Chapter 6 Daria
Daria
The sole of Kira’s left shoe slaps the floor as she toddles to the breakfast table.
I’ve been pretending not to notice for three days.
Every morning, I watch her shuffle across the apartment, and every morning, I tell myself I’ll figure something out.
The hole in her right shoe has grown from a pinprick to something I can fit my finger through, and the left sole is hanging on by a thread.
“Mama, my foot is cold,” Kira announces as she climbs into her chair. “There’s a hole, and the snow gets in.”
“I know, malyshka. We’ll fix it soon.”
“When is soon?”
“Soon.”
She accepts this non-answer like she’s learned not to push, and my chest tightens.
Pyotr glances up from his coffee, and I see his gaze flit to Kira’s feet. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch his eyes narrowing slightly. There’s no judgment, which I appreciate. I’m doing the best I can.
“I need to stop by the secondhand shop after my lessons today,” I tell no one in particular as I pour Kira’s juice. “See if they have anything in her size.”
Pyotr’s only response is a slight nod before he returns to his coffee.
What makes me most sick is that I could fix this problem in an instant. One withdrawal from the account Bogdan set up in my name, and I could buy Kira ten pairs of shoes. Twenty. Enough to last her until she outgrows them all.
But he watches that money. Touch it once, and he gets what he wants: proof that I’m his partner.
So, I count the rubles in my wallet and figure out how many lessons it’ll take to buy her a decent pair. The answer is too many.
After breakfast, I walk Kira to school and watch her trudge through the slush with her broken footwear. She doesn’t complain. She never does. Sometimes, I wish she would, so I could feel justified in my frustration instead of drowning in guilt.
“Mama, why do some kids have boots with fur inside?” she asks as we pass a group of children in expensive winter gear.
“Different families have different things, malyshka.”
“Masha has fur boots. She says they’re warm like wearing a hug on her feet.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Maybe I could have fur boots someday?”
“Maybe someday.”
She squeezes my hand and doesn’t ask again. That quiet acceptance guts me more than any tantrum ever could.
The secondhand shop near our apartment has nothing in her size. Neither does the one three blocks away. I check each pair twice, hoping I missed something, but the smallest shoes available would swim on Kira’s feet.
By the time I return home to prepare for my afternoon lessons, my shoes are soaked through, and everything in me has gone gray.
Pyotr is sitting in the living room when I come through the door, reading something on his phone. He briefly looks up, takes in my defeated posture and dripping coat, and returns to his screen without comment.
I don’t know why his silence bothers me. It shouldn’t. He’s not here to help me; he’s here to watch me, gather evidence, and determine whether I live or die.
But a desperate part of me wanted him to ask how it went. To show some sign that he noticed my struggle, even if he can’t do anything about it.
I hang my coat by the door and watch water pool on the floor. Another mess. Another small failure.
My lessons go poorly. I can’t concentrate, and my students pay for it. When young Grisha hits the same wrong note for the fifth time, my patience snaps.
The sharpness in my voice makes him blink as if I’ve slapped him. Shame punches through me. He’s a child. None of this is his fault.
“I’m sorry.” I soften my voice. “That was unkind of me. Let’s try again, slower this time.”
He nods and positions his small fingers on the keys, and I hate myself for taking my frustration out on an eight-year-old boy who just wants to learn piano.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling while Kira sleeps down the hall in her too-cold room with her too-broken shoes waiting by the door.
I think about calling Polina again, but what would I even say? She doesn’t need my problems on top of her own.
Besides, she still hasn’t returned my calls. Maybe she’s done with me. Maybe she’s realized that being connected to her disaster of a little sister is more trouble than it’s worth.
Morning comes too quickly.
I drag myself out of bed and make my way toward Kira’s room to wake her for school. The apartment is quiet, and Pyotr’s door is closed. Maybe he’s still sleeping. Maybe he’s lying awake like I was, thinking about whatever keeps men like him up at night.
I push open Kira’s door and freeze.
A shoebox sits inside her room, positioned neatly against the doorframe near her closet. I’ve seen the logo in the windows of stores I can’t afford to enter.
My hands tremble as I pick it up and lift the lid.
Inside are children’s shoes in Kira’s size, according to the tag. They’re sturdy and warm, with thick soles and waterproof lining. These are the kind of shoes that will keep her feet dry through the rest of winter and probably into next year.
I stand there holding the box with my jaw on the floor. Did Pyotr buy these? When? How did he know her size? Why would he do something like this?
There’s no note, but it had to be him. No one else could get inside with the way he guards the entrance.
Anger rises in my chest, even if I can’t explain it. I don’t want his pity or charity. I’ve spent three years building a life for myself and my daughter without help from anyone, and I refuse to start accepting handouts now. Especially from a man who might be the one to end my life.
I march down the hallway and pound on his door.
“Come—”
I shove the door open before he finishes the invitation and find him dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed, and lacing his boots. He looks up at me with ice-gray eyes, calm despite the way I’m heaving.
“What is this?” I thrust the shoebox toward him.
“Shoes.”
“I can see they’re shoes. Why are they in my daughter’s room?”
He shrugs. “Her current shoes have holes.”
“That’s not your business.”
He stands, and suddenly, the room feels terribly small. He towers over me, and I suck in a deep breath to keep myself from shrinking away.
“She said yesterday that her feet were cold,” he says. “Children need shoes that keep their feet warm.”
Tears scorch my eyes, but I blink them back. “I was handling it. I don’t want your pity, Pyotr.”
“It’s not pity.” He knits his brows.
“Then what is it?”
He holds eye contact for a long moment, like he’s debating how to answer without pissing me off even more.
“Children need shoes,” he says finally. “That’s all.”
There’s no warmth in his voice, no attempt to make me feel better about accepting his charity. Just a flat statement, as if buying expensive shoes for my daughter was the most logical thing in the world.
I want to argue. I want to throw the box at his head and tell him to mind his own business. But then I remember the way Kira said “the snow gets in” like it was another inconvenience she’d learned to accept.
“I’ll pay you back,” I tell him through gritted teeth.
“I don’t expect you to do that.”
“I’ll pay you back, or I won’t take them.”
He lets out a long sigh and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Fine. Pay me back. No rush.”
We both know I probably never will, but the lie allows me to accept the gift without feeling like I’ve surrendered something essential about myself.
I turn and walk out without thanking him. I can’t. The words would stick in my throat like broken glass.
Kira is thrilled with her new shoes. She puts them on within seconds of waking up and spends five minutes walking around the apartment, marveling at how warm and dry her feet feel.
She asks where they came from, and I tell her someone left them as a gift.
She accepts this explanation with the easy faith of childhood and rushes off to show Pyotr.
I watch from the kitchen as she tugs on his hand and makes him inspect each shoe, pointing out the thick soles and the waterproof lining.
He squats in front of her and examines them with the same seriousness he brought to her glitter dinosaur, nodding along as she chatters about how she’ll be able to jump in puddles now without getting wet.
“They’re very practical,” he tells her. “Good for puddle jumping.”
“Do you jump in puddles?” Kira asks.
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I got too big. The puddles don’t stand a chance.”
She giggles at this, and my chest tangles tight. I tell myself it’s gratitude, nothing more.
The afternoon passes quietly. I teach my lessons while Pyotr does whatever he does, and by the time my last student leaves, the winter sun has already started to set.
Pyotr’s phone rings as I’m cleaning up the sheet music scattered across the piano. I glance over and see him answer with his face neutral.
Then it changes.
His jaw sets hard, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. He turns away from me and speaks so low that I can’t make out what he’s saying. When he hangs up, he stands motionless for a long moment, staring at nothing.
“What is it?” I ask, preparing for the worst.
“It’s started. Investigators are building their case.”
I knew this was coming. Dmitri told me that the warrant had dropped and the accounts were frozen.
My meager savings account—the one I opened when I fled to St. Petersburg that Bogdan doesn’t control or know about—is untouched for now. Most of my students pay in cash, so I can keep food on the table.
It was only a matter of time before the authorities got started, but hearing the confirmation makes my stomach plummet anyway.
“What does that mean for me?”
He pauses as though he’s trying to find the words before he says, “It means your time is running out.”
I sink onto the piano bench. I’ve spent three years building a life out of nothing, and now it’s crumbling because my ex-husband used my identity as a shield for his crimes.
“Dmitri will want answers soon,” Pyotr continues. “If I can’t give him proof of your innocence, he’ll have to assume the worst.”
“And what happens then?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
I spend the rest of the evening in a fog. I go through the motions of dinner and Kira’s bedtime routine, but my mind is trapped in a maze with no exit, running from threats that multiply no matter which way I turn.
Kira asks me to sing her favorite lullaby twice before she’ll close her eyes. I do it because I can’t deny her anything tonight, not when my time with her might be measured in days.
After Kira falls asleep, I sit at the kitchen table and empty her backpack the way I do every night. Permission slips, artwork, and the occasional forgotten snack wrapper.
Tonight, my fingers brush something that doesn’t belong.
A crisp, white envelope with no postage or return address. Just Kira’s name written across the front in handwriting I’d recognize anywhere.
Bogdan’s handwriting.
My hands go numb as I tear it open.
Inside is a formal custody petition. The header bears the seal of a Moscow family court, and my ex-husband’s name appears in bold print as the petitioner. The filing date is two days ago.
He’s already started.
I review the pages as my vision swims. Phrases jump out at me like knife wounds. Unfit mother. Criminal associations. Unstable living environment. Immediate transfer of custody recommended.
A photograph of Kira walking into her school this morning is clipped to the last page. Her new shoes are bright against the gray slush. The angle is too close. Someone stood within arm’s reach of my daughter and snapped this picture.
My phone vibrates on the table with an incoming text from a blocked number.
Found the present I left in her backpack? I’m closer than you think, darling. Bring me something useful about Dmitri’s plans. Soon. Or the next envelope she brings home will be a summons.
The phone slips from my fingers and clatters against the table.
He was at her school. He touched her backpack. He stood close enough to photograph her face. Either him or one of his men.
Bogdan proved that he doesn’t need to touch me to get to me.
I press my palms against my mouth to trap the scream building in my throat. My daughter is asleep twenty feet away, dreaming about puddle-jumping in her new shoes, and her father is circling her like a wolf waiting for the right moment to strike.
Dmitri wants proof of my innocence. Bogdan wants me to become the traitor Dmitri already suspects I am. And somewhere between, my little girl carries threats home in her backpack without knowing.
I stare at the custody petition until the words blur.
No matter which way I turn, someone is waiting to destroy me. The only question left is who will strike first.