Chapter 14 Daria
Daria
The walk to Kira’s school takes twelve minutes when the weather cooperates.
The weather is not cooperating today. Sleet falls in diagonal sheets, turning the sidewalks into an obstacle course of gray slush and hidden ice. Kira clings to my hand, and her new boots splash through puddles while she chatters about the art project she’s going to finish today.
“We’re making paper snowflakes, Mama. Mrs. Antonova said mine was the prettiest so far, but I haven’t finished yet because I wanted to add more sparkles. Do you think Pyotr would like a snowflake? I could make him one with extra sparkles.”
“I’m sure he would love that.”
“I’m going to make it green, because green is his favorite color.”
“How do you know green is his favorite color?”
“He said he liked my green T. Rex the best.” She says this like it’s the most obvious logic in the world. “So green must be his favorite.”
I smile despite the cold seeping through my coat.
These moments with her are the only things that keep me sane.
The simple pleasure of walking her to school, listening to her plans for the day, and watching her face light up when she talks about glitter and dinosaurs and the man who has somehow become the center of her small universe.
We reach the school gates, and I crouch to zip her jacket to her chin. “Be good today. Listen to your teachers.”
“I’m always good.”
“I know you are.” I kiss her forehead. “I love you more than all the stars.”
“I love you more than all the dinosaurs.” She throws her arms around my neck for a quick hug, then races off toward the entrance where her friend Masha is waiting.
I watch until she disappears through the doors. I always watch until she disappears. It’s one of my rituals. Small acts of control in a life where I control almost nothing.
The walk home is longer without her. The sleet has turned to proper rain, and it drums against my hood and soaks through my thin gloves. I’m thinking about the lessons I need to prepare for this afternoon when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out, expecting a message from one of my student’s parents.
What I see instead turns my blood to ice.
It’s a photograph of Kira’s school, taken from across the street.
The angle captures the front entrance, the colorful banners in the windows, and the cluster of children streaming through the gates.
In the corner of the frame, barely visible but unmistakably there, I see myself crouching to zip Kira’s jacket.
The photo was taken minutes ago.
My eyes drop to the message beneath the image.
Dinner tonight. 8 p.m. Pushkin Restaurant. Come alone, or don’t come at all. Your choice what happens next.
Bogdan is here. In St. Petersburg. Early.
My hands shake so badly that I nearly drop the phone.
I look around wildly, searching the street for any sign of him.
Any dark car parked at the curb or figure watching from a doorway.
But the rain has driven everyone indoors, and the sidewalks are empty except for a few hunched-over pedestrians hurrying to their destinations.
He could be anywhere. He could be watching me right now.
I keep walking even though every instinct screams at me to run back to the school, grab Kira, and disappear. But he wants me panicked. He wants me to make stupid decisions that he can use against me later.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I stop shaking by the time I reach the apartment. Pyotr looks up from his laptop when I enter, and his eyes narrow as he takes in my face.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” The lie comes automatically. “Just cold. The rain is getting worse.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. That’s one of the things I’ve come to appreciate about him. He knows when to ask questions and when to wait.
I hang up my wet coat and retreat to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. In the mirror, my face is pale and drawn. I look like a woman who’s seen a ghost.
Maybe I have.
I pull out my phone and stare at the photograph again. The casual cruelty of it takes my breath away. He wanted me to know he was watching. Wanted me to understand that he could have reached out and touched Kira, and there would have been nothing I could do to stop him.
The message is clear. He owns me. He always has.
I spend the next several hours going through the motions. Teaching lessons, making lunch, and pretending everything is normal while my mind races through scenarios and contingencies.
I can’t bring Kira home tonight. I can’t risk Bogdan showing up at the apartment or following her from school. I need her somewhere safe, somewhere he won’t think to look.
I text one of the mothers from Kira’s class. Masha’s mom, Natasha, has offered to take Kira for playdates before, and she’s reliable.
Any chance Kira could come to your place after school today? Emergency work thing came up.
The response comes within minutes.
Of course! Masha will be thrilled. Pick her up whenever you’re done.
One problem solved. A hundred more to go.
When my last student leaves for the day, I find Pyotr in the kitchen making coffee. He’s been watching me all afternoon, and I know he knows something is wrong. But I can’t tell him the truth about this.
“I’m going out tonight.” I keep my voice casual. “Meeting an old friend for dinner.”
He sets down the coffee pot and turns to face me. “What friend?”
“Someone from Moscow. She’s in town for work and wanted to catch up.”
“I didn’t know you had friends in Moscow.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I’ve arranged for Natasha to pick up Kira from school and keep her for the evening. You should take the night off. Go do whatever you do when you’re not babysitting us.”
Pyotr eyes me, and I can see him weighing my words, looking for the lie buried beneath them. He’s good at reading people. Too good.
“What’s her name?” he asks. “This friend.”
“Elena. We went to conservatory together.”
“And she just happened to be in St. Petersburg the same week your ex-husband threatened to come here?”
“That’s a coincidence.” I wave him off.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Then believe what you want.” I grab my purse from the counter and head for the door. “I’ll be back by eleven.”
“Daria.”
I stop with my hand on the doorknob. His voice is quiet, but there’s a warning underneath it.
“If you’re in trouble, you can tell me. You know that, right?”
I want to. God, I want to. I want to turn around and tell him everything. About the photograph. About the dinner. About the fact that my ex-husband is in this city right now, watching our daughter’s school, and waiting to destroy what little I have left.
But telling him means involving him, and involving him means putting him in Bogdan’s crosshairs.
“I’m fine,” I say without turning around. “Don’t wait up.”
Pushkin Restaurant is the kind of place I never would have chosen.
Crystal chandeliers dangle from vaulted ceilings. White tablecloths drape over tables spaced far enough apart to ensure privacy. The silverware is real silver. It’s much too flashy for my taste. I’ve come to appreciate simplicity.
Bogdan is seated when I arrive. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, and his dark hair is styled with the same meticulous care I remember from our marriage. He looks the same as he did three years ago. The kind of man who photographs well and charms everyone in the room.
The kind of man who breaks bones behind closed doors.
“Darling.” He rises as I approach and kisses my cheek before I can pull away. “You look tired. Motherhood doesn’t agree with you.”
I sit across from him and fold my hands in my lap to hide their trembling. “What do you want, Bogdan?”
“Straight to business. I’ve always loved that about you.” He signals to the waiter. “A bottle of the 2015 Chateau Margaux, please. And give us a few minutes before we order.”
The waiter disappears, and Bogdan turns his attention back to me. His eyes move over my face, taking in every detail, no doubt looking for weaknesses to exploit.
“How is our daughter?” he asks pleasantly. “I hear she’s doing well in school. Mrs. Antonova seems quite fond of her.”
My blood runs cold. “How do you know her teacher’s name?”
“I know everything about Kira’s life, Daria. Her teachers. Her friends. The little boy who pulls her hair at recess. The route she walks to school every morning with her mother.” He smiles. “Did you really think you could hide her from me?”
“I wasn’t hiding her; I was protecting her.”
“From her father?” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “You’ve filled her head with lies. Made her afraid of me. That stops now.”
The wine arrives, and the waiter pours two glasses. Bogdan swirls his before taking a sip. I don’t touch mine.
“I didn’t come here to discuss Kira’s upbringing,” I say.
“No, you came because I told you to come.” He sets down his glass and reaches into the briefcase beside his chair. “Let me show you why.”
He slides a folder across the table.
I open it with fingers that refuse to stop shaking. Inside are photographs. Dmitri leaving a building I don’t recognize. Dmitri getting into a black car. Dmitri shaking hands with a man in a military uniform. Each image is time-stamped and annotated with locations, names, and dates.
“Where did you get these?”
“That’s not your concern. What is your concern is delivering similar intelligence about Dmitri’s upcoming activities. Travel schedules. Meeting locations. Security details. Anything that would be useful to people who wish to know his movements.”
“I’ve told you before that I don’t have access to that kind of information. I’m not involved—”
“If you can’t get me the information I need, I will file for custody of Kira.
I have documentation of your family’s criminal connections.
Photographs of the men who visit your apartment.
Evidence of the accounts in your name that have been moving money for organizations the government would very much like to shut down.
” He pauses to take another sip of wine.
“How do you think a family court judge will react when I present all of that?”
“You created those accounts. You moved that money.”
He smiles and shrugs. “You can’t prove that. You have one week, Daria. Bring me something useful about Dmitri’s plans, or I’ll take our daughter and destroy whatever remains of your reputation.”
I want to scream, throw the wine in his face, and watch it stain his perfect suit. I want to grab one of the crystal glasses and drive it into his throat.
Instead, I close the folder and slide it back across the table.
“One week,” I repeat.
“One week.” He picks up his menu and scans it with casual interest. “Now, shall we order? The lamb here is excellent.”