Chapter 15 Gabi
GABI
I’m rattled. My fingers tremble around Irisha’s hand, and it’s the worst—letting my own anxiety flow over into her little body. I hug Katya to me, and tremors run through her, too. Their reaction is almost too much—they’ve seen this before, and it doesn’t bode well for them.
What else have these girls suffered? I knew what I suffered and I sense there’s some matching trauma here: their mom is also dead.
Milana is trapped by Petrov for reasons only he’d know and understand, and I shouldn’t question his motives or decisions.
I’m a random stranger here, tasked with looking after them, but like every other small girl who has ever crossed my path, the raging urge to protect them from the world spews up in me.
As we rush inside, I sweep my gaze over the elegant foyer and register how this isn’t a home.
It’s a space to boast about wealth and power, to intimidate whoever walks in here.
I’m intimidated, because just as with Matteo’s apartment, I’ve never lived with such opulence before.
I remind myself that, just like the Catholic Church, a golden sheen is all it takes to hide the rot underneath.
“Where are your rooms, girls?” I ask, taking a deep calming breath and squeezing Irisha’s fingers to comfort her.
I hitch my satchel up, firming my hold on Katya and not letting go of Irisha’s hand.
Whatever this is, I’ve been through much worse and I’ve got them.
I’ll protect them. “I bet you have a lot to show me.”
If this is the house’s entrance, I’m itching to see what these two princesses’ rooms look like.
The foyer is a vast double volume open space, with a chandelier hanging in the middle.
Everything is pristine, to the point where I catch a whiff of fresh paint.
Petrov said there were some home renovations going on.
“This way,” Irisha says on a sniff.
I quietly applaud her bravery as she takes the elegant stairs that start wide at the bottom but narrow toward the second floor. I huff as we reach the top, not used to climbing with a little human’s weight and my satchel, but Katya’s grip around my neck tells me she isn’t ready to let go yet.
Once on the landing, there are two wide corridors, leading to opposite sides of the house; in front of us are two doors, but they are closed.
Irisha tugs me along, and we go down the left corridor, doors closed on either side until we reach a security gate which stands open.
I frown—this isn’t normal. Irisha guides me into a suite of rooms, with what looks like high-end security shutters still closed over the windows.
There’s no natural light, but she lets go of my hand to push a button by the door, and they rattle open.
Good grief. All this security… What an overkill.
The room brightens inch by inch. We’re in a lounge that’s part of a bedroom—without a doubt Petrov’s bedroom—with a king-size bed on one side, unmade with dark grey linen, pillows and plushies scattered about on it.
It’s the toys on the floor, children’s books on both nightstands, and a hamper overflowing with pink tutus and little leggings that give everything away: Ivan Petrov has been living with his girls in this space for months.
This isn’t the smooth-sailing operation I was expecting. Something’s so off it smells like a rat nibbled on poison.
I drop my satchel onto the bed as Katya points with her finger to the bathroom. “Papa showers in there. We take a bath.”
“Okay.” I walk over and peer into the luxurious bathroom, with a massive vanity, a shower with space for two, and a raised tub on a dais that’s fit for a queen…
except it’s plastered with kiddies’ suction toys, and girly products line the edge of the bath along the wall.
“It’s more a swimming pool than a bath?”
Katya giggles. “Papa watches over us.”
“And Milana?” I ask. “Does she help?”
“No. She’s sad.” Katya wiggles, and I slide her down to her feet.
Sad. A basic concept for a child, explained in rough brush strokes, but for an adult, the word is layered.
Katya goes to the bath and picks out a bottle of pink liquid soap. “Smell,” she says, holding it up to me. “It makes bubbles.”
I do as instructed. “Hmm, that’s a princess smell. All lilies and roses.” I hand it back to her. “Where do you sleep, cara?”
“In here,” Irisha calls from the bedroom, and Katya skips off ahead.
I pass the bathroom’s adjacent walk-in closet, giving it a quick inspection.
It’s massive, more like a dressing room.
Men’s suits, shirts and shoes fill rails and shelves on most of one wall.
There are some jeans and a pile of T-shirts, but the rest of the space is empty.
I walk back into the bedroom and follow Irisha’s voice.
A steel door is pushed so wide open, it looks like it’s part of the wall, and I didn’t notice it at first.
“In here,” Katya calls, and my heart hammers at the same time it breaks as I come to stand in the doorway.
It’s a safe room. All bulletproof steel and impenetrable. I’d never seen one until I came to Boston and saw the one in Matteo’s apartment, except this one is much bigger.
“Papa calls it the treasure chest,” Irisha says as she twirls and falls over onto a beanbag.
A treasure chest, indeed. A place to lock up all his most precious things.
I pick up some tiny pajamas and clutch them close.
These girls are so young. I hope he doesn’t lock them up here at night…
there’s airflow, but just the idea makes me claustrophobic.
All closed up, it’s as good as a dark and dank cellar—
I shiver as panic surges in me. This isn’t at all what I expected, and it’s triggering me. I need to get busy, do something until Petrov comes and explains what…why…
I glance around the space, really wanting to run, but I’m struck by the way it’s draped with fairy lights, the walls covered with stickers of butterflies, birds, and flowers.
The bed is big enough for two little girls, and a selection of sheets hangs in a tent shape from the ceiling to hide the cold metal and make it cozy.
Soft toys are scattered everywhere, and more pajamas lie rumpled between the bedsheets.
There’s a plush carpet on the floor, with books in a pile.
Petrov has decorated every inch of the safe room to hide its true function. There is nothing dark and frightening going on here. No, this is a slice of Dreamland created for little girls so they could cling to that world for as long as possible.
I have so many questions, but they’ll have to wait.
I can’t sit around here idle. There’s a rule in my world, and I’ve counted on it a thousand times to survive: stay busy.
Unoccupied hands and minds are the Devil’s playground.
We need to distract ourselves to avoid thinking of what happened earlier.
“I think we should clean the place up a bit, don’t you think?” It would take their minds off Milana’s outburst, too.
“Clean up, clean up!” Irisha chimes as she picks up soft toys from the bed and tosses them into the far corner.
“Good job,” I say with a weak smile, trying my best to buy into her enthusiasm, even though she’s just moving the mess from one side of the room to another.
She might have forgotten what happened ten minutes ago, but my mind is still reeling from Milana’s harsh words…
and what they mean for me and my future here.
I have no idea why Petrov would cut her off financially, but he wouldn’t dare do that to me. My brothers are just a call away, and I have my credit card, even if I vowed to never use it.
It takes a good half hour to set the bedroom straight but there’s still no sign of Petrov.
We’ve packed the toys away, made the beds, and plumped the pillows in both rooms. The suite looks so much better; only the carpet needs vacuuming.
Cleaning up has calmed me, but I need to keep busy.
The past weeks have been a lot, and I haven’t had time to digest most of it.
Only I know I’m teetering on a razor’s edge, holding myself in check minute by minute.
Petrov mentioned house rules and off-limit areas, so I don’t feel at liberty to walk around the house without his permission.
“I think it’s time for a story,” I say, hoping to distract the girls until he finds us. There isn’t much else we can do. I haven’t seen a TV or a tablet around, and I have no clue what the rule about screen time is.
“Yes! A story!” Irisha calls out, launches herself onto Petrov’s freshly made bed, scrambles across to the bedside table where we’ve neatened the stacks of children’s books, and pulls one from the pile.
I laugh. “Okay. Where do we read?”
“Here,” Katya says, clambering up onto her dad’s bed and scooting to the other side, making an adult-sized gap in the middle. “We read here and fall asleep.”
“But wake up in our room,” Irisha says. “It’s magic.”
“I see.” More like Papa’s magic, using those strong arms that lured me in like a real thirst trap to move the girls to their own bed once they’re asleep.
Did you just use the word thirst trap? Chiara chimes up with a giggle, and I just wish she wouldn’t.
Not now. Honestly, it’s starting to feel like she’s intruding, but part of me can’t help seeing my new world unfold from her point of view.
She’s loving it, and that’s where these unwelcome side quips come from…
And now you’re thinking of climbing on his bed?
I hesitate. It’s his bed. The nanny definitely doesn’t belong on it or in it. “It isn’t bedtime now. Let’s sit on the sofa—”
“No! The bed!” Katya protests.
I second that.
I roll my eyes. No way, my friend. “The sofa, and I’ll surprise you with a very special story.”
My book is right here. It’s my favorite, one that kept me going for years.
“What’s special about it?” Irisha asks as I reach for my satchel.
“You bring us stories?” Katya asks, eyes wide as I pull my book out.
“This one, I can promise you, is by far the best of them all, because you know why?” I say, breaking off to build some tension.
“Why?” two young voices chime.
“Because this one is mine…and it became true.”