Chapter 3 #2
"I don't give a fuck if she's new," he shouts, arm flailing through the air. "That slut talked back to one of my associates. Refused his request.”
"Won’t happen again. Please. Was mistake. My girls do everything.”
"You should have dealt with her before she embarrassed me." He steps toward her. She backs into the wall.
"Do you know how that makes me look? My whores. Refusing service?"
"Forgive me. I beg you. Won’t happen again.” She clasps her hands together. “Another chance Grigori Ivanov. I beg."
"You're right. It won't again,” he sneers, “Next time, it’s your neck, Belova. I’ll find someone else to run this place.”
Her eyes bulge. He glares at her, turns, pinning me with that same look. "This is the problem with whores, little girl. They think because they spread their legs for a living, they have power. They don’t. They have nothing."
His gaze moves from Belova back to me, sitting on the floor at his feet.
"This one knows her place,” he huffs, before a slow calculating smile spreads across his features.
“You should be grateful. Grateful you're not upstairs fucking drunk men every night. This—” he gestures to the basement, my prison, “—is better.
You're doing something valuable. Those whores upstairs?” He snorts. “They’re holes waiting to be filled."
I stare at him and it dawns on me. This psycho believes what he’s saying. He truly believes he’s doing me a favor by keeping me prisoner in this basement.
"Yes, sir," I agree. What else can I say?
Madam Belova is still watching, her hatred of me barely contained. Her cheeks flush red with anger and I guess humiliation. Or both.
“Get out,” he snaps, not looking at her. “I have business."
She rushes up the stairs and slams the door shut behind her. As always, he sits in the wooden chair like it’s a throne.
"Sit."
He says this every time, so I’m already sitting but I shift anyway, making myself smaller. Lower for him.
He pulls out the same picture from last week, slamming it down in front of me.
It’s Roman again.
I don’t know why he won’t give me something Roman actually touched.
"Tell me again what you see." The anger from moments ago cling to his words.
I force my voice to stay steady. This could be a test. "It’s better when I have something he recently touched."
"Too bad. I have nothing.” He jerks his chin at the photo. “Tell me what you see."
So, we’re back to this.
I pick it up like he wants me to, studying Roman's face. "He's focused on keeping his territory.” I begin my lie carefully. “On proving himself to you."
"Proving himself?" Grigori asks, calmer than before. This is worse than him shouting. "For what reason? That piece of shit thinks he deserves something from me?"
"He wants your approval. Your recognition.” I keep my eyes on the photo. “That’s all I can see. Nothing else."
"He wants what he'll never fucking have," he roars, shoving out of his chair, pacing. "Too many years I've tolerated him. Gave him opportunities. Let him run his own crew. For what? So he can sit in my council room judging me. Second-guessing my methods.”
I stay silent, listening to another rant.
"The Albanians," he continues. "Roman questioned me about the Albanians. In my own home. Can you believe that? Like he has the right to question my decisions."
"He's concerned about losing money," I reply, hoping to calm him down with the most obvious answer.
"It’s all my money.” He’s shouting again. “The men do what I tell them. Roman does what I tell him. Everyone does what I fucking tell them. I’m the Pakhan, not Roman."
He stops pacing, his eyes cold and sharp, targeting me. "I’m going to ask you one last time, is my son plotting against me?”
He brings his face near mine. "Tell me the truth, Nala. Is Roman planning to betray me?”
This is it. The question again. My chance to say I made a mistake, start telling the truth again.
I look at the picture, at Roman's cold eyes staring back at me. In this moment one thing becomes clear. I will never tell Grigori the truth. I’m tired of being his tool.
I don’t care if he threatens my sister. I don’t care if he kills me.
I will never help him prevent his own death.
"He's not going to betray you."
Grigori studies my face for a long time. He lets out a low hiss. “You better be right.”
He stands there a moment longer, then reaches into his pocket, pulling out a stylish silver pen.
"This one,” he barks. “Tell me everything about him."
He drops the pen in my lap. I close my fingers around it and the vision comes.
An office. Files spread across a desk. Auction records, old photographs of paintings. He’s comparing them. Checking dates. Locations. Verifying information. Talking on the phone with someone.
I open my eyes. This, I can do.
"He's an art dealer. He’s been checking the history of paintings you’ve bought.”
“I thought so.”
I close my eyes again, thankful for the distraction. Hopefully if I give him something useful, it will take the pressure off me.
"He thinks you have stolen artwork. He’s trying to track down the real owners. He has someone helping him, but they’ve never met. I can’t see much about his contact except he has something to do with Turkey or a turkey. I don’t know.”
Grigori snatches the pen back, scratching his chin. "Turkey, hmm. Must be Turkish. My men can sniff him out. Not many of them in Moscow."
My heartbeat slows with relief, despite knowing what’s going to happen. Both men will be killed because of my gift. At this point, I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve helped to kill.
"Now do you see? This is why I keep you. Why I can never let you go. You tell me the truth. You're loyal."
Not as loyal as you think.
"Yes, sir."
He stands and I brace myself for a kick, for his belt, for his hand to slap my head sideways.
He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You're more useful than my son will ever be. Remember that."
He turns away. The door closes and I’m locked in again. I’m left on the cold floor, my heart racing while his words loop inside my head.
Be grateful.
I should be grateful for this basement. For this prison. For darkness, cold and isolation.
I laugh. The sound comes out broken and bitter.
How can I be grateful for this dark void that swallowed my life?
Those girls upstairs, holes waiting to be filled or not, they get to see daylight.
They can leave when their shift is over.
They have freedom regardless if it means doing whatever they do up there with men.
Me?
I’m his special tool. His secret weapon. Lucky me. I push myself up, lying back on the mattress. My body aches and my head throbs from the readings. Everything inside me hurts, not just my muscles. My mind. My heart. I have nothing. Absolutely nothing except my fantasies.
So, I close my eyes again, going back to the only place where I still have control. I go directly to it. Him. Roman. He’s coming down the stairs, saying those beautiful words to me. Taking me with him out of the basement.
I don’t know how long this fantasy will keep my mind from breaking, but I know that for the next six days until the Pakhan comes back, I’ll have something to cling to, keep me sane, as I lie here on the mattress.