Chapter Twenty
Catalina
For a few hours, I lay in bed in a strange sort of twilight state. Not like I’ve been drugged—but like I’m a dishrag that’s been wrung out and left to dry. Except I don’t dry; not really. I bury myself beneath a mound of blankets and just…drift.
Most of the time I’m alone, left to my own devices to be miserable and weepy. The staff stays clear. Alexei doesn’t. Twice he comes in while I’m curled in a ball and sniffling. Once he tears the nest of covers off of me and drags me upright by my shoulder to shove a warm glass into my hand.
“Drink,” he says, and there’s a rough, vaguely annoyed tenor to his voice, as if he can’t believe I’m still moping.
My voice is hoarse still. “What is it?” I ask, as I draw the spoon through the mixture. It has a thick, viscous appearance. Smells sweet, with a faint tang of liquor.
“Gogol-mogol,” he says. “Is good for sore throat when warm. Sometimes is eaten cold, for dessert.”
A folk remedy, then. Probably it doesn’t work. But then, he could have tossed a bag of cough drops at me and called it a day. I take a sip of the drink. It’s like thicker, warm eggnog? My eyes water again. I sniffle and swipe my sleeve over my face.
Alexei heaves a sigh, scraping one hand over his mouth. “I tell you before,” he says. “You don’t cry over this.”
You do not apologize for this. You do not apologize for someone else’s mistake, someone else’s foolishness.
A hiccough scrapes its way up my aching throat and I scrub at my eyes again.
It wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that to me.
But it’s been playing over and over in my head, like a record on repeat.
I can’t make myself not cry. But I can still feel the pressure of his hand at the back of my neck, still hear the pound of his heart beneath my ear. And I think—for a few minutes, I think those were the only things that kept me held together when I wanted to fall completely apart.
My throat throbs. I take another sip, and the thick drink coats my throat on the way down. I say, “No one is coming for me,” and it sounds like the plaintive wail of a child with a skinned knee. Weak, puling, pathetic.
“No,” he says, and he doesn’t attempt to soften it with anything. Not lying, then.
“Not even the police,” I say. Even if he doesn’t already know I called them, it won’t be hard to check. He can just go through Nicky’s phone for the call logs. “Not even Papa.”
“No,” he says again, and he takes a seat at the edge of the bed, propping his arms upon his knees. “Not even Darren. But probably he will try.”
It hurts again just to think that Darren—my boss for all of two weeks—probably gives more of a shit about me than my own father.
Probably Alexei is right. Darren must have worried when I didn’t show up for work.
Maybe he’s filed a missing persons report or something.
Maybe he’ll even connect my disappearance to Alexei.
But now I know that even if he has, it won’t go anywhere.
I was so careful with what I told everyone that even if the police in Minneapolis are looking for me, they won’t know where to start.
I take a breath that hurts my lungs, force myself to drink more. “I was so stupid,” I say. “I ran, and—and it didn’t even work.”
He lifts one hand to stroke my tangled hair, and his voice drops to a soothing murmur. Placating, comforting. “No, koshechka, you were too smart. You made it impossible for your papa to find you. You did almost everything right.”
It shouldn’t make me feel any better to hear this praise from him.
But he’s right. I did do almost everything right.
I didn’t use my bank cards. I worked for cash under the table.
I didn’t give anyone my real name. I left the state and went to one I’d never been to.
I never logged into my email or any of my accounts.
The only real mistake I made was texting Nicky. Even in death, that asshole fucked me over. I hope he’s burning in Hell right now.
I finish the drink and shove the glass back into Alexei’s hand. My throat does feel better. And I think I’m done crying at last. I tell him, “I want a razor.”
Alexei sighs again. “Katya—”
A raw sound of fury crawls out of my mouth. “I want to shave my fucking legs, Alexei. Give me a goddamned razor.”
Alexei pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head.
“Okay, koshechka,” he says at last. “You can have your razor.” One hand falls upon my knee, squeezing it like he used to in Minneapolis, when he was driving his Range Rover and I was in the passenger seat.
“You use it for shaving only. Anything else,” he warns, “and I put you over my knee. Your ass will be raw to match your throat.”
And I know it’s not a threat. It’s a promise.
∞∞∞
It’s not only the razor I asked for that arrives half an hour later.
It’s a salon’s worth of toiletries. Tons of different shampoos and conditioners, soaps and lotions.
There’s serums and face masks and a bunch of makeup and perfumes from a dozen different high-end cosmetic brands.
There’s hair brushes, combs, hairbands, bobby pins.
A hairdryer, curling iron, straightener—some of the appliances, I’m not even sure what they do.
There’s also approximately fifty bottles of nail polish in varying colors. Mine has been chipping for weeks. And with all the time I’ve spent in the pool, a few fingers are stripped completely clean.
It looks like he just told someone to buy everything I could possibly need.
But so much stuff requires a lot of space, so I shove his things—toothpaste, toothbrush, electric razor—to the side and I leave my choices strewn across the vast expanse of the marble countertop in the bathroom.
I stuff the rest in the cabinets beneath the sink.
If I don’t get a room of my own, I’m going to make his as inconvenient to use as possible.
And then I spend the next hour and a half taking a good, old-fashioned everything bath.
And I do mean everything. There isn’t an inch of space along the wide rim of the massive bathtub that isn’t devoted to my toiletries.
I don’t think it’s possible for me to drain the water heater, but I’m determined to try.
Mom and I never really had the money for anything more than the occasional drugstore splurge of a bottle of nail polish or lip gloss from time to time, and I never wanted to make a nuisance of myself by charging non-essentials to Papa’s card.
So I’ve never exfoliated my legs with sugar scrubs or used a lip mask.
I’ve never carefully layered serums and eye creams and hydrating moisturizers.
I’ve sure as hell never used a primer, and I’m not even sure what toner is.
But I muddle my way through, testing out various products, and eventually I come out looking presentable.
The green-toned concealer masks the red that so much crying brought out in my face.
The shimmery gold eyeshadow makes my eyes look bluer and less bloodshot.
By the time I’m done, the sun has fully set and the bathroom is littered with discarded packaging. I spray my face with a setting spray, the bottle of which tells me goes on last to keep my makeup pristine all day long, even though it’s already night. Might as well use it if I’ve got it.
And then, as the fine mist settles over my face, I see the word waterproof on the bottle. How waterproof, exactly?
I guess I’m going swimming. For science.
The vast majority of the bathing suits that are stuffed into one of Alexei’s drawers could best be described as where’s the rest of it.
Lots of string and not much fabric, which strikes me as a bit obnoxious, considering there’s very little difference between these string bikinis and being entirely naked—and Alexei certainly hadn’t liked that.
I manage to locate, beneath the tangle of strings, a bathing suit that doesn’t look like I’ll be tits-out if I so much as sneeze. It’s not modest by any stretch of the imagination, but at least I don’t think I’ll lose it on a dive.
This late at night, the house is mostly deserted. Anatoli might be roaming around somewhere, but the staff that are present during the day live off-site. And whatever mafia underlings who might come and go during the day aren’t welcome at night unless they’ve been invited.
So it’s probably just me. And Alexei, wherever he is.
No one brought me dinner tonight, probably because I was in the bath for so long. But the kitchen staff is likely long gone, so I might just have to make do with whatever snacks are in the pool bar. Maybe a jar of maraschino cherries.
I head down the stairs. It’s quiet and calm as I descend into the foyer. I turn left, heading beneath the stairs to pass by the dining room on the way to the lounge—the closest room with an exit to the outside.
I don’t make it past the dining room before I hear Alexei say, “Katya.”
I pause. The pool is calling to me, but I also smell…food. Something briny, salty, savory. My stomach clenches with hunger. Suddenly that jar of maraschino cherries doesn’t sound all that enticing.
Alexei is sitting alone at the head of the long dining table. He’s not wearing a shirt; just that silver medallion around his neck and his tattoos. There’s an array of dishes spread all over the table before him. A chilled bottle of vodka placed near his elbow.
“Come eat,” he says, like he knows I haven’t had dinner.
Probably he does. But the pool can wait. My stomach can’t.
“What is all this?” I ask as I enter the room. It’s not really dinner. More like an array of snacks. Pickles, wedges of cheese, a massive tin of caviar. And an assortment of other things I can’t identify.
“Zakuski,” he says. “Snacks. Usually eaten with vodka.”
Kind of like a Russian antipasto, I guess. But at least there’s enough of everything that probably ten people could make a full meal out of it.