bag from behind my coat and return to the kitchen.
Irina watches as I remove the black dress and diamond earrings, laying them carefully on the counter.
"The hotel manager gave these to me," I explain.
"A guest left them behind, and they're giving staff the unclaimed items as early holiday bonuses."
Irina lifts the dress to examine the fabric and construction.
Her fingers trace the expensive silk while her expression grows increasingly skeptical.
"This dress costs a fortune," she says quietly.
"What guest leaves behind something this valuable?"
When her eyes rise to meet mine, I see the concern there hidden behind shock.
But she's fearful for me, as she rightly should be.
"Rich guests who have so many clothes they forget about individual pieces. Or women who sell themselves for a price and…"
I let the words trail off and let her imagine the rest.
The explanation sounds weak even to me.
"The hotel couldn't contact them all, so they distributed the items to staff."
She picks up the earrings next, holding them to the overhead light.
The diamonds catch the light and throw tiny rainbows across the wall.
She recognizes expensive jewelry when she sees it because she will never be able to afford it on her own.
"These are real diamonds, Nadya. Real, high-quality diamonds. No hotel gives away items worth thousands of rubles to housekeeping staff."
My heart pounds against my ribs.
I should've hidden them, not brought them out, but I need some way to explain why this job is important, why I have to keep working here.
If she thinks I'm being rewarded so well, maybe she'll back off on her lectures.
I have to make her believe this or I'm not sure what Xander and his men will do to her, because she's not going to stop questioning until she feels I'm safe.
"Maybe they're not real," I suggest weakly.
"Maybe they're costume jewelry that looks expensive but isn't."
"They're real." Her voice carries absolute certainty.
"I may be a nurse, but I know the difference between glass and diamonds. These are genuine stones in a platinum setting."
She sets the earrings down carefully and fixes me with a stare that penetrates my defenses.
I feel exposed under her scrutiny, caught in lies that multiply beyond my ability to manage them.
It's like I'm looking into Mamochka's eyes again from the grave.
"Tell me the truth, Nadya. Where did these really come from?"
My mind scrambles for an answer that won't destroy my family's safety or my relationship with Xander.
The truth would send Irina into panic and probably drive her to contact the police.
A lie might preserve the immediate situation but will eventually crumble under continued scrutiny.
"I got a promotion at work," I say finally, and I add a shrug to make it seem like nothing.
"Management position. It comes with better pay and employee benefits, including access to lost items from wealthy guests."
"A promotion? From housekeeping to management?"
Her eyebrows rise with skepticism.
"When did this happen?"
"Recently…"
I should've told her two weeks ago when Xander suggested it.
"The manager noticed my attention to detail and offered me a supervisory role."
Each lie builds on the previous one, creating a structure that will collapse if she pushes too deeply.
"I didn't mention it because I wanted to see if the position worked out before getting your hopes up."
"What kind of supervisory role?"
"Quality control. I inspect rooms after cleaning to ensure they meet hotel standards. I also train new housekeeping staff in proper procedures."
It's just enough truth about my work with Xander's men to sound plausible.
"It's more responsibility but better compensation."
Irina considers this while examining the dress again.
I watch her weigh the explanation against her knowledge of hotel operations and her observations of my recent behavior.
"But management works longer hours…" she says, and I see the slight pout of her lip.
"Exactly. And the training responsibilities sometimes require late nights when new staff start their shifts."
"And the exhaustion? The weight loss?"
"Learning a new position is stressful. I'll adjust once I'm more comfortable with the responsibilities…"
I try not to look too relieved that she's buying my lies.
"And I just haven't been eating well. My sleep schedule is all messed up."
She nods slowly, accepting the explanation without full conviction.
I can see doubt lingering in her eyes, but she wants to believe my promotion story.
Hope that our financial situation might improve outweighs her suspicions about the details.
"I'm proud of you for advancing your career," she says carefully.
"But promise me you'll take care of your health. Money doesn't replace family, and we need you healthy more than we need your money."
"I promise," I tell her, though the vow feels hollow.
I'm not exactly sure how healthy it is to fall for a man who kills people, but that's what's happening.
Later, after helping the children with homework and tucking them into bed, I lie in my own bed staring at the burner phone Xander gave me.
The device sits silent on my nightstand, waiting for his call or my message.
I've been avoiding contact since leaving his apartment this morning, trying to process what happened between us and what it means for my future.
The memory of his hands on my body refuses to fade.
I can still feel the weight of him above me, still hear his voice claiming ownership over me with absolute certainty.
I can definitely say he owns a part of me that I'll never get back, but I'm not sure how to feel about that.
Part of me craves more of that intensity, more of the way he made me feel desired and protected simultaneously.
But another part recognizes the trap I'm walking into.
Every night with him pulls me deeper into his world while making it harder to maintain connections to my own.
I pick up the phone and stare at the blank screen.
My thumb hovers over the keypad while I consider what to say.
How do you ask a man who kills people for a living what his intentions are toward you?
How do you demand clarity about a relationship built on violence alone?
Finally, I type a message.
Nadya 9:12 PM: What is happening between us?
I stare at the words for a long time before pressing send.
The message disappears into the digital void, carrying my confusion and need for understanding.
Now I wait for his response while my heart pounds with anticipation and fear.
The phone buzzes within minutes.
His reply appears on the screen in stark black text.
Xander 9:13 PM: You belong to me. There's no choice in the matter.
His certainty calls to something primitive in me that responds to dominance and possession.
I find myself smiling at the words even though they still don't bring the clarity I need.
Does belonging to him mean he uses me until he's finished and throws me away like a toy he no longer wants?
Or does belonging to him mean he cherishes me forever, builds a life with me, and stains me so no one will ever touch me?
I type and delete several responses, unable to find words that capture my conflicted feelings.
Part of me wants to assert my independence, to remind him that I'm a person with agency and choices.
But a larger part thrills at his declaration of ownership, at being claimed by someone powerful enough to protect what he considers his.
The phone sits in my hands while I struggle with responses I can't send and feelings I don't want to acknowledge.
My finger hovers over the keypad, cursor blinking at the end of an empty message box.
What do I say to a man who owns me?
What do I say when part of me wants to be owned?
My finger remains suspended over the keys, trembling with indecision while his words burn into my memory.
You belong to me.
The terrifying truth is that I'm beginning to believe him.