Chapter 7
TATI
So, I guess I can be let out of my cage on special occasions like weddings. Good to know.
This morning, my father came into my room and informed me that I’m to get ready to be fitted for a dress for my cousin’s wedding this afternoon.
The moment I heard she was getting married, I figured I’d be expected to attend.
Under these new rules, where I need to be cloistered away until I “grow up”, I haven’t really been sure my father would adhere to that expectation.
So, now I’m standing on a block in the middle of the living room while a seamstress judges my figure in this long, blue thing with fluffy taffeta sleeves and a square neckline. All while my father and Yanov watch.
She’s kneeling next to me, pinning parts of the hem so I don’t trip and fall over this thing when I walk. Through the pins in her mouth, she tells my father in Russian, “Her legs are very short. Much shorter than I remember.”
“Her mother was short,” he returns in Russian. “And her mother before her. It’s genetic, unfortunately.”
“Hmm,” she grunts. She sticks the last pin in and sits back on her heels, looking up at the dress. “Her hips are also very wide, and her bosom is far too large. A girl as small as she is shouldn’t eat so much. She’ll turn into a meatball.”
“I hear men like women with a little meat on the bone,” I say to her in Russian. Her face flushes and she looks away from me, embarrassed. I don’t know which is more insulting, the fact that this little old lady thought I didn’t speak Russian, or the fact that my father knows I do.
“Tatiana,” my father says sharply. I roll my eyes and drop the self-serving smile from my face.
“In any event,” the seamstress says, “all that’s left to do is to readjust the hem and give a few other final touches to the gown. It shouldn’t take but a few hours and I can have the dress back to you before your niece’s wedding.”
“Good,” my father says with a slow nod, looking me up and down. There’s no mirror in this room for me to see myself, and for once, that’s a good thing. With these itchy, puffball sleeves, I dread seeing myself in this getup. I imagine I look like a clown heading to a formal.
“She will change her hair, yes?” the seamstress asks my father. “That dreadful color will clash with the blue. Her natural hair color is much more suited for this dress.”
My natural hair color. That ugly, mousy brown that I’ve lived my whole life with. I grimace at the very idea of changing it.
My father, on the other hand, just says, “Of course. We’ll take care of that today as well.”
“Hold on,” I say in English. “I’m not changing my hair.”
My father gives the seamstress a side glance as she looks down at her tools and starts putting them away. To me, he says, “Yes. You will.”
“No, I won’t,” I say back to him. “I like my hair and I refuse to change it. For anyone.”
He steps up to me and growls through clenched teeth, “You will change it or I will force your head under water until it washes out on its own.”
I have to clench my fists to keep from flinching away from him. He’d love it if I showed him fear. “I’ll shave it all off before I let you touch my hair,” I say back at him. “It’s staying, or I’ll go to this wedding completely bald.”
He starts to retort, but Yanov speaks up.
He’s been sitting on the coffee table watching this entire thing silently.
I don’t even know why he’s here. “Sir, maybe let her have this one. We still have a lot to do and we don’t have time to deal with” —he waves his hand dismissively at me— “that. Let her have her cotton candy hair. She’ll look the fool. Not you.”
Ugh, he’s such a dick. If I didn’t see the decision to leave me alone about it changing in his eyes, I’d argue with him. I’m serious. I’ll go bald before I change my color back to the stupid shade of shit brown it was before.
“I’d rather she not look the fool at all,” he says, looking me up and down, his mouth twisted with disgust. “But you’re right. If she wants to look like a circus clown, then let her.”
He turns away and pulls out one of his stinking cigarettes.
“Can I go now?”
He waves me off, and I step off the block and head out of the parlor and to my room as quickly as possible. If I have to show up in this God-awful thing, I’ll be damned if it’s going to smell like his cigarettes, too.
I get out of the dress fairly quickly and put on my regular blue jeans and plain white shirt. The seamstress knocks gently on my door. “I need the dress, Ms. Aronin—”
I open the door and hand her the dress, then close the door. I wish I could get out of this whole thing. I suppose I should be happy that he’s even letting me out of my cage to go somewhere, even if it’s just to keep up appearances.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I grab it and see that it’s Marla calling. “Hey,” I sigh as I lie down on my bed.
“Hey. Just checking in. How are you holding up?”
I have to think my response through. There are so many ways I could answer this. “It’s been two weeks, Mar,” I say. “I can’t believe he’s still keeping this whole thing up for two weeks. It’s ridiculous.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish there were something I could do.”
“Mmm,” I grumble. “It’s fine. I mean, I pick the lock every morning to raid the kitchen, so it’s not all that bad.”
“If you can pick the lock, you can leave.”
“And go where? The man found me in a strip club in Overtoom, Amsterdam. I don’t think there’s anywhere on earth that I can run to where he won’t eventually find me and drag me back here. No, I’m going to need a game plan if I’m ever going to leave this house again and stay gone.”
“That really sucks.”
“Yeah… but hey, maybe I can disappear for a few hours without him knowing. We could hit a club or something this weekend. What do you say?”
“Mmm, I don’t think that’s a good idea. If one of his guys sees you—”
“Oh, they all want to fuck me. They won’t say anything if I flirt with them. Come on.”
She laughs. “I’ll think about it. Speaking of your father’s men, though, how’s the seduction plan going with Viktor?”
“It’s not, and it’s not looking like it’s going to happen,” I say sadly.
“I’ve seen him off and on over the last few weeks, but I’m never alone with him.
Not since the whole thing in the kitchen that one time.
” I pause, remembering how good he smelled and the way he looked at me with those dark, iridescent eyes, like he was itching to keep me in line.
“I’ll probably see him later today, though. ”
“Oh?”
“My cousin is getting married and Papa was invited. I have to go in a very ugly dress, so…” I sigh heavily. It feels like my heart is weighing me down. “I guess there goes my shot to wow him.”
“Eek,” she says. “How ugly are we talking?”
“It’s got taffeta sleeves.”
“Okay. Yikes.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “It’s whatever. You were probably right all along. I shouldn’t mess around with Bratva men. They’re trouble.”
Viktor comes back to mind. I’ve only ever seen him half-dressed a few times in my life. Sparring with my brother in the backyard, wearing a tank top with his arms out, covered in tattoos, his dark hair wet with sweat and shining in the sunlight.
I’ll bet it’s all the same… except now there’s silver in his hair. Dammit, I wish I weren’t so fucking cursed.
“Did you get a picture of the dress?” Marla asks. “I kind of want to see how bad it is.”
I sigh and look through the pictures on my phone. The seamstress sent me a photo about a week ago when it was half-finished. I should have just faked a flu or something then.
I find the photo and send it to her. A few seconds go by and then she sucks air through her teeth. “Wow. That might actually be worse than what I pictured in my head.”
“It’s pretty bad, huh?”
“Yeah… but you know what? If it had a couple of adjustments, it might be pretty sexy.”
I pull the photo up of the dress. It hangs on the mannequin looser around the chest and hips than it does on me and the sleeves aren’t as puffy as they turned out, but it’s still pretty hideous. “I don’t see it.”
“Well, take off the sleeves and maybe a slit up the side. That could be pretty hot.”
I look at the photo and try to imagine that. Yeah. It could be smoking hot. “Marla,” I say to her. “You are a genius.”
I take a deep breath and open my eyes.
I’m standing in front of the mirror in the altered dress. The material is still snug on my hips and breasts, making it almost look painted on, but I’ve cut the sleeves off and cut the seam on the side of the dress, creating a long slit up to my hips.
Without the ugly sleeves, there’s nothing but the straps over my shoulders. My thick thigh sticks out of the dress, making my “short legs” look longer and more appetizing.
I managed my curls so that they hang gently past my shoulders. I did my face up with soft colors around my cheeks and eyes, but my lips are fire engine red. I smile, watching the heart shape of them turn up at the sides.
Papa is going to flip. Good. Maybe he’ll make me stay home and I can sneak out. This whole plan is a win-win for me.
“Tatiana!” I hear through my door. “It’s time to go! The car is here!”
I snicker to myself and grab the matching clutch. “Coming!”
Out of my room and to the stairs. I start the spiral walk to the bottom, holding my dress so that I don’t trip over the hem. I glance up at my father and my heart sinks. He’s not even paying attention. He’s looking down at his phone. When I get to the last step, I say, “Ready, Papa.”
“Good.” He glances up at me, then back to his phone… then he looks back up at me. I watch as his face turns, his brow furrows, and his jaw clenches. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
I look down innocently at the dress. “What do you mean? This is the dress that you had made for—”
“That is not the fucking dress I had made for you. Go back upstairs and put on the right dress.”
“This is the right dress,” I tell him. “I just made some adjustments, that’s all.”
He glares at me for an eternity, and I know the wheels are turning behind his eyes. Does he believe me? And if he does, which path does he choose? Drag me back upstairs and lock me away, or let it go so we can leave already?
I watch him look away, grinding his teeth. He stalks over to the coat rack and grabs one of his old jackets. “Put this on.”
I take it from him and raise my eyebrow at him. “I’m not putting this on.”
“I will rip you out of that dress and throw you out on the street naked,” he growls at me. “Put it the fuck on.”
I do. Well, I swing it over my shoulders.
“Let’s go.”
We leave the house, and as I walk down to the waiting car, I smile to myself. Guess he can’t always tell me what to do.
Thank God they’re serving booze at this reception. This whole night has been dreadfully boring. But the worst part is that I’ve yet to even see Viktor.
Which means I ruined this stupid dress for nothing. Well. Not nothing. My father’s still pretty pissed at me.
The jacket he made me wear is hanging on the back of my chair as I watch the dancefloor from the table we’ve been assigned to.
He’s off talking to family members and I’m just…
sitting here. There are a lot of good-looking men here who have been giving me the eye all night.
Too bad they all know who my father is. Not a single one has the balls to come up to me and ask me to dance.
I take a drink of champagne and watch as my cousin laughs with her new husband at their table.
Lucky her. Marrying the man of her dreams or…
whatever. I don’t actually know what the story is there.
I overheard a few things from aunts and uncles around about them meeting at her nursing job, but that’s about it.
Must be nice to live a normal life. I wouldn’t know anything about that.
I glance down at my phone. With the actual wedding and the reception, I’ve been trapped among the guests for almost four hours now. I’m over it.
I finish my champagne and get up to go to the bathroom. The moment I move, I see my father’s face turn to slate, but he doesn’t say anything or make any moves toward me. Good. The last thing I need is him following me to the bathroom.
The bathrooms are located just outside the hall we’re in. Well, down the hall and to the left, specifically. I step out into the hallway and immediately get hit with a chill from the door up front. Somebody must have just come in.
I make my way down the hallway, the click-clack of my shoes bouncing off the walls as the music from the reception vibrates the walls. I swear when I get home, I’m calling Marla—
I’m grabbed around my waist suddenly and pulled backward. I go to scream and a hand comes up and covers my mouth.
“Shut the fuck up,” a gruff voice says against my cheek. “We’re going to do this nice and easy, Tatiana. Nice and easy.”
A cold dread comes over me. They know my name!
He breathes in deep as he presses his face against my hair. “You smell good. Real good. Walk to the bathroom, nice and calm.”
I can’t believe this is happening. I survived in Amsterdam every night in little more than a G-string without getting raped or molested and now some asshole is about to do it at my cousin’s wedding?
“Don’t do this,” I try to say behind his hand. He jerks his hand, pressing it hard against my mouth.
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
He pushes me, forcing me forward and into the women’s bathroom.
We walk into the fancy powder room area right before the room with the stalls and my heart sinks into my shoes.
Here there are fancy, antique couches with carefully embroidered upholstery and gold-painted framing.
The opposite wall has a large, full length mirror, perfect for checking to see if your panty line is showing.
He pauses and looks around. “Nice,” he says, then he tries to force me onto the couch.
I see my attacker for the first time. Dark hair, dead, black eyes, and holding a knife in one hand.
I struggle against him, grabbing his wrist holding the knife and stomping his foot.
He yelps and lets me go long enough for me to try to get to the door.
I’m grabbed by my hair from behind and yanked back.
“Fucking bitch,” he swears as he slams me against the wall. He holds me there, pressing his arm across my back while he starts lifting my dress.
I scream. “No! Stop!”
“Shut your fuck—”
Suddenly, the door flies open and Viktor’s here, his face twisted with rage.