Taisiya
Iwake to silence.
For one confused second, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling is wrong. The bed is too big. The sheets are too soft. There is no radiator clanking in the corner, no neighbour’s television through the wall, no sirens bleeding through thin glass.
Vadim’s house.
Vadim’s bed.
My hand moves across the space beside me and finds only a pillow.
I sit up, clutching the duvet to my chest, and listen.
Nothing. Dead silence.
I get out of bed before common sense catches up. My bare feet hit the plush carpet, and I stand there in the dark with a panic that feels completely ridiculous considering whose house I’m in.
But then curiosity gets the better of me.
I move to the door and open it. The hallway is dark. The house is completely quiet.
With a sigh, I close the door again and crawl back into bed, wishing I could stay asleep for longer than a couple of hours at a time. My head is banging, my soul is ravaged with guilt over killing Gregor. As much as I’m trying to put it aside, there is no coming back from what I did.
Tears prick my eyes. I’m not sorry I did it. If I hadn’t, he’d have raped me in a dark alley minutes from my flat. But did I have to kill him?
The obvious answer is yes. If I’d only injured him enough to get away, it wouldn’t have been for long.
He’d have found me and made me pay extra for hurting him.
But as my body finally, fully realises what I did, shaking in the darkness as I try not to sob out loud, I can’t help but think I made the wrong choice.
The door opens suddenly, and I leap up off the bed, brushing the tears away with my fingertips.
Vadim steps inside, quiet and broad in the dark, wearing a black tee and joggers. “What happened?” My voice cracks on the last word.
He shuts the door behind him. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Vadim.”
His eyes move over me, taking in the shaking I can’t hide. Something in his expression hardens, not at me. At whatever brought him out of this room.
“Tarasov came to the house,” he says.
My stomach drops. “Here?”
“Outside the gates.”
The room tilts. “He was here? He knows I’m here?”
Vadim crosses the room in three strides and catches my waist before I sway. “Sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.”
“You’re going to fall down if you don’t.”
I sit, and he sits next to me, brushing my hair out of my face. “Why are you crying? Did something happen? Did someone frighten you?”
I nod automatically. “I did. I frightened me.”
He tilts his head slightly. “How so?”
“I killed him,” I whisper. “And I keep waiting to feel sorry in the right way.”
Understanding passes over his face.
I look down at my hands. They’re clean. I know this. I’ve washed them so many times my skin feels raw, but I still expect to see blood covering them.
“I’m not sorry he’s dead,” I say, the words coming faster now because if I stop, I won’t start again.
“I’m sorry that I did it. I’m sorry that there’s this part of me that somehow knew he would die if I stabbed him in the neck.
I’m sorry I didn’t freeze. I’m sorry I didn’t scream.
I’m sorry that when it happened, I didn’t think about morals or laws or prison.
I’m sorry I ran and didn’t call the police.
I’m sorry I covered it up. I’m…” My throat tightens.
Vadim doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.
“I keep replaying it,” I say. “His hand on me. His breath in my face. The wall behind my back. I remember the knife going in, and I remember his eyes. I remember being relieved before I was scared.” I press both hands over my mouth for a second, then drop them.
“What kind of person feels relief when someone dies?”
“The kind who wanted to live,” he says.
The answer is immediate. No hesitation, no softening.
I look at him. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple.”
“It isn’t.”
“Gregor put his hands on you. He intended to hurt you. You stopped him.”
“I killed him.”
“You stopped him permanently.”
“That’s not normal.”
“No,” he says. “But neither was what he tried to do to you.”
My eyes sting again. He sounds so calm. I need it. I need him to tell me these things even if I don’t believe it.
“What if this is who I am now?” I ask. “What if I’m someone who can do that again?”
“You were always someone who could survive. You just didn’t know it until he forced you to find out.”
I shake my head. “Don’t make it noble.”
“I’m not. I’m making it accurate.”
“You don’t get it. You are Bratva. This type of thing is in your blood. You kill people because it’s your world. It’s what you do. I was a bartender with debt and a shit flat. I didn’t wake up the other morning thinking I’d stab a man in the neck.”
His expression shifts. “I still had my first kill. I still had to do it, accept it and move on.”
“Move on,” I scoff. “Easy for you to say.”
“Not easy. Necessary.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We need to see Baron. Now.”
That gets my attention away from my wallowing. “Why now?”
“Because someone told Tarasov to move before Baron gets involved.”
My skin tightens. “Someone?”
“Someone who knows enough about the Bratva to understand what Baron’s protection means. Someone who used Baron’s first name. Someone who isn’t Tarasov.”
“So you got it wrong. Tarasov isn’t coming for me.”
“Oh, he’s coming. Make no mistake. He was outside my house and set an ambush.”
“Ambush?” I look up suddenly.
“Four men. They’re dead.”
My gaze goes over him from head to toe. “Are you okay?”
He smirks and stands up. “I’m fine. Get dressed.”
I stare at him, my brain struggling to process the casual way he just announced four more deaths. Four men are gone because of me, because I’m in this house. The guilt I was just drowning in takes a backseat to a cold, sharp terror that settles deep in my marrow.
“You killed four men on the street?” I whisper, my eyes scanning his dark clothes for blood.
“Bogdan helped,” he says, as if that makes it better. “He called the clean up crew. We leave in ten minutes. If you’re showering, make it quick. Dress warmly. It’s cold this morning.”
He doesn’t wait for me to agree. He walks to the wardrobe and pulls out a navy suit. The reality of my situation hits me. I’m not just a girl with a debt anymore. I’m the centre of a storm that’s already leaving bodies in its wake.
I stand on shaky legs and head to the guest room.
I don’t look in the mirror. I don’t want to see the woman who causes this much carnage.
I strip out of the pyjamas and stand under the shower quickly to give myself, at the very least, a whore’s wash under chilly water before I turn it off and step out.
Towelling off, I consider who Baron Voronov is and how scared I should be of him.
Probably very scared.
I’ve never met a Bratva pakhan in my life before. At least not that I know of. He isn’t exactly going to be some cuddly avuncular figure.
As quickly as I can, I pull on the grey cashmere jumper from the wardrobe. The fabric is soft, but it does nothing to stop the chill in my bones. I grab the dark jeans and yank them on. They fit perfectly. Ivan is going to have to tell me his super powers at some point if I’m staying here.
Staying here.
As a Voronov wife.
I gulp it back. I can’t think about that right now.
I shove my feet into the boots and twist my hair into a knot.
Vadim knocks once and walks in. He doesn’t wait for an invitation.
He looks at me, his eyes sweeping over the new clothes.
He doesn’t comment. He just holds out a posh-looking black coat that I slip into and nearly groan with delight.
It’s beautiful and soft, and if it gets rained on, I will be mad at Mother Nature.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
“Tough. This can’t wait.”
I follow him out of the room. The house feels different now. It isn’t a sanctuary. It’s a fortress that just held off a siege. We head down the stairs. Bogdan waits by the front door. He looks exactly the same as he did earlier, as if he didn’t just end lives in the street.
He nods to Vadim, who nods back. I don’t really want to know what that was about.
Bogdan opens the door, and the crisp, cold air hits my face. I step out into the night, my heart hammering against my ribs as Vadim leads me to the back of the SUV parked up next to the Bentley. He helps me in the back seat and slides in after me. Bogdan drives.
“How worried should I be?” I ask as we set off.
“About Tarasov, the mystery man or Baron?” Vadim asks with a smile.
“Funny. You’re so fucking funny,” I mutter. “But let’s do this in order of who I have to deal with first. Baron Voronov. Do I call him Pakhan Voronov?”
“Are you in the Voronov Bratva?” he asks, his smile widening slightly.
“No,” I state, annoyed.
“Then no. Call him sir.”
“Sir?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Or Mr Voronov if you must.”
“Sir sounds like I’m back in school,” I mutter, looking out the tinted window at the empty London streets. “And Mr Voronov feels like I’m at the bank.”
“Respect is the currency he deals in. If you don’t have it, you’re bankrupt.”
I bite my lip, the cashmere of my new jumper suddenly feeling itchy. “And what if he doesn’t like me? What if he thinks I’m more trouble than I’m worth?”
Vadim reaches out, his hand heavy and warm on my thigh. He doesn’t look at me, but his fingers squeeze just enough to ground me. “Then he’ll tell me to get rid of you.”
“And would you?”
“I don’t take orders from him when it comes to what’s mine.”
The SUV pulls up to a set of massive iron gates in a part of the city where the houses look like palaces. These aren’t the modern, flashy gates of Vadim’s compound. These are old. Gothic. They look like they were designed to keep out an invading army.
“That was quick,” I mutter.
“Belgravia.”
“We could’ve walked.”
He gives me a scathing glare. “No.”
That one word is enough to shut up my joke about catching the bus.
Bogdan doesn’t have to say anything. The gates buzz open, and we roll up a red-bricked drive.
My stomach does a slow, sickening flip.
“Baron is a man of tradition,” Vadim says, his voice low as we get out of the car. “He values loyalty and strength. Don’t lie to him. He’ll know before the words leave your mouth.”
“What if he asks me how I cleaned the murder weapon?”
“You tell him.”
Fantastic. I’ll just tell him about the dishwasher. Twice. And maybe throw in the lasagne dish for good measure.
This is going to be a disaster.