37. Tayana
37
TAYANA
T he hallway stretches endlessly before us, dimly lit and suffocating, the shadows flickering like specters against the walls. My feet barely touch the ground as Igor drags me forward, his grip an unyielding vise around my arm. Every step feels like I’m being hauled deeper into the abyss. Behind us, the clash of chaos fades, muffled by distance, but not by fear.
Guards flank us, their footsteps heavy and relentless. Each one keeps a hand on their weapon, ready to cut down anyone brave—or foolish—enough to follow. A faint voice shouts in the distance, but it’s swallowed by the cavernous hallway, and I don’t dare look back. My heart thunders in my chest, each beat a hammer against my ribs, but Igor doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. He’s too assured of his control, his confidence a silent threat that keeps my blood cold.
The path seems endless, a cruel labyrinth designed to strip away any hope of escape. Finally, we come to a towering iron door, its surface mottled with history and time. Igor pauses, pulling out a massive key that scrapes against the lock. The sound reverberates in the silence like the tolling of a bell, ominous and final. With a metallic groan, the door swings open, and he shoves me inside.
The room beyond is circular, oppressive, its high walls leading to an arched ceiling that curves like a crown. My breath catches—it’s a tower. A prison disguised as a sanctuary. Igor doesn’t stop moving. He propels me forward toward another door, smaller but just as foreboding, and pushes it open.
Cold air rushes in, biting and sharp, and I realize where we’re headed: a rooftop. My shoes scuff against the ancient stone tiles as he yanks me through the hatch and out onto the precarious surface. The world opens up around me, vast and unforgiving, the wind howling like a living thing.
The tiles beneath my feet are slick with dew or maybe frost—I can’t tell in the dim moonlight. My steps falter, and I nearly lose my footing, but Igor is there, his hand snapping out to catch me before I go over the edge. His grip is ironclad, his gaze cutting as he pulls me upright.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice devoid of concern, more a reminder of my worth alive.
We continue across the uneven surface, my heart pounding with every precarious step. Below us, the compound sprawls like a dark beast, lit sporadically by bursts of gunfire. Men scramble on the ground, their movements frantic, but none dare raise their weapons. I’m a shield, a hostage wrapped in Igor’s will, and they all know it.
Ahead, on the flat expanse of the roof, a helicopter waits. Its blades are still, a predator poised for flight, its shadow stretching long and ominous under the pale light. The pilot sits ready, the engine thrumming softly, a reminder of our impending escape.
Igor stops near the edge, his fingers digging into my arm as he surveys the scene below. His expression is calm, almost bored, but his eyes flick with calculation. He’s weighing every move, every angle, and I’m just another piece on his board.
I glance down at the men below, their faces blurring into indistinct shapes in the chaos. They’re waiting, desperate for an opportunity, but none comes. No one dares to fire. No one dares to risk hitting me.
Igor leans in close, his breath cold against my ear. “Look at them,” he murmurs, gesturing to the chaos below. “Scurrying like ants. All this for you, kotyonok . You’ve really made your mark.”
I don’t respond. My throat is dry, my words caught somewhere between defiance and fear. I have no doubt this will be the last time my feet hit the grounds of this city. It’s highly doubtful that I will ever see any of these people again, and even more doubtful that I will ever visit the country I’ve made my home for the past seven years. Igor hates leaving Russia – if he has his way, I’ll never step foot out of his mother country again unless it’s in my coffin.
He starts walking again, dragging me toward the helicopter. My shoes scrape against the roof, catching on uneven tiles, but his grip doesn’t falter. With each step, the sound of the engine grows louder, drowning out the chaos below, until it’s the only thing I can hear.
We stop just short of the helicopter, its open door a gaping maw waiting to swallow me whole. Igor doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His hand tightens around my arm, and I know I’m not leaving this roof unless it’s with him.
But something shifts—movement from below, a ripple in the chaos. One of the guards shouts, and Igor’s attention snaps toward the edge of the roof. For the first time, there’s uncertainty in his posture, a hesitation that sends a flicker of hope through my chest.
The blades of the helicopter whir to life, slicing through the night air with an ever-increasing roar. Igor’s grip on my arm is unrelenting as he steers me toward the open door. The chaos on the ground—men shouting, scrambling for position, weapons aimed but never fired—blurs into a haze of sound and movement beneath us.
“Move,” Igor commands, his tone as sharp as the wind whipping around us.
I climb into the helicopter reluctantly, my every muscle tensed for an opportunity that doesn’t come. The interior is sterile and cold, a far cry from the pandemonium outside. Igor climbs in behind me, settling into the seat across from mine. His dark eyes lock onto me, and I feel their weight like a physical thing, oppressive and suffocating, even as Rafi’s voice breaks through the noise and carries on the soft breeze, my name a cry that echoes into the night.
As the helicopter lifts off, the compound below becomes a patchwork of dark shapes and flashing lights. I crane my neck, trying to catch one last glimpse of the others, of the life I’m leaving behind—but Igor snaps his fingers, drawing my attention back to him.
“Eyes on me, kotyonok ,” he says, a smirk curling the edge of his lips.
I don’t respond, instead glaring at him in silence. He seems to enjoy it, his gaze narrowing in mock amusement.
After a moment, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What is that man to you?” he asks, his voice low, probing.
I know exactly who he’s referring to, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a straight answer. “I’d tell you,” I say, my tone bitter, “if it were any of your business.”
He chuckles, the sound deep and unsettling. “So... feisty,” he murmurs. “Your mother... you are just like her.”
The words land like a blow, but I refuse to let him see the impact. My jaw tightens, and I meet his gaze with steel in my own. “You don’t get to talk about her!” I hiss.
He tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“You’ve grown to be a beautiful young woman, Tayana. She would have been proud of you.” He’s almost wistful as he says this, but I’m not foolish enough to believe that Igor cares about anyone but himself.
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find me. Why? What do you want, Igor?”
For a moment, the only sound is the rhythmic thrum of the helicopter blades. Then, he smiles, a slow, deliberate thing that chills me to my core.
“A family reunion,” he says simply. Before I can press him further, he gestures toward the headphones hanging beside my seat. “Put them on,” he instructs. “We’re about to take off properly.”
The rest of the flight passes in strained silence. Igor watches me with the kind of intensity that makes my skin crawl, but he says nothing else. The landscape below shifts from dense forest to open fields to the faint glow of a private airstrip.
When we land, the helicopter door opens to reveal a sleek black car waiting on the tarmac. Igor gestures for me to exit first, his hand resting lightly on my back as though he’s guiding me, not holding me hostage.
The drive is short but tense, the silence between us thick with unspoken words, until we arrive at a Victorian style mansion sitting on the bank of a stream. It would be idyllic, picture perfect, if it weren’t for the circumstances I’ve found myself in.
“Behave, Tayana. Or the friend I’m going to introduce you to will pay the price for your misbehavior.”
Igor leads me past a check-in desk where a man and lady barely glance my way, through an opulent entrance hall and up a flight of carpeted stairs into what can only be described as a guest suite. It’s luxurious—too luxurious for a prisoner.
Igor pauses at the door, his expression unreadable. “Stay here,” he says. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t try anything, Tayana. Consequences,” he reminds me.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left alone. Or so I think.
I turn, scanning the room, and freeze when I see her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, looking as though she’s been waiting for me, is a woman.
Her eyes meet mine, and the air seems to shift, heavy with the weight of a thousand questions.
She rises to her feet.
“Maxine?” My voice is barely a whisper, disbelief coloring every syllable. I’ve seen enough photos to know what she looks like. And the resemblance to Brando’s wife Mia is uncanny.
We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving, until finally, I take a hesitant step forward.
Her hair is a mess of blond locks, and I imagine that her flat blue eyes were once soulful, dancing with life and laughter. Her clothes are simple, a little worn, and they hang off her. Loose blue jeans that look like they’re a couple of sizes too big, and a plain, billowy white shirt that’s buttoned to her neck. She’s wearing Skechers which have seen better days. Not the sort of clothes I imagine she would have chosen for herself in her past life, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers when you find yourself sold into a human smuggling ring.
“Omg…I can’t believe you’re actually here. It’s you.” My voice is trembling.
Maxine’s expression is a mix of relief and guilt, and she doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes a deep breath, as though preparing herself for something monumental.
“Do I know you?” she asks finally.