Chapter 19 Gabi
GABI
I manage to ward off rogue thoughts about my young charges’ father through dinner, because the food is just dire: a horrid ready-made pasta mix Yuri pulls from the disaster-zone pantry.
It has so many E-numbers in the ingredients list, I squint reading them.
I quietly vow this is the last sacrilegious abomination the girls will consume in my presence.
Tomorrow, I tackle the kitchen. The busier I am, the less time I have to ruminate and spiral.
We head upstairs, and after their bath, I put the girls to bed in the safe room with a story. They almost immediately fall asleep, leaving me staring at the tented ceiling, wondering what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into and how God wants me to fix this mess.
Ready to serve. As God sees fit. What was I thinking? It’s as if with those few words I’ve sealed my fate here.
“They had to wake up early this morning for the drive to Central Park,” Yuri says from the lounge area where he’d been listening in.
I suppress a groan. I just can’t shake this guy.
With the girls asleep, he and I are essentially alone. Now I don’t want to leave them, but I can’t stay here, either…not in Petrov’s bedroom, waiting for him to come home like a…like a wife.
I switch on the night-time monitor and head for the door, ignoring Yuri.
He stands and follows me down the corridor.
My heart crawls up my throat with each step I take as my isolation hits me hard.
I’m alone, with this man. Those shadow tattoos on his fingers…
He could do anything to me. It takes a split second for my pulse to start pounding with fear. Despite having some basic self-defense, I don’t have the strength to fight him off, and in the end, he could take me by force and rape me or force me to suck his—
I’d bite it off and spit it out at his feet with pleasure.
But there’s nothing keeping me safe right now. Petrov, who I somehow trust because of the way he is with his girls, isn’t here. I doubt Milana would come to my aid, even if I scream at the top of my lungs. This house is so big, she might not even hear me in her soundproof room.
I suddenly loathe that Petrov left me exposed like this, alone with this old Russian.
Irrational disgust for my brothers boils up for letting me go without thinking that this could happen to me in a stranger’s house. And then, I recall that I’m here because I’m protecting them.
I spin on my heels to slam my bedroom door in Yuri’s face, preparing to stab at his only eye with rigid fingers if he’s already in the doorway, but he’s walked on, ignoring me completely, totally unaware of every fear and feeling coursing through my veins.
I’m all alone.
In my room.
The door closed but not latched, a mere inch of light between me and the corridor.
I breathe.
And breathe again, blood rushing through my head, pins and needles spiking all over my body with my adrenaline rush. I stand frozen, waiting in the quiet.
His footsteps retreat, a door opens, closes, footsteps sound in the corridor again, but they stop as something scrapes over the floor. A creak, like a chair taking someone’s weight. Then Yuri sighs.
I hang my head, rattled. I can’t afford to dig into all the reasons why I’m overreacting right now.
As I reach for the doorknob, I hesitate.
Never mind the monitor, I can’t stand the idea of a closed door between me and the girls.
Not when Petrov isn’t here. The high levels of security, the endless off-limits areas, the feeling of eyes watching me, even though I can’t see them…
everything harks back to them being in danger and all I want is to snuggle them close instead of being in this cold, sterile room.
I feel Yuri’s presence in the corridor, waiting, listening.
He isn’t coming in. He isn’t a threat.
I inch the door open and leave it like that.
But now, I don’t dare phone my brothers to tell them this is a madhouse.
Dominic wanted me here to play the informant.
What a joke. I’m caged and no word or image is getting out about what really goes on in the Petrov household.
I wouldn’t dare make my brothers ill at ease over my being here because who knows how they’d retaliate.
Even if we speak in Italian, if I can lie about speaking Russian, who says Yuri isn’t fluent in Italian?
With quivering fingers, I end up sending them an upbeat message on the family group chat.
About how perfectly wonderful everything is and that I’m exhausted, what with all the new things and my work and the girls.
I switch my phone off for good measure, not wanting to talk to anybody about how creeped out I really am.
Letting them in on my new circumstances isn’t going to keep my family safe.
The silence stretches too long. I unpack my suitcase and arrange my few things. The whole time, I sense him, mere yards away. I soft-foot it to the door and peek out just enough to spot him. He’s sitting on a chair, not too far off, but close enough to hear everything I’m doing.
Fuck. Is this my life now? I want to shower without him being outside my door like a creep.
There isn’t much more to do but wait for Yuri to fuck off. A good Catholic convent girl would never cuss, but letting a string of curse words rip out of me right now would be so satisfying.
Eventually, I give up and do my nighttime routine which calms me down. If this is going to go on long term, I’ll have to get used to it.
I crawl between the sheets, but sleep won’t come.
My mind is ruminating, digesting, subconsciously drawing parallels to a time so long ago now.
Putting together the full picture of what had happened back then is hard.
All the puzzle pieces are turned face down, giving me only grey cardboard as my mind protects me from the full-color memories.
My pulse spikes again. It’s subtle at first, but I know the pattern.
If I don’t get busy, I will spiral. I sit up, reach for my book, and with the bedside lamp on, read it on repeat.
Since I can’t sleep, I’ll wait for Petrov to walk past my bedroom door so I can corner him and ask what the hell is going on in this… this asylum.