Chapter 20 Nadya
NADYA
Irina sits at the kitchen table when I return, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that has long since gone cold.
Her hazel eyes track my movement as I hang my coat on the hook by the door, and I know from her posture that the confrontation I've been dreading has arrived.
"The children are asleep," she mutters as my eyes roam around the apartment.
It's early but I can tell she probably put them to bed just so she could confront me.
Xander's idea of a holiday surprise wasn't a good idea.
I'm in hot water with her.
I nod and move toward the refrigerator, needing something to do with my hands.
The interior light illuminates leftover soup and a carton of milk that expires tomorrow.
This should be full of fresh food and drinks but I was too busy cleaning up yet another of Xander's execution scenes to stop by the market.
This time it was outside a retirement building in a courtyard.
I hardly slept all night, so I napped at his house all day.
And even when I try to play the good, benevolent aunt and I have more than enough money to do it, I fail.
I don't have time to take care of myself or my family at all anymore.
"We need to talk."
The words crack like a judge's gavel.
I close the refrigerator door and turn to face my sister, who looks worn down by all my lies.
Her hair is frazzled, stray wisps dancing around her face in the draft from the window behind her.
And her sunken eyes betray the fact that she's not sleeping well now, probably due to worrying about me.
With Mamochka gone, she thinks it’s her responsibility as the oldest to watch over me.
I wish she didn’t.
"I know."
"Do you?"
She stands, her chair scraping against the linoleum floor.
"Because I don't think you understand what's happening here. I don't think you see how far you've fallen."
The truth of her accusation stings.
When our mother was alive, I was studying forensic science and helping with homework and bedtime stories.
Now I'm never here, always sneaking away to do one job or another, and while having a job isn't the problem—I'd be gone whether it was legitimate or not—it does weigh on me a lot.
The guilt consumes me even when I'm not actively doing a job for him.
"I'm trying to help our family."
"By doing what exactly? You still haven't told me the truth about where you work, what you do, or where all this money comes from."
She gestures toward the living room where Xander's tree dominates the corner.
"You disappear every night, come home exhausted, and expect me to believe you're cleaning hotel rooms."
My stomach churns, whether from stress or the nausea that has been plaguing me for days.
I press my palm against my abdomen, trying to settle the rebellion brewing there.
It's been happening more often for the past few days.
I'll get emotional and then my stomach feels upset too.
I can only assume it's nerves, that my central nervous system is shutting down because of the traumatic things I've been witnessing on repeat.
I wonder how Xander does this, how he's been doing it for years.
"I clean up after wealthy people who value their privacy," I say, sticking to the partial truth that has become my shield.
"They pay well for discretion."
"What privacy requires ten-thousand-ruble tips?"
Those numbers are impossible to explain and I know it.
I realize she's been tracking my spending, probably going through my purse and pockets while I sleep.
She's probably gone through my room too, discovered the stash of bills I stuffed under my mattress and the roll in my sock drawer.
"Some secrets are expensive to keep," I whisper.
"Whose secrets, Nadya? What are you cleaning up after these people do?"
The room tilts slightly, and I grip the counter to steady myself.
Images flash through my mind—tonight's job, the blood pooling around the dead man's body, the way Xander stood over me while I helped erase his crime.
"I can't tell you."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
Irina's face transforms, anger replacing concern as my admission sinks in.
"Then you're choosing them over us."
"No, I'm choosing to protect you."
"From what?"
From men who kill without hesitation.
From a world where violence is currency and love is weakness.
From the knowledge that your sister has fallen so far into darkness that she may never find her way back.
All the thoughts surge to the forefront of my mind at the same pace as the vomit that's rising in my throat.
Before I know it, I'm hunched over the trash can vomiting, with deep retching sounds that finally make her shut up.
She walks up beside me, pulling my hair back as I continue to empty my stomach’s contents, which isn't much being so late in the evening.
I haven't eaten dinner yet, which probably made this even worse.
And it's a horrible foul stench too, but I manage to finish and take the towel she offers me.
"Are you okay? You look so pale…"
The nurse inside of her comes out, reaching for my forehead.
I let her press her hand there and on my cheeks too before she backs away.
"I've just been tired lately. I'm sure it's just a bug," I tell her but my gut tells me maybe it's more than just a tummy bug.
My phone buzzes against my hip and I want to groan, but I finish cleaning up my face, thankful she's stopped her inquisition.
I know without looking that it's Xander, calling me to another scene that needs attention.
I don’t have a choice but to answer.
"I have to go," I say, not checking the display.
"No." Irina's grip tightens.
"Not anymore. Whatever job you think you have, it ends tonight."
The phone continues buzzing.
If I don't answer, Xander will send someone to collect me.
The thought of his men knocking on our door, of Anya and Mikhail waking to find strangers in our apartment, makes the decision for me.
I will not ever put them directly in harm's way, which means I have to answer.
"I have to work," I say, pulling away from her touch.
"Then don't come back."
Her words feel like a slap to the face.
I turn to face her, seeing tears in her eyes that mirror my own.
"What? You don't mean that."
I search her expression as the phone continues to buzz.
"I do."
Her voice breaks, but her resolve doesn't waver.
"I won't let you destroy this family. If you walk out that door tonight, if you choose them over us one more time, then you're choosing to lose us forever. I won't let you put my children in danger, and whatever you're doing doesn't feel safe."
The phone stops buzzing, then immediately starts again.
Xander doesn't accept delays, doesn't understand the concept of competing loyalties.
"Irina, please—"
"Choose."
I look around the apartment that has been home since our mother died.
Anya's drawings cover the refrigerator, Mikhail's toy soldiers march across the coffee table.
The tree Xander sent dominates the living room.
Two worlds colliding, both demanding everything I have to give.
I answer the phone but I keep my eyes on her face as it transforms into shock and then pain, and her tears stream down her cheeks.
"Da?"
"I need you." His voice is rough and he sounds winded. “Now."
"Where?" I ask, holding Irina's gaze.
"I'll send coordinates."
The line goes dead.
I look at my sister, seeing the exact moment her heart breaks.
The hope dies in her eyes, replaced by a cold disappointment that severs any hope she had left in me.
"I'll be back," I whisper, but she only stands there crying softly as I gather my coat and bag.
Irina doesn't watch me leave.
She sits at the kitchen table with her cold tea, staring at her hands as I slip out into the December night.
The car waits at the corner, an upgrade from my shuttling around by taxi.
Xander says taking public transportation of any kind is a risk, so I have to use his driver and car.
The driver doesn't acknowledge my presence as I slide into the back seat, or comment on the tears that streak my cheeks.
I don’t remember his name but I've seen him before, so I feel confident that he'll get me where I need to be.
We drive through Moscow's night streets, and my heart breaks open as the car bumps over potholes.
The city blurs outside my window, while I rehearse Irina's words. She doesn’t want me around her children.
She doesn't think I’m safe anymore.
It's heartbreaking, because she's right.
I'm not safe.
I'm a monster just like Xander.
The jewelry store sits in an upscale district where tourists browse expensive trinkets during daylight hours.
Now the windows are dark, the security grate pulled down over displays of diamond necklaces and gold watches.
Xander waits in the shadows beside the rear entrance, his pale eyes reflecting streetlight.
He moves toward the car as it stops, pulling open my door before the engine fully dies.
"What happened?" I ask, stepping onto pavement that gleams with ice.
"Complications."
He leads me toward the store's back door, which hangs open on broken hinges.
"Our intelligence was wrong."
The interior is dark except for emergency lighting which casts red shadows across overturned display cases and scattered jewelry.
Glass crunches under my feet as we move deeper into the store.
A man lies behind the main counter, his face destroyed by close-range gunfire.
Blood pools beneath his head, spreading across the floor under him that is scarred by more broken glass.
My stomach lurches but I press a hand to my belly and hold it back.
"You broke into the store?" I ask, looking up at him in confusion.
I know he's hunting men down to eliminate a criminal organization but this man is just a shop owner.
"No, the man I was hunting broke in. I followed. This is what happened. I just need you to erase my presence here. Let the inspectors find the bastard and put him away."
Xander's scowl demonstrates his frustration with how things went and all I can do is picture the way he shoved that knife into the courier's ribcage so easily.
"Xan…" I can't speak.
My stomach lurches again, stronger this time.
I press my hand against my mouth, fighting another wave of nausea that has nothing to do with the corpse at my feet.
"What's wrong with you? You don't answer the phone, you show up late, and now you're acting like this is the first time you've seen a dead body."
His eyes twitch with anger, and I notice the way his fists ball up.
"I'm fine," I grumble, and I turn from him.
I want my mind to work, to concentrate on the job and make sure I can erase Xander's presence from this place so there's no evidence, but I can't think straight.
If Irina really pulls back and sends me away so I can't be around her and the kids, I have no family left.
It means I really have chosen Xander over her.
"You're not fine. You're emotional and twitchy, and you're going to miss stuff."
Xander touches my arm, as if he's going to grab it and hold me, but I jerk away.
"Enough!" I snap, chest heaving.
"I've had enough, Xander."
I'm angry but I'm feeling cornered and scared.
"Irina is going to take those kids away from me and never let me see them again. They're my family. The only family I have. Don't you see that!"
He stares at me dumbfounded, anger simmering in his eyes.
Had I been one of his men, he'd cut me down, perhaps strike me.
But he only glares at me.
"I can't keep this up. I know what you do, and I'm willing to look past it because whatever the fuck it is that's going on between us feels real. But I can't clean up your messes anymore. I have to do what's right for my family. Clearly you can see that."
Tears brim in my eyes, and I turn away from him, but he sighs and his shoulders drop.
Instead of scolding me or shouting, he pulls out his phone and the screen lights up.
He dials someone's number and lifts the phone to his ear.
"Yeah. Ivan. I got a job. Little bird is caged tonight, but the mess still needs cleaned. Yeah. Corner of Petrovka Street and Teatralny Proyezd. Yeah, right now."
When he hangs up and slides the phone into his pocket, he pulls me against his chest in an embrace so tight I almost can't breathe.
"It's okay, Ptichka. We all have our breaking point…" he says softly, and I'm terrified of what he's doing. This isn't the man I know.
This isn’t the way he acts.
Xander is ruthless and dangerous.
He gunned down his former cleaner in cold blood.
Why is he hugging me?
Telling me he understands.
"Xan…" I choke out, pushing away from him.
"Let's get you home now," he says, taking my hand.
He leads me back across the broken glass and into the alley where the car awaits us.
When we slide into the back seat, his hand grips my thigh as he orders the driver to return to my apartment.
All I can do is shake, wondering if I've just signed my own execution orders.
And maybe my family's too.