5. Cathy
5
CATHY
I sit quietly in the back seat of the limousine, clutching my bag so hard my fingers start to ache.
The buildings of Manhattan give way to stretches of woods and even some open sky, and with each mile, my nerves creep higher.
I check my bank balance again, making sure I’m not dreaming. Nope, there it is. Twenty-five thousand dollars. To become a cleaner. I feel like taking a screenshot and sending it to Jimmy.
The driver is speaking in Russian, muttering into his headset in low, clipped tones. He hasn’t said a single word to me, and I can’t tell if he’d even understand if I tried to ask him anything. He’s been talking on that headset for the entire drive.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window—my face pale and uncertain, eyes slightly wide, like I’m on the edge of something dangerous.
The road stretches on, curving through thick patches of trees that seem to close in around us, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
The drive seems to last forever. As the sun starts to lower in the sky, the car slows, turning onto a gravel road that appears out of nowhere, winding through dense trees and towering hedges.
The house comes into view—a massive, gothic structure with dark spires and arched windows, staring down at me like watchful eyes.
The car comes to a stop, and my driver speaks into his headset one last time before opening his door and stepping out. He doesn’t even look at me as he rounds the car, gesturing for me to follow.
I take a deep breath, gathering my nerves, and step out, feeling the weight of the mansion settle over me, like it’s sizing me up.
I’ve never seen anything like it—its stone walls are dark, almost black, and intricate gargoyles sit perched along the roofline, watching me with empty eyes. If Morticia Addams appeared on the step, I wouldn’t be surprised.
A security guard appears instead, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression unreadable. He gives me a quick nod, then starts rattling off instructions in a thick Russian accent.
“In case of problem, alarm go off,” he says. “You hear alarm, follow light to exit.”
His words are straightforward, yet there’s something almost ominous about his tone, like he’s not telling me everything.
I glance over at the driver, who starts arguing with the guard in Russian, both of them so focused on their conversation that I feel as if I’ve disappeared entirely.
I stand there, awkward and alone, trying to ignore the nerves twisting in my stomach. As they gesticulate with their arms, I notice guns in holsters.
Both men are armed, and though I know it’s probably just a standard security measure, it feels strange— a reminder that I’m stepping into a different world, a place where the rules aren’t the same as back in the city.
Finally, the guard turns to me, gesturing toward the door. “You start in library,” he says, still struggling with his English. “Go, now.” He swings open the heavy wooden door.
I get the feeling this is my last chance to change my mind, to tell them to take me back. I glance behind me and then at the looming mouth of the house, like it’s ready to swallow me whole.
I can’t leave. It’s this or I know I’ll end up back with Jimmy. I’d rather die than do that.
I step forward, clutching my bag tighter as I cross the threshold.
The air inside is thick and still. I take a few hesitant steps, my footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Just inside the door, a cleaning cart is waiting for me, neatly arranged with supplies, as though someone has been expecting me.
I look around, the shadows stretching across the high walls and dark wood, feeling the weight of the silence settle over me like a shroud.
As the door clicks shut behind me, a faint chill runs down my spine. The silence of the mansion is oppressive, settling heavily around me as I push the cleaning cart down the hall, its wheels creaking against the old stone floor.
The corridor stretches out, long and dimly lit, with only a few muted sconces casting weak pools of light that barely penetrate the shadows in the corners.
The walls are dark, covered in faded wallpaper with patterns I can barely make out, curling slightly at the edges as if peeling back to reveal something hidden underneath.
My footsteps echo, and I glance around, catching the eyes of long-dead figures in portraits lining the walls.
Each face seems frozen mid-expression, half-frowning, half-smiling, as though they know something I don’t. The painted eyes seem to follow me, watching with a strange intensity that makes my skin crawl.
I check my map, tracing my finger to the first room I’m meant to clean: the library. As I approach, I notice the double doors are shut, as if the room is holding itself closed, hiding whatever secrets are inside.
I stop, setting the cleaning cart aside, and reach for the handle, pausing for a moment to let my eyes drift over the carvings in the wood—strange, twisting vines and dark-winged birds etched into the heavy wood, so detailed they almost seem alive.
With a deep breath, I push open one of the doors, bracing myself as it swings inward with a low creak. A faint, musty smell wafts out, rich and earthy, like the scent of an ancient forest buried in the dark.
I gasp at the sight. Even in the gloom, the place looks incredible. A library from my dreams.
Dusty rays of light filter through a small crack in the heavy shutters covering the windows. I set my bag down and cross to the far side of the room, my shoes soft against the intricate rug, patterned in dark reds and blacks that seem almost stained with shadows.
The air feels colder here, but there’s something strangely comforting about it too, a chill that wraps around me like an invitation.
I pull open the shutters, letting light spill into the room. The sun outside is pale, casting a washed-out glow over the massive shelves and gleaming off the glass in the cabinets along the walls.
I feel an odd sense of relief as the light chases some of the darkness away, revealing more intricate details of the room.
In the fresh daylight, I can see the library in all its eerie beauty. The shelves stretch up to the ceiling, each one crammed with leather-bound books, their spines dark with age, some cracked, others pristine.
The books look old, older than anything I’ve ever seen. I feel a strange urge to reach out, to run my hand along the spines.
In the center of the room, by one of the tall windows, is a heavy mahogany writing desk, its surface polished to a dark, reflective sheen. I can’t help but imagine myself sitting here, fingers poised over the blank page.
I walk over to the desk, almost in a daze, running my fingers along its smooth surface. A few dark stains mar the wood’s finish, like faint bruises, remnants of something once spilled but never fully cleaned away.
I look around, surprised to find that everything is already spotless. The shelves are dust-free, the rug pristine, and the faint mustiness that hangs in the air doesn’t seem to come from dirt but rather from the age and the memories soaked into the room.
I frown, my fingers brushing the edge of the desk as I wonder why they would hire me if the place is already this immaculate.
I pick up a cloth from the cart, kneeling by the edge of the rug where a small, faded stain catches my eye—a red-brown blotch woven into the fabric. I reach down to scrub at it, but it barely fades.
My mind spins with questions as I rub at the spot, trying to convince myself it’s nothing more than an old wine stain. But as I look around the room, as my gaze falls on the silent books lining the shelves nearby. More stains the same color. Why do I think it’s the splatter of blood, long since dried?
The silence presses down on me, thick and weighty, and for a moment, I feel as though I’m not alone.
I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone standing in the doorway, but there’s only the stillness, the room closing in around me. The sense of being watched prickles down my spine, but I shake it off, telling myself it’s just nerves.
I’m kneeling on the rug, rubbing absently at the faint stain, when I feel it again—a shadow falling over me, cold and unmistakable.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I freeze, every nerve ending coming to attention as a presence fills the room. I didn’t hear any footsteps, no door opening or closing, but there’s no mistaking it this time.
I’m no longer alone.
Slowly, I look up. Standing a few feet away, half-shrouded in the dim light, is a man—a tall, dark figure with eyes that pierce through the shadows like black fire. He’s wearing a black suit that fits him perfectly.
His gaze is locked onto mine, and I feel an intense, primal energy radiating from him, magnetic and terrifying all at once. He’s so still he could almost be part of the darkness itself, as if he was born in it.
My heart pounds as I take in his features, unable to look away. He has the kind of face that belongs to another era—high, sculpted cheekbones, a strong jaw, a mouth that looks both cruel and impossibly inviting.
There’s a striking symmetry to his features, but the shadows soften and sharpen them in equal measure, making it impossible to tell if he’s beautiful or monstrous. He seems to hold both qualities in him at once, a living contradiction.
I feel naked under his gaze, exposed in a way that goes beyond my body. His dark eyes move over me with an intensity that’s both assessing and possessive, as though he’s seeing more than I’m willing to show.
A strange thrill courses through me, an attraction so strong it feels like a betrayal of my own instincts. Every nerve screams that he’s dangerous, but a deeper, hidden part of me aches to be closer, to feel the warmth of his skin, to know what it’s like to be held in arms that look as if they could crush or protect with equal ease.
He steps forward, and my breath hitches. There’s power in his every movement, a restrained grace, as though he’s holding back something untamed.
His presence fills the room, pushing out everything else, and I feel small beneath him, a mouse in the presence of a panther. I want to shrink away, but at the same time, I’m drawn to him, to the strange, electric force that seems to freeze me in place.
There’s something so familiar about him, a haunting recognition that I can’t place. I study his face, trying to unravel the memory, but it dances just out of reach. And then, he speaks.
“Remember me, Cathy?” His voice is a low, velvety growl, deep and resonant, wrapping around me like a dark promise. The sound seeps into me, lighting a spark of memory, an echo I’ve heard before, though I can’t remember where.
“Sorry, have we met before?”
His breath is warm against my skin, and a shiver runs down my spine as he leans closer, his eyes darkening with something I can’t name.
“My name is Ivan Morosov,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine, every syllable a slow, deliberate claim. “I am the head of the New York Bratva.”