Chapter 18 Noemi
NOEMI
Sasha's voice drifts through the bathroom door, singing some pop song I don't recognize high and off-key while the shower runs.
I lie in bed for a moment listening to him, letting the sound wash over me.
My body's still warm from sleep and my mind slowly catches up to the fact that the space beside me is empty.
Fyodor is gone again with no note or explanation, and the sheets stink like cigar smoke instead of his cologne.
I should be used to this by now. He disappears whenever he wants and comes back whenever he feels like it, and I'm supposed to sit here and wait like a good little captive without asking questions or making demands.
I'm frustrated and sort of disappointed after last night, but there's no point in wasting the day being angry at a man who isn't here to hear it.
The clothes I packed are running low, and I make a mental note to ask Fyodor about shopping—or at least laundering my things—as I pull on a simple sweater and dark jeans.
My journal sits on the nightstand where I left it, and I slide it into my purse.
Then I turn toward the bathroom door, which is still closed, Sasha still singing, and I knock twice to let him know I'm awake.
"Almost done," he calls out over the sound of the water.
"Take your time. We'll go down to the hotel cafe for breakfast when you're ready."
"Really?" His voice pitches up with excitement. "Like a real restaurant?"
"Like a real restaurant."
He's out of the shower and dressed in ten minutes flat, his dark hair still dripping and sticking up in places.
I chuckle at how he put his shoes on the wrong feet and point it out.
He switches them with a sheepish grin quickly.
Then we take the elevator down to the lobby and follow the signs to the cafe.
The hostess seats us near the window and hands us menus, but Sasha barely looks at his.
He seems too excited to focus, and I wonder if Murial ever took him to a restaurant before.
I don't have money for this, but I can charge it to the room and Fyodor will pay it.
So I take my time looking through all the breakfast options to decide what I want.
"Can I get pancakes?"
"You can get whatever you want," I say absently as my eyes pore over the words and images.
He grins and I catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye. It warms my heart to see him happy. This boy has been through so much in the past few weeks. He deserves special things now, sweet and happy things that settle him and heal his heart.
The waitress comes and takes our order, pancakes for Sasha and eggs for me, and we settle into easy conversation while we wait for the food to arrive.
"Papa said he might take me to the horse track," Sasha says, stirring sugar into his orange juice even though it doesn't need it. I chuckle at him again, but I let him do it. What's the harm? "The one he told me about at the museum. He said we could watch the horses run."
I hesitate, trying to find the right words.
The hippodrome isn't exactly a place for children, full of gamblers and drinking and cigarette smoke and the kind of atmosphere that Sasha doesn't need to be around.
Fyodor means well, I think, but he doesn't always consider what's appropriate for a ten-year-old.
"That sounds fun," I say carefully, "but I was thinking we could do something even better.
Have you ever heard of the Moskvarium?" He shakes his head, pausing his spoon mid-stir.
"It's an aquarium, one of the biggest in Europe.
They have sharks and dolphins and fish from all over the world, tanks so big you can walk through tunnels under them and watch the animals swim over your head.
You could see species you've only read about in books. "
His eyes widen. "Real sharks? Like the ones that eat people?"
"Well, they're behind glass, so they won't be eating anyone. But yes, real sharks. And octopuses and sea turtles and all sorts of things."
"Can we go today?" His eyes are wide with amazement, and I'm glad his focus has turned away from horse racing to more educational pursuits.
"We'll have to ask Fyodor when he gets back, but I don't see why not."
The food arrives and Sasha digs into his pancakes, syrup dripping down his chin until I hand him a napkin.
I pick at my eggs and let my gaze wander around the cafe, watching the other guests come and go, businessmen in suits and tourists with cameras and families with small children who remind me of my students back home.
Two men sit a few tables away, watching us over the tops of their coffee cups.
They're not eating or talking to each other, or even pretending to read the newspapers folded on the table between them.
They're just sitting there with their eyes fixed on our table and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
One of them is heavyset with a shaved head and dark eyes that don't move from my face.
The other is thinner with sandy blond hair and pale eyes.
He's staring at me like I'm on the menu and it makes me feel very uneasy.
I suddenly wish I hadn't brought Sasha down here.
Room service would have been just as delicious but inside the locked room is safer.
I don’t know exactly what Fyodor does for work, but a man who kidnaps a teacher to care for his son isn’t exactly a saint.
And the number of times he's come home from "work" bloody or scabbed over is a huge red flag.
If he's some dark criminal—which I strongly believe he is—those men could be his enemies.
I could be putting myself and Fyodor's son in danger.
I look away quickly, my heart starting to pound. Maybe I'm imagining things and they're just bored businessmen with nothing better to do than people-watch. But the feeling in my gut says otherwise, and I've learned to trust that feeling over the past few weeks.
"Sasha." I keep my voice calm even though my hands want to shake. "I think we should go back to our room now."
"But I'm not done with my pancakes."
"You can bring them with you. We'll get a box."
He looks at me with confusion, picking up on something in my tone that I'm trying to hide. "Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing's wrong. I just remembered something I need to do upstairs."
I signal for the waitress and ask for a takeout container, trying not to look at the two men again even though I can feel their eyes on me.
The waitress takes her time, chatting with another table before finally bringing me the box, and every second that passes makes my skin crawl with the need to move, to run, to get Sasha somewhere safe.
"Can I go look at the games?" Sasha points toward a doorway near the back of the cafe where I can see the glow of arcade machines. "Just for a minute while you pay?"
"Sasha, no, we need to stay together—"
But he's already out of his chair and running toward the game room before I can stop him, his half-eaten pancakes forgotten on the table. I leave his pancakes and the box and hurry after him, but I know this is a bad idea. My nervous system is exploding with warning signs.
The game room is dim, lit only by the flashing screens of the arcade machines and a few neon signs on the walls. Music and electronic beeping fill the space, loud enough to drown out the sound of my own breathing, and I can't see Sasha anywhere in the maze of games and pinball tables.
"Sasha!" I call out, but my voice gets swallowed by the noise.
I move deeper into the room, checking behind each machine, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
The shadows seem to shift and multiply around me, stretching and twisting with every flash of the arcade screens, and I don't know if it's my imagination or if those men followed us in here.
I have no clue what Fyodor's doing in Moscow or why he's been so secretive about everything, but I'm starting to understand that whatever it is has put all of us in danger. Real danger, the kind that ends with dead bodies and blood and children who never make it home.
"Sasha!"
A small hand grabs my arm and I nearly scream before I realize it's him, standing beside a racing game with his eyes wide and startled.
"Why are you yelling? I was right here."
"We need to go. Now."
I grab his hand and pull him toward the exit, not caring anymore if I'm scaring him, not caring about anything except getting us out of this room and back to somewhere safe.
Afraid and alive is better than ignorant and dead.
We burst through the doorway into the bright lights of the hotel lobby, and I almost run directly into Fyodor.
He looks terrible, his face pale and his jaw tight, and his eyes scan the lobby behind us intensely. He grabs my arm hard enough to make me wince.
"Where have you been?" He growls angrily. "I told you to stay in the room."
"You didn't tell me anything. You left without a word, like you always do."
"We don't have time for this." He's already pulling me toward the side exit, his other hand finding Sasha's shoulder and pushing him along. "We need to leave. Right now."
"Fyodor, what's happening? There were men watching us in the cafe, and I think they followed us into the—"
"I know. I saw them. That's why we're leaving."
He pushes through the exit door into a parking garage where a black SUV is waiting with the engine running, exhaust puffing into the cold air.
He opens the back door and lifts Sasha inside like he weighs nothing, then shoves me in after him before climbing into the driver's seat.
The tires squeal on the concrete as he throws the car into reverse and backs out of the space so fast my stomach lurches up into my throat.
"Sasha, put on your headphones and watch a movie on the tablet," I tell him, because he doesn't need to hear the conversation I'm about to have with his father. This has to end. I can't be a prisoner to someone who is being hunted knowing full well he's put us in danger.
"But—"
"Now." My stern tone and the look I give him has him shrinking back, and I hate myself for startling him, but I'm flustered. I need answers.
I dig through the bag at my feet and find the tablet and headphones, getting Sasha set up with a cartoon while Fyodor navigates us out of the parking lot and onto the street. The sunlight is blinding after being inside so long, and I squint as I climb into the front seat beside him.
"What's going on? Who were those men?"
"Marat Koslov's people." He takes a sharp turn that throws me against the door and I reach for my seatbelt to buckle up. "They've been tracking us since yesterday."
"Who's Koslov?" I don't understand. He's speaking to me like I know things and I know nothing.
His eyes flick to the rearview mirror and his jaw tightens. "We've got company."
I twist in my seat and see a dark sedan three cars behind us, weaving through traffic aggressively the way Fyodor is, running red lights and cutting off other drivers without slowing down. My stomach drops and I turn back around, gripping the edge of the seat.
"Fyodor—"
"I know," he hisses, then floors the accelerator and the SUV surges forward, cutting between two trucks and running a yellow light that turns red before we're fully through the intersection. Horns blare behind us and I hear the screech of brakes, but I don't look back.
"Hold on."
He takes another turn, tires screaming against the pavement, and the sedan falls back for a moment before reappearing in the mirror.
I'm shaking, trembling so bad I might throw up.
We're driving too fast, weaving through traffic like we're in some kind of action movie.
This is insane. He has a child in this car.
"Why are they chasing us? What did you do?"
"They want Marat alive." He takes another turn and my shoulder slams into the window. "I'm trying to make sure that doesn't happen."
"What the hell is happening!" I whimper, but I make sure my voice is low enough that Sasha can't hear me. I am terrified. As if it wasn't bad enough that he kidnapped me, now he's taken me on the run from some enemies of his on a hunt to kill a man?
Fyodor is infuriatingly quiet as he makes sharp turns and weaves through traffic going way too fast, and when he finally does speak it's after a few more quick turns and one harrowing intersection.
"I'm Bratva, Noemi. You understand what that means? I work for the Gravitch syndicate. I have a job to do to remove a witness and that's why we're in Moscow."
The words knock the air out of my lungs. I knew he was dangerous, but hearing him say it out loud makes it impossible for me to imagine lesser realities. All those hints and whispers and half-truths suddenly crystallize and I can't ignore or explain them away anymore.
I'm falling for this man. I let him use my body and get in my head. I started to believe that he's not entirely awful and that he could be an amazing father someday.
And now he tells me he's Bratva.
"You should've told me," I choke out. "From the beginning, you should have told me what you are, what you do, what this is really about."
"Oh, cut the crap. It's not like it would've changed anything." He sounds angry now, but I don't even care.
I stare out the windshield at the city blurring past us. "It would have…" I mumble, because I'm positive I never would have slept with him if I'd known. Now I don't know how to feel except terrified.
He doesn't respond. He's just fixed on the road ahead. The sedan isn't behind us anymore, and I have no clue where we're going. My things are all in that hotel room, and I'm not sure anything will ever be the same again.
I really want to go home.