23. Octavia
My fingers drum against the arm of the worn leather seat.
Rough strands of fabric tug at my skin, snapping off the upholstery.
The office is decorated sparingly; stacks of nondescript books and decorative candlesticks are strung about in bland order, forming an eclectic style that reflects little of the man who owns the space.
In fact, I think the only remotely personalized item here is the tall bottle of vodka balancing on the bar cart beside us.
My father sits back in his own chair on the other side of the desk with my newfound uncle hovering beside him.
I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to him much.
The sour scent of nicotine seems to seep from every item in the room, as if baked in years of cigarettes and business deals.
I wonder how many times this safehouse has been used.
My back heats from the weight of my shadow, though I don’t dare to steal a look. Vasiliy stands guard behind my seat, one hand a burning stamp between my shoulder blades. It gives me a hardy boost of confidence.
“So, daughter.” My father’s voice cracks through the room with the weight of a whip. “What did you wish to discuss?”
Sitting back behind his desk, he looks every bit the powerful mob boss Vasiliy prepared me for. Gone is the gentle glint in his eyes from last night, when he held my hand and begged for a chance to get to know me. The message is clear.
That was personal.
This is business.
“I’d like to know why we’re currently sitting in a safehouse in New Jersey.”
I keep my tone even. Nothing but a costume over my childish fear.
He shares a look with my uncle, no doubt wondering how I deduced our location, but my mouth screws shut. I’m not about to tell him that Vasiliy spent his morning hanging from our windowsill.
“How…”
“I’ve been informed that you have the resources to extricate us all to Chicago at the drop of a hat. Why would a man with access to private jets and additional security stick around in a suburb?”
“Oh, you’ve been informed, have you?” my father drawls, shooting a glare at the figure behind me.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I mutter, digging my finger back between the loose threads of the upholstery tear.
Some people can’t stand lying to your face.
They have to look out the window, check their watch, or do anything to draw attention from their betrayal.
I can already tell that my father isn’t one of those people.
His green eyes gleam as they meet mine. “Well, love, we happened to have a safehouse nearby, and we wanted to give you time to heal and rest—”
“Maybe I wasn’t clear,” I interrupt, leaning forward. “I am not one for half-truths, and patience is not one of my virtues, so I will ask once more. Who exactly are we hiding from?”
Dark brows furrow, annoyance and begrudging respect warring in my father’s expression.
He doesn’t speak for a long time.
I recognize the weapon well enough. Most people can’t stand silence.
Most rush to fill it. He doesn’t know I’ve spent every day of the last decade staring at a wooden ballet barre with my mouth shut for hours on end.
He has no idea who he’s dealing with, and I’m going to use every bit of that to my advantage.
“Kroshka, we’re all on the same side,” my uncle jumps in with an anxious plea, hovering on the other side of the desk. “All you need to know is that you are safe. You’re unfamiliar with Bratva dealings, and the last thing we want to do is overwhelm you—”
“Twenty-four hours ago, I was tied to a chair, having my nails ripped out because of my relation to those Bratva dealings,” I snap. “Please. Overwhelm me.”
A thumb swipes my back. I’m not fighting the battle alone, for once.
“We don’t involve our women in our business, Octavia.” My father casually settles back in his chair. The words are said with an easy cadence, as if I’m supposed to accept them upon delivery. “It’s a safety precaution. The less you know, the better off you are if you end up being questioned.”
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not one of your women, then.”
He sighs, like I’m choosing to be a pain in his ass for my own amusement.
“Trust me, love. You don’t want to know these things.
Just like you haven’t asked me what happened to those men who were keeping you locked in a cage.
” He leans back, resigned. “Some part of you knows you’ll be better off if you don’t ask.
Ignorance is one of the greatest privileges you can hold in this life. ”
Vasiliy’s calming touch falls from my shoulders as I rise from my seat. My uncle flinches back, as if he instinctively recognizes the warning signs of a mad woman. Not my father, though. He stays utterly still as I walk right over to the bar cart and palm the bottle of vodka.
My blood burns five degrees hotter. He stares back, utterly satisfied with his assessment.
As if he can’t imagine a world where a woman needs a fucking day to collect her bearings after being tortured.
In the haze of my father’s blatant misogyny, I hear my own voice from when I brushed Bambi’s hair.
Crazy is an outfit. I just throw it on when the situation calls for it.
“I don’t think it’s wise to drink on those meds…” my father starts, only to trail off when he meets my gaze.
“You know what’s funny?” I ask the room, popping off the lid and taking a deep swig. The sharp liquor burns my lips. “Everyone always says that. The less you know, the safer you’ll be.” I do my best to imitate his low, serious voice.
“Except,” I continue with a finger in the air.
“When I was being questioned by your enemies, I had a needle shoved into my skin every time I couldn’t answer the questions right.
” I turn, catching the lift of Vasiliy’s lip as he fights to maintain a passive expression.
“Vas, you worked in collecting information, yes?”
I can practically feel the fumes of my father’s ire, but my attention stays on the quiet smirk beside me. A dark wave falls forward over his brow, and for some reason, my finger itches to brush it back.
“Correct,” he responds. Only I can hear the laugh coloring his flat voice, spurring me on.
“And what exactly did you do to the individuals who were too poorly informed to be of use to you?”
He smiles, a cold, deadly thing. “I slit their throats.”
“How much was their blood worth?” The question is selfish, meant only for him and me. As soon as it falls from my lips, our surroundings fade to foggy wisps.
“Nothing,” he breathes, eyes glittering. “Their blood was worth nothing.” I’m not sure if it’s in my head or if his body really does shift a little closer to mine.
“She has a bit of a point, brother,” my uncle voices in an obvious attempt to de-escalate the situation.
I snap free from Vasiliy’s consuming gaze. Angling a brow at my father, I wait, searching for any indication that he’ll back down. But he’s a stubborn man.
“It’s not how things are done.”
The bottle in my hand tilts back and forth as I consider my options. The gentle, rhythmic slosh makes me think of beaches I’ve never seen. I didn’t get a chance to dig my feet in the sand like they do in the movies, or feel the rolling current of bubbles rush past my ankles.
A throat clears, one of those deep, irritating man sounds meant to draw attention.
If I do concede this battle, some part of me knows I’ll never be privy to information ever again. Does that matter to me?
The bottle tips a touch too far as I come to a decision. Clear, stringent liquid glugs out of the neck, pouring onto the plush carpet below. Only when all the contents have been emptied, do I drop the bottle, which bounces onto the carpet before cracking in two.
“I’m not swayed by temper tantrums,” my father starts, folding his arms. “You can break all the bottles in this house, and it still won’t shift my priorities. This is about your safety, Octavia.”
But my attention lingers on Vasiliy.
All it takes is one soundless look into his twinkling, blue eyes for his hand to rise. A small item flies through the air in an arc—the matchbox I saw him palm from a nearby counter when we first walked in.
I snatch the box from the air, sliding out a thin stick of wood. The two men on the other side of the room lurch forward just as the match hisses, catching a flame. Heat licks my fingers.
Now this is a proper negotiation.
“Do not drop it!” Father booms.
I tilt my head. “Oh, shoot. Is a top-secret safehouse not so secret when it’s catching fire?”
“Octavia!”
My hand lowers, dropping the flame closer to the flammable puddle on the floor. The action causes my uncle to cry out, and a string of what I can only assume to be Russian curses fills the room.
“Morozov, reason with her!” Father snaps at Vasiliy.
The panicked suggestion makes me laugh, and I have to admit, the sound comes out kind of manic in combination with the flame warming my skin.
“Nah. I’m a feminist today,” Vas says with a lazy smirk.
“God Almighty,” my father murmurs to the sky. “This is foolish!”
“I guess I’m a fool.”
Vasiliy steps forward at that, smile flattening. “Watch your words, old man. This will look like a fucking picnic compared to what will happen if you insult her again.”
My fingers loosen around the wood, drawing every eye back to me. “A match can only burn for so long. What’s it going to be?”
A gasp pulls through the air. “Sasha—”
“Fine,” my father finally gives in, voice dissolving into a list of curses.
Pleased with the concession, I lift the match to my lips. With a sharp breath, the glow dissipates into grey smoke. One more ashy deal disintegrating into the office floorboards.
“You know, I used to beg Juliet to give me a baby girl.” My uncle shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m starting to think I should stick to the boys.”