30. Tayana
30
TAYANA
T he men who attacked my shelter belong to Vasili Teskin. The man from Seattle, the one they call The Jekyll, was able to identify the logo and confirm it through his contacts. The man is so information-rich, I’m pretty sure if we asked him where Igor is, he could probably draw us a map. Rafi tells me The Jekyll runs Seattle alongside Dante Accardi, the big man himself, and I can see why he’s such an asset.
“Do they come here often?” I ask, glancing at Rafi as we stroll through the vibrant gardens that weave between their homes. The four brothers have each built their houses on the same sprawling block of land, positioned at the corners of an invisible square. At the center of the property stands a grand gazebo, its elegant structure encircled by lush greenery. The gazebo boasts ample seating, perfect for hosting an intimate gathering, with flower-lined paths radiating outward to connect it seamlessly to each of the homes.
“Last time they were here was about four months ago; they came to sort out the problem with the Vicci family and stayed for Brando and Mia’s wedding.”
“Ah,” I smile knowingly “the wedding to end all weddings.”
“It was an event to remember, will definitely go down in the Gatti history books.”
“You have a beautiful family, Rafi. You’re lucky to have them.”
He nods in agreement, and I catch the warmth in his eyes, the unmistakable love that surfaces whenever he talks about them. Even the playful banter and friendly rivalry with Lucky—it’s the unspoken language of siblings, where teasing and laughter become their way of expressing what words often can’t.
“You don’t have any siblings?” he asks.
I’m sure he already knows the answer, but for some reason, he feels compelled to ask. I draw in a deep breath, releasing it in a sigh before answering, “No, I’m an only child.” I don’t add how much I wish that weren’t the case—because I’m not sure I could bear the thought of another child enduring what I went through.
“And how often do you go back to Russia?”
“I don’t.”
His brows pull together in a frown. “Never?”
I shake my head. “I’ve been here for seven years. I don’t have any plans to go back.”
His eyes narrow slightly, their intensity sharpening as he studies me. It’s as though he’s trying to peel back layers, searching for the hidden story behind my words. His silence feels heavy, his gaze unrelenting, as if he’s hoping I’ll fill the quiet with an explanation I’m not ready to give.
“Seven years is a long time,” he finally says, his voice laced with curiosity and something else I can’t quite place.
“It is,” I reply evenly, keeping my tone calm despite the storm his question stirs inside me. The truth about why I left—and why I can’t go back—is something I’ve buried too deeply for him to unearth on his own.
I sigh, looking out at the expansive gardens as we reach the gazebo and sit side by side on one of the benches.
“Which one is yours?” I ask, indicating the homes. Rafi points out his house, sitting on the edge of the forest, a beautiful white Colonial that could belong in the pages of a magazine. “Do you spend much time there?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He looks at me for the longest time before he replies. “Because it’s empty. It needs life. It needs people. A structure without people is just a shell; it’s not a home.”
I nod in agreement. “And now you know why I don’t go back home.” As if that is explanation enough. It’s silly to think that such an answer would satisfy Rafi.
“You still have your father,” he reminds me.
“My father gave up on me a long time ago, Rafi. After my mother died, he bundled me up and shipped me off as far away as he could get me.”
“I’m sure he had his reasons.”
I shrug and give him a small smile. “Rafi Gatti, always the voice of reason.”
“I like to play devil’s advocate sometimes.”
“It suits you.”
“How did your mother die, Tayana?” He asks suddenly.
The question hangs in the air, heavy and inevitable. I stay silent, the words caught in my throat. It feels like an eternity passes as I stare at nothing, lost in the storm of memories I’ve tried so hard to suppress. How na?ve was I to think this moment would never come? It was always going to surface—woven into the fabric of my past, waiting to be unraveled.
But how do I begin? How do I make him understand the nightmare I lived through, the terror etched into every corner of my mind? How do I explain the unspeakable, the weight of witnessing something so horrific that it reshaped the person I am today?
“I—” My voice falters, my chest tightening as the words threaten to escape. But instead of an explanation, all I can manage is a shaky breath.
His eyes remain steady on me, unrelenting but not unkind, as if he’s willing me to let the truth spill out, to give him a glimpse of the shadows I carry. But how can I when saying it aloud feels like giving it power all over again?
“She was murdered,” I finally whisper, the words trembling with the weight of everything I’ve left unsaid. “And I saw it. I saw everything.”
I can feel his gaze deepen, but I don’t meet it. Instead, I stare down at my hands, clenched tightly in my lap, as if holding myself together will keep the memories from engulfing me in flames.
The house felt suffocatingly quiet that night, the kind of silence that presses on your ears and amplifies every sound. I lay curled on my bed, flipping through a book, though I wasn’t truly reading. The stillness made me uneasy, though I couldn’t say why; just one of those things I chalked up to gut instinct.
The sudden sound of my bedroom door creaking open sent a shiver down my spine. I paused, my heart thudding, as a shard of light spread across the floor. It was late—far too late for anyone to be visiting. Maybe my uncle had come home and was checking in on me as he usually did. Uggghhhh…creep. He would swing the door open, stand in the doorway as I slept, then softly retreat away from the room. Like he was never there. But I, with my back to the door, would blink into the dark, aware and alert of every movement, every creak, every intrusion, counting down the seconds until he closed the door again and walked away from my room. He never came into the room, but it was an intrusion, nonetheless.
He usually stayed on his side of the house, because he always had people over at odd hours. Sometimes, on the odd occasion, we’d cross paths when we’d meet in the main house and he’d put his hand on my shoulder and ask, “How are you, Malysh?” Then quickly walk away before my mother could see him.
She was forever warning me about Uncle Igor. I didn’t understand why we lived in the same house with him if she hated him so. Forever calling him her Alrich, warning me to spend as little time with him as possible. Maybe my hatred for him grew as a result of my mother’s conditioning. Or maybe it was because I myself could never figure out how I was supposed to feel about him.
When the door didn’t close in the timespan it usually took Uncle Igor, my senses were heightened and I paid extra attention to the aura of the room. Something felt off. Indistinct but off. When the door finally closed, I heard the heavy clunk of boots against the floor as someone moved through the room. I held my breath, too afraid to turn. Something didn’t feel right.
The sound of feet shuffling drew closer, and soon I felt a weight pressing down on the mattress beside me. My body stiffened, fear curling in my stomach. I didn’t recognize the voice—rough, slurred, and impatient. I slid off the bed, my bare feet brushing the cold floor as I stared at the man with one knee on my bed, as if he were climbing in.
“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice trembling. “What do you want?”
The man grinned, a twisted, unsettling smile that made my skin crawl. “Don’t be scared, little girl,” he said, stepping closer. “I just want to play.”
I backed away, bumping into my nightstand. The lamp rattled, teetering on the edge before it went crashing to the ground. “Stay away from me!”
Fear, cold and restless, settled in the pit of my stomach as bile rose in my throat.
The man lunged, a towel in his hand, which he pressed against my face, and I started to fall. Falling, falling, falling, until I felt I was floating outside my body, the soft cushion of my mattress against my back.
My mother appeared, her figure backlit by the hallway light, her expression like steel. Even through the haze as it lifted from my eyes, I could see the tremor in her hands.
I could see the shadow of a man above me; ignoring my mother, even as she screamed at him to get away from me. Where is Papa? Why is mama fighting with this man? Where is papa?
The man chuckled, a low menacing sound, as my mother lunged at him, clawing at his face. My mother turned to look at me, her voice low but urgent.
“Tayana, run. Hide. Now!”
“But—”
“Now!” she screamed.
I hesitated for only a second before moving sluggishly, darting towards the closet. I pulled the door shut and crouched low, my breath coming in short gasps. Through the slats, I could see my mother standing fighting with the man, her body a shield.
The man reached for something in his jacket.
My mother’s voice trembled but didn’t break as she spoke. Only one word. The last word. “Don’t…”
Then it happened.
The gunshot was deafening, a sharp crack that echoed through the room. I flinched, my hands clapping over my mouth to muffle the scream clawing at my throat.
My mother fell, crumpling to the floor in a way that seemed too quick, too final.
The man cursed under his breath, his steps hurried as he fled the room. I stayed frozen in the closet, my mind racing, my breath shallow and erratic.
Then I heard another voice, one I recognized instantly.
“Tayana?” It was my uncle, his voice shaky and uncertain.
I pushed the closet door open and stepped out on trembling legs. The sight before me knocked the air from my lungs.
My mother lay motionless on the floor, blood spreading out around her in a dark, horrifying pool. My uncle knelt beside her, his hands hovering as if too afraid to touch her. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock.
“What... what did you do?” My voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of my confusion and anguish.
My uncle looked up, his hands stained red. “It wasn’t me. Tayana, listen to me ? —”
But I wasn’t listening. My gaze shifted to the gun on the floor, abandoned by the man who had run.
“Where were you?” I asked, my voice trembling. Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t care. “Where were you? You should’ve been here.”
My uncle’s face crumpled, but I didn’t wait for his response. The pain, the grief, and the rage were too much, consuming me in waves that left me breathless.
I dropped to my knees beside my mother, my hands hovering over her, unsure of what to do. “Mama,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Mama, please...”
But there was no response.
My screams reverberated through the house, echoing through the empty walls, now devoid of the life that had made this place a home. A house that now stood without laughter, without life, without sunshine.
The weight of my loss pressed down on me, and in that moment, everything inside me broke. The man who had pulled the trigger may have run, but my uncle’s face was the one that stayed with me. He had brought this nightmare into our home, and for that, I could never forgive him.