Chapter 15
15
DARYA
“ D a .”
Papa answers my call on the first ring.
“Papa.” I close my eyes in relief. Some part of me I don’t like to acknowledge was afraid of what Roman might have done to my father.
God knows he has good reason.
“Darya!”
I flinch at the exhausted rasp of his voice, wondering if he’s slept at all since the last time we spoke.
“Don’t hang up,” he says hastily. “I need to speak with you—”
“I’m home, Papa.” I cut him off. “With Roman.”
“Oh, thank God.” His relief is palpable. “When can we talk?”
“Roman has asked me to set up a meeting with you.” I twist the bed sheet around my hand. “Today, if possible.”
“As soon as you can.” He’s switched to Russian, something he rarely does on the phone and an indication of how agitated he is. “Darya, the children—the guards won’t tell me anything—”
“They’re gone, Papa.” I wrap my hand more tightly in the sheet, watching dispassionately as my fingers turn white with blood loss. “The Orlovs took Masha and Ofelia.”
“ Ya yego ub’yu .” I will kill him.
He says the words in a cold, detached tone I’ve never heard him use, not even after he discovered that Mama was dead. He doesn’t swear or rage. Just that one sentence in hard, flat Russian: I will kill him.
“Yes, well.” As much as I share his sentiment, I’m not entirely at peace with Papa, not after reading Roman’s letter. “I doubt Roman will offer you that chance.”
And to be quite frank, it’s a wonder it isn’t you that Roman is coming after, given all you’ve taken from him.
Papa, for once, is silent.
“Roman is with his men now. I imagine he will return some time this afternoon. We will come to see you then.” I speak in English. It’s a subtle expression of my own anger. Russian is for family, for my childhood, for poetry and stories and safety.
English creates a slight degree of separation that I need just now.
My father has kept secrets. Dangerous secrets that destroyed Roman’s childhood and are directly responsible for endangering Masha and Ofelia. Love him though I do, I’m not certain I’m quite ready to forgive him.
And if I feel that way, how must Roman feel?
I shudder at the iron control he will need to tolerate any kind of interaction with my father.
“Come as soon as you can.” Papa delivers the words in curt Russian, hanging up before I can answer. There have been many times in my life when I’ve felt angry at my father’s aversion to emotional expression, at the hard rein he keeps on his own emotions. Right now I’m grateful for it. I’m in no mood to pretend an affection that I don’t currently feel.
My stomach lurches, and I throw off the bedsheets, making it to the bathroom just in time. I sag limply against the porcelain, my heart fluttering. I’m not certain if the morning sickness is linked to my emotions or not, but it’s exhausting. I retch again, not hearing the bedroom door open.
“Ah—excuse me—I didn’t know you were here.” Maria, Roman’s maid, hovers in the bathroom door, looking at me with concern. “You’re unwell. I will call for a doctor.”
“No, Maria.” I hold up a palm and lift myself off the floor, shaking off her hand. “There’s no need. It’s just a stomach bug, nothing more.” The last thing I need is for her to call a doctor and alert Roman to my condition. We all have far too much on our collective plate right now to add anything more to it.
“You need to see a doctor.” Maria gives me a rather owlish look.
“I’m fine.” I let go of the sink and give her as convincing a smile as I can muster. “I just need a shower. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Hmm.” She stares at me through narrowed eyes, as if weighing what to say. It’s the first time we’ve met since my return, and I can sense her internal conflict. Maria has been loyal to Roman and the children for a long time, and it took time for her to trust me when I first arrived. I suspect my unannounced departure has damaged our earlier alliance. “I’m glad you are home,” she says finally.
I notice she doesn’t shut the door the whole way when she leaves. I suspect she wants to keep half an eye on me.
I head into the shower, wondering rather tiredly if I’m going to face the same wariness from all of Roman’s people. It feels exhausting, especially when I can’t tell anyone the entire truth.
When I emerge from the bedroom, Maria is gone, but she’s left a fresh pot of ginger tea on the kitchen counter, beside a plate with some plain crackers. Perfect for my shaken stomach. I take grateful mouthfuls of both, hoping her gesture constitutes the first thawing of relations.
The new phone Roman left beside the bed for me lights up with his number.I punch the answer button immediately. He launches in without waiting for me to speak. “Have you spoken to your father?”
“Yes. I told him we’d come to see him this afternoon.”
“We’re going to see him now. Luis will take you; I’ll meet you there.” He pauses. “Darya, if you don’t mind—will you wait in the car until I arrive?”
It’s my heart, rather than my stomach, that clenches now, despite the courtesy of his tone.
He still doesn’t trust me.
It hurts. Even if I understand why. “You have my word that I won’t speak to my father until you are with me.”
My efforts to keep resentment out of my tone mustn’t be too effective, because Roman actually laughs. It’s a choked sound that never really makes it to full laughter, but I hear the intent nonetheless. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Darya. It’s him I have a problem with.”
I frown. “My father would never endanger me, Roman.”
“Your father has been endangering you for years.” His answer is sharp and immediate.
It’s also painfully undeniable.
“I need to know you’re safe, Darya. Okay? I can’t lose—I need you safe.”
I nod slowly into the receiver. I understand what he means. I might not like it, but I understand. After thinking Roman was lost to me over these past days, it makes me nervous when he is not in touching distance. If he feels even half of what I do, then I guess I know why he wants me safe. I look at Maria’s pot of tea, remembering her wary face, and think that it’s going to be a while before the status quo is restored.
“I promise I will stay in the car.” This time I give my word quietly, injecting the promise with as much reassurance as I can. “I’ll wait outside the villa until you arrive, Roman.”
“Thank you.” His response takes a beat longer than normal, and the words have a rough edge that betrays the emotion behind them.
He hangs up.
I sip my tea in silence until Luis knocks on the door and it’s time to go.
“Thank you for waiting.” They’re Roman’s first words upon opening the car door for me. He presses my hand gently, giving emphasis to all he isn’t saying.
“I understand.” I smile, hoping to take some of the shadow from his eyes but knowing the same darkness clouds my own.
There’ll be no light, for any of us, until this is over.
“I know your father has things he wants to say.” Roman holds both of my hands in his own as we stand just beyond the wall of the villa. “But there are questions I need him to answer as soon as possible in order to find the girls. I’m not sure how much of his story I’ll be able to hear before I interrupt.”
“That’s fine.” I return his grip with my own fingers, wanting to reassure him of my support. “I’ll let you take the lead, ask what you need to. The only thing that matters is getting the girls back.” He nods, but his face remains grim and unsmiling. I want to ask a thousand questions of my own, but I can’t force Roman to bring me into his confidence. It’s going to take time.
Time we don’t have.
The security detail at the villa isn’t the subtle presence it was before the bomb. Now armed men stand at every window, eyes scanning the surroundings with incessant scrutiny.
Roman isn’t leaving anything to chance.
Papa is sitting on the terrace with his back to us. Smoke curls up from the cigarette he usually tries to hide from me, and the ashtray at his side is evidence that this is far from being his first today. He doesn’t turn when Roman opens the door.
“Please, sit.” He speaks in Russian with his back still to us, gesturing at two chairs arrayed in front of him. A coffee table bearing a Russian samovar of tea and three glasses rests on the small coffee table between him and our chairs. He clearly saw me arrive and knows I sat out front in the car until Roman got here.
Roman pulls a chair out for me, then takes his own. He unbuttons his suit jacket and slings one leg over the other, his hands resting on the wicker sides with every appearance of relaxation. The truth is that he’s coiled tight as a leopard, every muscle taut. His eyes are black and unreadable, mouth a grim slash as he eyes my father.
“I need to know the layout of the underground chamber in Miami.” He doesn’t bother greeting Papa. His words are an order rather than a request, delivered in a tone no less dangerous for being calm and detached.
“I asked one of your guards to sketch the layout for me,” Papa says. He seems entirely unsurprised by Roman’s abrupt opening. He nods at a piece of paper on the table. “The dimensions are in exact proportion, exactly as it was built. Unless Orlov tore up part of the compound, he cannot have made any meaningful changes.” His Russian is clipped and direct, his speech unusually clear. Piercing blue eyes meet Roman’s without wavering. There’s a fierce light behind them, a savagery my father has always kept carefully hidden from me, even during the years Orlov held us both. “What else do you need?”
He’s speaking to Roman as he would one of his vor . I can see it in the lethal stillness of his shoulders, the harsh set of his mouth.
“Anything that will help us when we attack.” Roman’s response is equally curt. “Hidden traps, obstacles our men will encounter. Anything you can tell us that will help us gain access.”
“I’ve noted them all. And there are tunnels.” Papa shifts the top paper to reveal more drawings beneath. “Each has a door with a digital code. I’ve written the codes beside each one.”
Roman’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “And you’re sure the Orlovs don’t know about these?”
Papa nods briefly. “Alexei has been using them for years. The Orlovs have never caught him.”
Alexei has been using them? For what? I conceal my surprise with an effort.
I stare at the drawings, mentally recalling the places Papa has marked. Some of the tunnels I know about, but there are many others, carefully concealed in the architecture, that I never suspected existed.
“Why didn’t I know about these?” I ask carefully, reluctant to meet my father’s eyes in case he sees the anger simmering in mine. “Some of these tunnels come out onto the street. If I’d known about them, we might have escaped the first time we tried, instead of running into the woods and getting caught. We could have been gone, and the Orlovs never would have known.”
“Because your father wanted to keep them safe for the moment he was ready to return.” Roman’s lip curls in contempt. “Because the vault is all that has ever mattered to him. Isn’t that right, Sergei?” His hands don’t move, but his eyes glitter with a fierce, dangerous light as he holds Papa’s gaze. Despite my love for my father, I share his anger.
Why did he never tell me about all of the other tunnels?
“You are right in part. I did keep that secret safe, or at least I did for a long time, but not for the reasons you think.” My father’s tone remains even. He doesn’t react to Roman’s hostility. “At first I had no choice. Initially, after my stroke and the Orlov coup, I was unable to either speak or move. I wasn’t able to tell my children about all of the tunnels even if I wanted to. I was also not permitted access to my wife or either of my children, except to see them through soundproof glass when Vilnus tortured them.”
I look at him in surprise. Papa has never told me that.
Vilnus did the same thing to Alexei and me, made us look at Papa’s prostrate body through a large glass window that faced onto the clinical room in which Papa was kept. He told us Papa was dying, that he would never regain consciousness. But the room in which Vilnus tortured us was in the underground chamber, far from Papa’s clinical bed. That room had a wall of darkened glass through which I assumed Vilnus’s men were watching us suffer. I figured Vilnus just got off on having an audience.
Never did I suspect that my father might be the audience to which Vilnus was playing.
To me, my father was unconscious in his bed, far from where we were screaming under Vilnus’s knife. It was one of my only comforts in the time Vilnus tortured me, that Papa couldn’t actually see it. The thought that all of Vilnus’s depredations were, in fact, carried out in full view of my father makes me sick and ashamed to the core.
Papa watched , I think, twisting inside with horror. He saw the way Vilnus touched me, how he violated me.
Another thought, even more terrible, strikes me: Papa must have watched them rape Mama. Watched them tear her apart.
Roman’s expression of contempt has remained unaltered throughout Papa’s words, as has his posture. Now he takes a slow, deliberate sip of tea, his eyes not leaving Papa’s face. “Before you start trying to justify your betrayal of my parents, and the greed that you placed over the lives of your own family, I suggest you disclose anything else that might actually fucking help.”
In another time, I might have leaped to Papa’s defense.
I don’t.
Roman’s loss is mine, too. No matter my love for my father, Roman’s family is mine now. I resist the urge to place a hand on my stomach. Roman is my family now. The father of my child. Father to the children I have come to see as mine.
As he said, nothing else matters. Not until the children are safe.
“You were right when you said I wanted to keep the tunnels safe.” Papa inclines his head in Roman’s direction. “I argued with Alexei about the one we did use, in his room. I was worried they would find it and search for others. But Alexei was careful, just as we planned, and they never did.”
He leans forward. “But you’re wrong in thinking that decision was mine, Roman. After I woke, my first thought was to take my children and run. I’d have used those tunnels without hesitation and never cared about whether Orlov found the others or not. But someone asked me not to. They reminded me of an old promise, and they held me to it.”
Roman’s eyes narrow. “I suppose this is the point in the conversation where you reveal all those deep dark secrets of yours.”
Papa’s expression is as fierce as Roman’s contemptuous sneer. “There is only one secret that matters, and had you given me the chance to talk, Roman, it would not have remained a secret after the first day I realized who you are.” He stubs out his cigarette and folds his hands in front of him. Sitting back in his chair, he eyes Roman directly. “The person who asked me to keep the tunnels a secret was your mother. She’s alive, Roman. Rosa is alive.”