Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Katya
I dream that I'm swimming underwater. Only it isn't water. It's something viscous and suffocating, a substance as thick as syrup, and no matter how hard I kick toward the surface I can't break through.
My heart pounds as I struggle to free myself. Panic wakes me with a start.
Blinking to bring the world into focus, I turn my head to the side. The room around me comes into view and its familiarity both soothes and horrifies me.
At least they haven't taken me to some dank cellar. This is my own bedroom in my father's house in St. Petersburg.
The room is as I left it. The walls are pale blue, the carpet cream. My furniture is light oak. The clothes I left strewn haphazardly on the floor when I raced to pack the night I left have been put away.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I stumble through to the bathroom, cup my hands under the cold tap and take a few small sips. There's an unpleasant metallic tang but if I'm going to die of something I doubt it will be the water.
I straighten and look at myself in the mirror.
My hair is a mess, hanging loose from the elegant knot I'd styled it into.
I'm still wearing the blue dress I wore to lunch with my mother.
That's something, I suppose. I hate the thought of someone stripping me while I was unconscious.
Clearly for my mother that was a violation too far.
As I wash my face I consider what a fool I've been. I shouldn't have trusted my mother in the first place but when she chose that venue and I knew something was off, I should have trusted myself.
I replay what happened at the restaurant, my legs going out from under me, someone catching me as I fell, the waiter taking my mother's cash instead of asking questions about the semi-conscious woman being carried outside. Then I think about Santo. Why didn't he come?
He would have, I realize, if he'd been able. Nausea rises in my throat. What if he was hurt? I couldn't bear it. I can’t think about that now, though. Finding a way out of here has to be my priority.
A movement in the bedroom behind me draws my attention. One of the maids is laying a white dress across the bed. I don't like this girl. Dasha is her name, I think.
But of course, I don't like any of the maids who work for my father. He hand-picks them because they're willing to spread their legs for him. I have no respect for any woman who would sleep with Oleg Kuznetov.
"Madam would like you to wear it," she says, lifting her chin as if daring me to refuse. "You're expected downstairs in five minutes."
"Fine. Get out."
Once she's gone, I put on the dress because there's no advantage in not doing so. I run a brush through my hair and wipe the remnants of makeup from my face. I'll play this game but I'll do it my way.
When I open the door, two large men are waiting in the corridor.
"Dining room," one of them says.
"Oh good," I say. "A family dinner. I can't wait."
As I walk through my former home I find myself longing for the simplicity of Gabriele's Roman villa. This place is a monument to excess. At one time I embraced it but not now. It looks tacky to me. I congratulate myself on my growth.
When I enter the dining room I find the gaudiest room of all. I think since I last ate in here my mother has managed to incorporate even more gold embellishment into the fittings. Bratva women do love their bling and my mother most of all.
"Sit, Katya." My father doesn't look up from his phone. Why would he acknowledge the daughter he had drugged and brought here?
I take my usual seat next to my mother. The table is set for four. I don't ask who else we're expecting because I know even before Sergei Litkov drags his shriveled carcass into the room that it will be him.
He's shorter than I remember and suddenly his arrogance makes sense. He has a Napoleon complex. He settles in his seat opposite my mother and smiles with the satisfaction of a man who believes he's about to collect what he's owed.
He doesn't talk to me, barely glances my way. He addresses my father, discussing me like I'm a piece of furniture they're deciding where to put.
I try to curb my anger as the appetizer arrives. It's borscht, a dish I've never enjoyed. It's a reminder of where I belong. Only I don't anymore. My place is in Italy, at Gabriele's side. When my mother nudges me, I pick up my spoon but I don't eat. I just swirl it around in the bowl.
"I'd have preferred her intact, of course," Sergei says to my father. "But she'll bear me fine sons so I'll take her."
"Oh will you?" I slam down my spoon. "I am not cattle to be traded."
My mother's hand connects with my face so fast I don't see it coming. The slap stings and I work my jaw to ease the pain.
"Keep your tongue still, Katya. Nobody wishes to hear your opinion." She turns to Sergei, bowing her head submissively. "I am sorry, Sergei. My daughter has been allowed to run wild."
The old bastard laughs. "Don't concern yourself, Irina. I will soon break her."
Like hell he will. I don't say that. Instead, I look around the room, figuring out my next move.
They made a mistake in bringing me here. I know this house, every entrance and exit. I know where my father stations his guards and which are liable to disappear for a smoke.
With me here security will have been increased but all is not lost. I know this place well. I can navigate it in the dark if I have to.
Sergei has brought two guards inside the dining room. He'll have more outside. Three cars full, I'm guessing. He has an inflated sense of his own importance.
"What do you say, Katya?" My father's voice cuts through my thoughts. I haven't heard a word they've said for the past few minutes.
"Sorry, Papa?"
"Not to me." It seems he was looking for an apology from me. "To Sergei."
I look at the old man across the table. "I'm sorry, Sergei." There's not a hint of apology in my tone.
He sniffs. "You're defiant now. Let's see how long that lasts."
"Until you take your last breath," I say.
"You should consider," my mother says, in the tone she uses for observations she considers particularly clever, "that she may already be carrying that monster's heir."
Cold slides through my veins. How could she be the one to raise this issue? My mother. How could she put any child I might be carrying at risk by mentioning it in front of these men?
"I'm not," I say, with more confidence than I have any right to feel. Gabriele and I never used contraception. With the arrangement we made it was always expected there would be a child. "And even if I were, it would be a legitimate Volante heir. Does that not concern you, Sergei?"
"The Volantes think too much of themselves," he says. "In Russia they are nothing."
His dismissive attitude irritates me but in the end, hubris will be his downfall.
My husband will come for me and he'll rain down hell on the people who dared to take me from him. Every part of me believes that.
But I can't wait for him, not if there's any chance I'm pregnant. What Sergei would do doesn't bear thinking about.
I need a plan.
There's a path through the gardens that leads to the woodland beyond the estate wall. From there it's a short walk to the main road heading northwest. I could get to Finland if I had to. I could call Gabriele and have him meet me there.
It's an insane plan but I'm not sitting at this table waiting for a better one.
When the next course arrives I slip the steak knife from beside my plate and move it up my sleeve. Nobody notices. They underestimate me. It's one of their greatest flaws.
Dinner drags on for another hour. I eat a little of the lamb but barely taste it. Sergei refuses he offer of sharlotka, something I would have enjoyed even under these circumstances and waves one of his goons over from the door. He grabs my arm and hauls me out of my seat.
My mother steps in front of me and takes my face in her hands. Her grip is firm. Her eyes are entirely dry. She doesn’t feel an ounce of pity for me.
"Do your duty by Sergei, Katyusha," she says. "You owe it to this family."
I look at her for a long moment, this woman who carried me for nine months but never showed me an ounce of affection, and spit in her face.
By the time she recovers I'm already moving.
They drag me toward the front entrance and the waiting cars. I can see three of them through the glass of the door, exactly as I predicted.
As we reach the front steps. I recite the golden rule in my head. Never let them take you to a second location. I suppose, in this case, it's a third, since I was foolish enough to let myself be taken in Rome.
I pull the knife from my sleeve and drive it through the hand of the man holding my arm. He roars in pain. I kick my shoes off and run.
The grass is cold beneath my feet, damp, as I sprint across the lawn. Footsteps thunder behind me. They're fast, but these muscle-bound idiots aren't as nimble as I am. I jump over the flowerbeds my mother is so proud of and head for the woods.
I'm almost at the trees when the gunshots start. Is someone shooting at me?
With no idea which direction they're coming from I do the only safe thing and drop to the ground. I cover my head as chaos erupts around me.
The night explodes with gunfire. Men shout orders at each other in Italian. Wait. Italian? It's then I realize what's happening. My husband has come for me.
I start to crawl toward the line of trees up ahead, determined to reach safety. Hands pull me to my feet and I open my mouth to scream, only to find it's Lukas who has me.
He drags me from the line of fire with the calm efficiency of a man who's done this a thousand times before.
There are men everywhere, including guards I recognize from the villa. I look for Gabriele and see him, striding toward me.
Closing the distance between us, I fling myself into his arms. I press my face against his chest and cry as relief sweeps over me.
"I've got you, dolcezza." His voice is rough. "I've got you. You're safe."
"Yes." I look around at the organized chaos of my rescue. "You brought an army."
"For you, Katya, I did." He brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. "My brothers came."
"Good." We'll unpack the significance of that later. I let him lead me toward the car. "That's good."
As we reach the car, I stop. Before I leave this place I have to know. "Santo?"
He hesitates. It's brief but enough to tell me what's coming. I brace myself, still hoping I’m wrong.
Then he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.
I stagger back, out of his reach, and a sound more animal than human tears from my throat.