Chapter Seven
Alina’s POV
“I didn’t believe you would be up until I saw Sir Konstantin leave,” Ruslan stated, walking into the room. “Do you not sleep at all?”
I chuckled, “Of course, I slept. I only just woke up now.”
“Nah, you don’t call that sleep. It’s a nap,” he argued, shaking his head as he pulled the chair to the side of the shelf and sat in it.
“Well, that was the longest I could do,” I said. “This place isn’t exactly sleep-inducing.”
“That, I understand,” he stated. “Being brought here against your will, finding out how entangled you are in something you had no idea of, and even,” he waved his hand around, “this room with no windows. It’s definitely the opposite of a pleasant experience.”
“You don’t say,” I murmured.
“I just did.”
“It was a sarcastic comment,” I proclaimed.
“I know,” he drawled, combing his blonde hair back with his hand.
“Thanks for earlier. The clothes, especially. They don’t smell old or stuffy, and God knows how big a selection you had to look through.”
“It’s fine. You’re welcome.”
“You don’t strike me as a Bratva man. I can’t picture you handling a gun or even doing anything remotely violent.”
“Really? What can you picture me doing, then?”
“Hmm,” I vocalized, squinting my eyes in thought. “Writing fiction, teaching kids…”
“What?!” he cut in, laughing.
“Or maybe being a painter.”
“Painter?”
“Or a cook. Yes, that’s very imaginable. Even if I haven’t tasted any of the kitchen creations you’ve bragged so much about.”
“You’ll taste them very shortly. It’ll be time for breakfast soon,” he answered. “Why would you ever picture me as a writer? I don’t hate reading, but…writing? And you specifically mentioned fiction.”
“You’re just, you know, carefree and fun. Like someone who spends a lot of time in an unreal world.”
“Because there are not enough reasons to be happy in the real world?”
“I don’t think I’m the one you should be asking that question right now,” I answered, half-rolling my eyes.
“Anyway, I can picture you teaching kids, being a teacher at an elementary school, because I think you have a way of making people feel at ease, like, forget the bad for a while. That’s a crucial skill when it comes to dealing with kids. Trust me, I know.”
“Wow,” he commented. “And then a painter?”
“Same reason you’d fit the profile of a fiction writer. You seem like someone who’d be artistic. Someone who’d always be in high spirits because they are imagining all the time.”
“There are many depressed writers and painters, you know. Yes, they create worlds beyond ours and can easily escape into any of them. But I think there are times they find it extremely difficult to differentiate between the real and the unreal. They spend time stuck, unable to leave. And it wrecks their real life, I mean, their relationships with others.”
“Are you sure you don’t write in secret with a mysterious pen name? Because you sure sound like someone speaking from experience.”
“I’ve read a number of memoirs of famous artists, that’s all.”
I nodded. “You’re right, no profession or skill excuses one from the difficulties of life. But when I said they have a brighter outlook on life, I meant they find so much happiness in what they do. You know, they create. It’s a different level of fulfillment.”
“True.”
“Doing what you’re good at and love is fulfilling.”
“Tell me about your work. I mean, I’m not dumb, I know what nurses do. I’m asking about your experience.”
“It’s the best. Or rather, was. Seeing patients get better, seeing their worries turn into smiles and thanks, nothing can compare to that.
And even when we’re in the operating room, and the tension is thick because we’re actually fighting for a life, I find myself feeling lucky to be there.
The thanks I get from patients is nothing compared to the satisfaction I feel knowing that I’ve done something to make them feel better, even if I’m not the doctor or pharmacist.”
“The smile on your face is enough to tell me that you love your job.”
“I do,” I affirmed, yawning.
“And that might be sleep calling again,” he noted. “You know what? I should let you sleep for a while. And then, when you’re awake, I’ll bring you food.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
He stood and said, “Just forget everything for a while and allow your body shut down.”
“It’s easier said than done,” I replied, “But I’ll try.”
“Yeah,” he said as he left the room.
I crawled into the bed and lay there, tuning in to the tiredness of my body, trying to skip any thoughts.
**********
The sound of the door opening woke me up, and I immediately sat up in bed. The bald guy, the one who took charge of kidnapping me at the clinic, entered, his expression hard like the last time I saw him.
His icy gray eyes were on me as I silently waited for him to say whatever he had shown up for. I couldn’t vouch for my expression being friendly since I wasn’t used to my privacy being invaded; the captive status still felt foreign to me.
“I didn’t know you were asleep. I would have come later,” he said, his voice, making me wonder if he thought he was giving an explanation or rendering an apology.
However, for some reason, both his harsh voice and his hard expression didn’t make me feel like an object of hate or ridicule. It seemed to me like that was how he related to everybody. Well, maybe excluding his boss, Mr. Stone-face himself.
Rooted to the same spot, he said, “Boss wants me to let you know when the marriage will take place.”
“Has it been fixed? When would that be?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“What? Tomorrow morning? He said in a few days, how can it be tomorrow?” I question, my annoyance flaring.
“That’s how it has to be,” he said. “Everything will be set tomorrow. I just came to inform you.”
“Inform? How do you call this informing me when—” I stopped talking as the door opened and Ruslan stepped in carrying a tray.
“Oh,” Ruslan uttered on seeing the bald man. “I didn’t know you were here, boss,” he explained, then pointed his free hand towards the door. “They didn’t tell me—”
“What are you here for?” he asked Ruslan.
“Her food. I brought her food,” he answered promptly.
Even though Ruslan was just about two or three inches shorter than the bald man’s 6’2” height, the power dynamic between the two men was apparent.
The bald man nodded, and Ruslan moved to the side as he left the room.
“He’s your boss?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered with a smile as he brought the tray to the edge of the bed. “Remember, I told you Sir Konstantin wasn’t my boss but my boss’s boss?”
“Yeah,” I answered, nodding.
“That’s my direct boss. Sir Konstantin’s right-hand man,” he revealed, stepping back to take a seat on the chair.
“Right-hand man? Like a PA?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting, Hierarchy in the Bratva world.”
“You’ve not even heard the half of it,” he chuckled as he gestured to the tray. “Go on, eat. Don’t let it get cold.”
“Thank you. It smells lovely,” I told him as I took the lid off the plate.
He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “So, the Pakhan is the absolute leader. The number one in the Bratva. Then, the mafia bosses, both corporate facing and the actual Bratva side, are directly under him.”
“Konstantin and his brothers,” I mused, taking another bite.
“Yes,” he answered. “You like it?”
“You really are a good cook. It tastes way better than what I’d get at a restaurant. It’s perfect.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he uttered. “So, as I was saying, there is the advocate. More like a lawyer, the legal representative. He’s also under the Pakhan, but not exactly under the mafia bosses.
We can say they’re side by side. Each mafia boss has men under him.
Men like my boss. Then these men have men under them. They are called soldiers.”
“Like you.”
“Yes.”
“Nice,” I mumbled, taking a sip of water.
“You looked like you were ready to hit someone when I came in. What happened?”
“Here I was trying to digest the fact that I was getting married to a man I hate because it was the only strategy I was stuck with, and then your boss came in to inform me that the marriage would happen tomorrow. Tomorrow!”
“Oh?” he uttered, confusion written all over his face. “I didn’t know the marriage decision had been made. We were just speculating.”
“Right. I’m as shocked as you are. And I’m the damn bride,” I bit out. “The fact that he told me himself, just a few hours ago, that it’ll be in a few hours, is outright annoying. Why didn’t he just say it then? What the hell does he have against clear communication?”
“Sir Konstantin himself came here?” he inquired, a puzzled frown on his face.
“Yes, so?”
“It’s just surprising. Forget it,” he dismissed, his face now sympathetic. “Something might have come up between then and now.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel any better than a captive?”
“Well, you’re upgrading from captive to wife,” he pointed out, grinning.
When I didn’t react to his remark, he said, “Alright. Alright. But, seriously, you have no idea how things change in the underworld. As you have noticed, he doesn’t talk much. So he’d rather be silent than tell you something untrue.”
“If he didn’t care about what happened to you at all, you’d be dead by now,” he added, his tone devoid of humor.
Does that make all this easier?
Hell, no.
**********
Waking up without a window to gaze at the sky was torture in itself. It was like I’d lost my sense of time, and my body’s internal alarm was the boss.
So, today is the day I get married.
Growing up, I didn’t exactly have the time to dream about what my wedding day would look like.
But it wasn’t like I didn’t spend hours imagining what my ideal wedding would be like when I was with Siroc, or even in the first few months of dating Vitya.
None of my wedding fantasies or imaginings were particularly detailed.
But I would pick even the worst of those over the reality I found myself in.