Chapter 8 Daria
Daria
The man at the grocery store was Semyon Baranov.
I recognized him the second I saw him. Bogdan’s right-hand man. He used to stand outside our bedroom door while my husband taught me lessons about obedience. He drove me to the hospital after Bogdan broke my wrist and coached me on what to tell the doctors.
I knew Bogdan was watching me, but seeing Semyon was a message from my ex-husband that he can reach me whenever he wants, no matter how carefully I’ve built my walls.
I’m wide awake while Kira sleeps peacefully down the hall. Pyotr has been here for eight days, and during that time, my world has started crumbling around me.
My mind races through the escape options I’ve memorized over the years.
The train station. The bus depot. The ferry to Helsinki, if I can get us passports.
I have a bag packed in the back of my closet with enough spare change to at least get us out of the city, plus clothes for Kira and documents that might pass a cursory inspection.
But where would we go?
Bogdan found me in St. Petersburg not long after we arrived. He’d find me anywhere else I ran.
And now, there’s the added complication of Pyotr.
He’d report my disappearance to Dmitri. My cousin will assume I fled because I’m guilty, and every resource the Kozlov family has will turn toward hunting me down. I’d be running from Bogdan with the Moscow Bratva at my heels.
I roll onto my side and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. The apartment is quiet except for the occasional creak of the old building settling. Somewhere down the hall, I hear Pyotr moving around. Probably checking windows and securing the perimeter.
He does that at least three times every night. I’ve counted.
The man who grabbed Semyon’s wrist today didn’t hesitate.
He crossed the grocery store like a missile locked on its target, and the look on his face when he squeezed Semyon’s arm was something I’ll never forget.
Pure, cold menace. The promise of violence held in check by the thinnest thread of control.
Semyon ran. Bogdan’s enforcer, the man who once made me beg for mercy on my knees, ran from Pyotr Fedorov without a backward glance. When I think about him stepping between Semyon and me, my heart rate kicks up.
What would it be like to have someone stand between me and the threat? Someone strong enough to make even Bogdan’s people run?
I shake off the thought. Pyotr isn’t my protector; he’s my jailer. The fact that he bought my daughter shoes and helped me out once or twice doesn’t change his purpose here.
Later that evening, I make dinner while Kira sets the table with the mismatched plates we’ve collected over the years. She’s been chattering nonstop about a game she played at school, something involving tag and rules so complicated I can’t follow them.
“And then Grisha said that wasn’t fair because velociraptors can’t fly, but I said some dinosaurs could fly, so maybe these ones learned how.” She places a fork exactly as I taught her before she adds, “Pyotr, do you think dinosaurs could learn to fly?”
He looks up from the newspaper he’s been pretending to read. “Some dinosaurs did fly. They were called pterosaurs.”
“See? I told Grisha!” Kira beams at him like he’s confirmed the most important scientific discovery of the century. “You’re really smart, Pyotr.”
“I read a lot.”
“Mama reads a lot, too. She reads me stories every night.” Kira finishes with the forks and moves on to napkins. “Do you have someone to read you stories?”
“No.”
She tilts her head and studies him with that unnerving directness children possess. “That’s sad. Everyone needs someone to read them stories. Do you have a family?”
“Kira,” I warn from the stove. “That’s a personal question.”
“It’s okay,” Pyotr insists, though when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “I don’t have a family. Not anymore.”
Kira furrows her brow and asks, “What happened to them?”
“They died a long time ago.”
“Oh.” She’s quiet for a moment, which is rare for her. Then she walks over to where he’s sitting and pats his arm with her small hand. “That’s really sad. I’m sorry your family died.”
Something that almost looks like pain shows on his face, but he quickly buries it.
“Thank you.”
I turn back to the stove and stir the soup with more focus than the task requires. I don’t want to think about Pyotr as someone who lost his family. I don’t want to see him as human. It’s easier to keep him in the category of threat, enemy, and obstacle to overcome.
But Kira doesn’t understand categories; she just sees a sad man who needs kindness.
Dinner is quiet at first. Kira attacks her soup with enthusiasm while I pick at my bread. Pyotr eats steadily, occasionally running his gaze over the room out of habit.
“Mama,” Kira finally blurts, “is Pyotr my new daddy?”
I choke on a spoonful of broth. “What? No, malyshka. Pyotr is just… he’s staying with us for a little while.”
“But he lives here. And he eats dinner with us. And he braided my hair.” She ticks off each point on her small fingers. “Masha’s daddy lives with her and eats dinner with her and does her hair sometimes. So, isn’t Pyotr like a daddy?”
My face burns hot. I absolutely cannot look at Pyotr right now.
“It’s different,” I manage. “Pyotr is a family friend. He’s helping us with some things.”
“What things?”
“Grownup things.”
Kira sighs dramatically. “I hate grownup things. They’re always boring, and nobody tells me nothing.”
“Anything,” I correct automatically. “Nobody tells you anything.”
“That’s what I said.”
I risk a glance at Pyotr and immediately wish I hadn’t.
The look on his face is almost longing, like he’s imagining a life he never got to have. The moment is quick to pass, and he schools his features back to neutral and returns his attention to his soup.
“Kira,” he says, “your mother is right. I’m here to help for a little while. Then I’ll go back to my home.”
“Where’s your home?”
“Moscow, mostly.”
“Is it nice there?”
“It’s big. Lots of people.”
“I’ve never been to Moscow.” Kira swirls her spoon through her soup. “Mama says maybe someday we can go see the dinosaurs at the museum there.”
“Maybe someday,” I echo, though we both know someday never seems to arrive.
After dinner, I put Kira to bed with her usual routine. Two lullabies tonight because she insists. I sing them both, kiss her forehead, and tell her I love her more than all the stars in the sky.
“I love you more than all the dinosaurs,” she replies, her highest form of devotion.
I close her door and stand in the hallway for a moment, gathering myself.
When I return to the living room, Pyotr is checking the locks on the front door. He tests the deadbolt twice, then moves to the window and examines the latch. He’s already done this once tonight. This makes round two, and I know a third will follow before he sleeps.
I watch him from the hallway as something clicks into place in my mind.
“You do that a lot,” I comment.
He doesn’t startle. He probably heard me coming. “Do what?”
“Check the locks and the windows.”
He straightens and turns to face me. “Old habits.”
“From the military?”
“From life.”
I understand that answer better than he probably realizes. I have my own rituals and compulsive behaviors designed to create the illusion of safety.
I check that Kira’s window is locked every night before I go to sleep, I keep a knife in my nightstand drawer, and I know how many steps it takes to get from my bedroom to hers. I’ve practiced the route in the dark until I can do it blindfolded.
We’re the same, I realize. Both of us are performing desperate little rituals to feel safe in a world that keeps proving safety is an illusion.
“It doesn’t help,” I tell him. “The checking. I used to think that if I locked everything tightly enough, nothing bad could get in. But bad things always find a way.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
I don’t answer. I’ve already said too much.
“The man at the grocery store,” he starts. “He wasn’t just someone you used to know.”
“I told you to drop it.”
“I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m dealing with, Daria.”
“I never asked for your help.”
“Everyone needs help sometimes.”
“Not from people who are here to decide if I live or die.”
The words come out harsher than I intended. I see something flash in his eyes. Hurt, or resignation. The look of a man who’s used to being seen as a monster.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “That was—”
“True,” he finishes. “It was true. People like me aren’t usually in the business of helping.”
“Then why did you step in today? At the store?”
For a moment, he stands silently by the window with the winter night pressing against the glass behind him.
“Because no one should grab a woman like that. Because you looked scared. Because…” He stops and shakes his head. “Because I wanted to.”
It’s not a real answer, but it’s more honest than anything else he could have said.
I don’t know how to respond to that, so instead, I stand there, watching him watch me.
And then his phone dings, breaking the silence. He pulls it out and reads the screen, and his eyes go cold.
“What is it?”
“The man from the grocery store. Semyon Baranov.” He tucks the phone away. “He works for your ex-husband.”
“Well, yeah, but how do you know that?”
“I sent his photo to someone who could identify him. Bogdan Lebedev. That’s who’s been calling you, right? That’s who you’re so afraid of.”
I don’t bother denying it.
He moves to the front door and checks the deadbolt again, then the window latch, and then the chain.
“Starting tonight, you don’t open the door for anyone. Not delivery. Not neighbors. No one you don’t recognize.” He tests the deadbolt a second time before he adds, “If someone knocks, you come get me first.”
“Pyotr—”
“This isn’t negotiable.”
I should remind him that he’s here to investigate me, not protect me.
But the words won’t come, because for once in my life, someone else is checking the locks.