Chapter 12 Sima
SIMA
A hard knock on the door jolts me awake.
Morning light cuts through the curtains and stabs into my eyes. My back aches from the stiff mattress and my neck is all kinked to hell from sleeping half-sitting-up against the headboard.
Why? Because I don’t fucking trust this house of horrors. So I’m sleeping with one eye open—literally.
Though I’m not sure what I was expecting to see last night. An axe murderer? The ghost of a Victorian orphan?
Or Petyr.
I shake my head. Of course Petyr didn’t come. Even after I bared my heart to him—again—he doesn’t want anything to do with me.
Yesterday, he felt our child. I thought that might have mattered to him. That it might have changed something.
But I was wrong. With Petyr, I always turn out to be wrong.
So here I am. Same prison, new day.
“We’re coming in,” Luka announces through the door. His voice is flat, already tired. I can practically smell the Tums on his breath from here.
“Who’s ‘we’?” I ask, but the door’s already opening.
Two of Petyr’s security guys file in with a big, horizontal box. Probably not a guillotine, but a girl can never be certain.
“Careful with that,” Luka scolds.
So it’s fragile. Can’t be anything from Petyr, then. That man hasn’t known fragility since he was in diapers.
I’m already starting to wonder if it’s a haunted mirror to make my nights worse, but then the guys unpack the box.
“A… TV?” I peer from the edge of the bed.
I blink, but the image doesn’t disappear. Not a fever dream, then.
Petyr’s guys set it up on the dresser. It’s small enough to fit, not that a huge plasma screen would have made things that much better.
Luka’s crew sets it up with twin scowls, like they’re gracing me with the seventh wonder of the world and don’t think I deserve it.
Joke’s on them. I don’t think I deserve this, either. What I deserve is fresh air and real answers.
Belatedly, I realize Luka’s carrying something, too. “Here,” he says, and sets it down on the bedside table.
I consider snubbing it and turning the other way to continue my beauty sleep. But curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s this?”
Luka just jerks his head towards the box, as if to say, Look for yourself.
I pick it up and lift it to the light.
“An e-reader?”
Luka clears his throat. “Petyr said you’d need something to do.”
I arch an eyebrow. “A TV and a Kindle. Wow. Next thing you know, he’ll spring for cable. Maybe even Wi-Fi, if I behave.”
My joke lands like a brick. Tough crowd.
I turn the box over in my hands. Now that I’m actually looking at it, the packaging is pretty self-explanatory.
It’s definitely more thoughtful than the TV. At least with this, I can read something that isn’t drier than Anya’s oatmeal.
But it’s still not Petyr. It’s still not an actual conversation.
And it sure as fuck isn’t freedom.
Despite that, I open the box and pull it out. I’ve always wanted one of these, but I never let myself entertain the thought. All my spare change went into my business fund.
Which then became my runaway fund. Which I drained to get away from Petyr.
Whatever gratitude I could feel withers when I remember that. Petyr took everything from me. Now he thinks he can bribe me with electronics?
Nuh-uh. Not gonna happen.
I let the e-reader drop on the covers. Satisfied that he’s done his job, Luka steps away quickly. He’s putting as much distance between us as possible, and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make me feel like shit.
His words from last night echo in my head. About what my family did to his.
I tossed away the Danilo name ages ago. Last year, I was convinced it’d never come up again. That I’d finally built a life away from all that.
But I fucked up. I let myself believe in Petyr. Now, my name has come back to haunt me.
I glance around the room. The crewmen grunt as they set up the TV. Not a word, not a look my way.
Luka crouches to check the cords himself. He probably wants to make sure I won’t electrocute myself by accident. Or for fun.
The men stand up. Christmas is officially over. No phone, no computer, nothing I could actually use to reach the outside world. Just the bare minimum necessary to keep me from clawing at the wallpaper until I lose my mind.
Luka’s crew leaves without a word. I try not to feel anything about it, but I can’t. The dirty looks the men kept throwing at me made me feel like a criminal. Like I’m the one who did something wrong.
Which is crazy. I was kidnapped, for fuck’s sake! I’m being confined to a room while pregnant because a mobster thinks I’m his property! And yet, I’m the one with the guilty conscience.
Having morals is extremely overrated.
When the door locks behind Luka’s back, I flip the e-reader over in my hands and scroll through the menu. At least the selection’s not bad. I wonder if Petyr appointed someone to approve the books or if he sat down and did it himself, like a good government censor.
But no. Ali Hazelwood’s latest novels are all in here, as well as a few other names of note in the romance section. Petyr would never let me have anything spicier than white people curry. He’d get jealous of the 2D love interests on the page and throw this thing in a digital bonfire.
I can’t shake the nagging feeling left behind by the nasty looks I got from Luka and his henchmen, though. It’s like the aching space where a missing tooth once was, and I can’t stop sticking my tongue in it.
They don’t just dislike me because I’m Petyr’s problem. They hate me because of who I am. Because of what blood runs in my veins.
I rub at my arms, the skin prickling. How am I supposed to live like this? Trapped in a house where everyone on the payroll sees me as the enemy?
It isn’t just about boredom anymore. It’s about surviving in a place where I’m not wanted.
Where everything I do is judged against a family I already cut ties with.
I’m guilty before I’ve opened my mouth. Luka made that clear when he looked me in the eye and told me he won’t trust me because I’m a Danilo.
Though I guess he has better reasons than most.
How can you know that? My mind needles with new, horrible scenarios. Maybe everyone in this house lost someone because of your family. Maybe that’s why they hate you.
I squeeze the e-reader tighter in my hands, then set it down before I crack the screen. My family’s sins shouldn’t become mine by association, but here we are. How the hell am I supposed to build a life here if I’m treated like the enemy? How the hell does Petyr expect me to?
A sharp knock rattles the door. In response, my stomach growls like Pavlov’s best-trained dog.
Time for breakfast.
I set the e-reader aside. “Come on in,” I call, though it’s not like Anya ever waits for an invitation. Or needs it. Another reminder that everyone here has more power than I do.
Right on cue, Anya enters with the tray balanced on her hands. But her face looks stormier than usual, and I know just by one glance that she’s even more unhappy to see me today.
She doesn’t set the tray down so much as slam it onto the table. Tea splashes over the rim of the cup. Her eyes cut to mine, hard and unflinching. I already feel smaller under her glare.
“You’re angry,” I note. “Good morning to you, too.”
“You think I don’t know what you did?” Anya’s voice is low but sharp. “You distracted me. You made me forget the lock.”
“Relax,” I say. “I didn’t tell Petyr you forgot. I told him the lock was broken.”
I’m expecting some measure of relief, but Anya’s glare only deepens. “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”
“What? No.” I shake my head quickly. “Of course not. I just—I didn’t want you to worry that Petyr might blame you.” The words come out rushed. “You can trust me, Anya. I wouldn’t throw you under the bus.”
“That’s your way of building trust? Lying to your husband? Making me an accomplice against my will?” She barks out a bitter laugh. “You don’t know the first thing about trust, sobachka. And I, for one, could never trust you.”
It’s the most I’ve ever heard her speak. The little Russian moniker—“puppy”—floods me with a mix of anger and shame, along with everything else she just threw at me.
“I lied to protect you.” I try to keep my face even. My voice comes out thinner than I want. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I know enough,” Anya spits. “Just like I know the young master made a mistake bringing you back here.”
“On that, we agree,” I bite back bitterly.
“No, we don’t.”
She steps closer. Her frame is thin, but darkness radiates from her. For the first time, I wonder how Anya came into the Gubarev family’s service. If she, too, has a bloody past she needed to outrun.
“If he had been smart,” she hisses, “he would have cut his child from your womb and buried you in the garden.”
Holy shit. Did she really just say that to me?
I want to snap back at her. To scream, throw the tray at her head—anything rather than just sit here and take it.
But nothing comes out. Not even a breath.
The image she just painted flashes in my head, vivid and brutal. It makes my stomach lurch. Just glancing at the breakfast she brought makes me feel queasy now. I never truly thought she’d poison me, but now, I don’t know anymore.
I feel like I don’t know anything.
But what horrifies me even more is the reason she said those things. They weren’t just cruel—they were specific.
Because, clearly, it’s what Petyr might actually do.
I know he’s capable. I know he’s done worse. Maybe he’s already done exactly that to someone before me.
Anya seems to read it on my face. Her mouth twists into a smirk. “Don’t forget who your husband is. He’s a pakhan. The Bratva doesn’t flinch away from doing what must be done. You should know that better than most.”
And I do. God help me, I do.
My throat closes up tight. “Thank you,” I croak. “That will be all.”
Anya doesn’t move right away. She’s probably enjoying how pale I’ve gone.
Then she turns on her heels and slams the door behind her.
I listen to the bolt sliding home. Once, then twice. She checks it again before walking away, just to be certain.
I wait for her footsteps to fade into the hallway. Then I plunge my face in my hands and break down crying.