Chapter 17
Nala
“You look way too innocent when you sleep.”
“Only when I’m sleeping?”
I grin, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “Yes. Only then. When you’re awake and you talk, your accent makes you scarier.”
He laughs. “That’s not true.”
“It is. Sexy, but scary.”
He rolls me onto my back and kisses my neck. “That’s because you’re too American. That’ll change in time.”
“I’ll become a regular Russian girl?”
His lips graze my skin, his voice teasing, “No, you won’t. You wouldn’t look the part.”
I let out a fake gasp and swat his shoulder. Roman laughs under his breath, wraps an arm around me and rolls us so I’m sprawled on top of him.
“You’ll always be the prettiest girl anywhere you go,” he says.
Then he leans in, saying something in Russian against my ear. It sounds low and intimate, but I don’t understand it. He doesn’t give me a chance to ask what it means before he’s tugging the sheet away. “Time for me to work.”
He climbs out of bed and I do the same. After we shower and dress, Roman doesn’t waste any time slipping back into business mode. By the time he’s ready to leave, the man who held me in bed is already fading, replaced by someone harder. Colder.
“I’ll try not to stay out too late today. Should be back around four.” He kisses me, pulling back to get his jacket. “Stay away from the window.”
I don’t get a chance to answer before he’s gone.
As soon as the door closes, I grab my book and sit at the table, trying to repeat the words he’d said to me in Russian. I replay the sound of them, over and over, breaking them into pieces, and writing them out in English the way I think I heard them.
Last night I told him I loved him. He didn’t say it back. Not that I expected him to. But maybe that’s what he whispered to me.
My hands shake as I flip to the page I’m looking for. I find the words I love you and stare at them. It’s not what Roman said.
I close the book, swallowing down my disappointment and slide it back into place.
I try to focus on something else, like the letter I’ve decided to write to my sister.
I don’t know if she still lives in New York or a different state although I don’t think it would make a difference.
I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to mail this even if I find her address. I just want her to know I’m alive.
I want someone from my old life to know I still exist. That’s all.
I start the letter, trying to remember the proper format I learned in school.
Dear Kayla,
I hope you’re okay. I know this might come as a big shock to you, but it’s me, your sister Nala. Please keep reading even if you don’t believe this at first. I hope you remember me. I remember you and mom and dad. I’m very sorry about what happened to them and what happened to you.
I know everyone thinks I died. I didn’t. I didn’t purposely ignore you all these years, I just wasn’t able to write. I don’t think it’s good if I say too much about what happened to me, but I want you to know if I could’ve come home, I would’ve tried really hard to.
I’m writing to you now because things are different. I’m okay and happy again.
In case you don’t believe it’s me Nala, I know it was you who broke that pen and spilled ink on the couch. I never told on you.
I’m writing you this letter because if you remember me and ever think of me, I don’t want you to be sad, believing I’m dead. I don’t know if we will ever see each other again, but I still love you and I always will.
Your big sister,
Nala
I read the letter, analyzing what I wrote. I hate it. It sounds like it was written by a child. I crumple it up and tear it into pieces. Next time I’ll ask Roman to get me a dictionary. I’ll use better words, smarter words so Kayla won’t think badly of me.
I sigh. Who am I kidding>
No matter how many times I write a letter to her or how carefully I choose the words, I know I’m not going to send it. It’s pointless. I’m never going back to America, and I’d hate for Kayla to come here and see this dark side of my world.
I push all thoughts of my sister away and focus on practicing my Russian again. I work through a few pages, learning how to tell time, greeting and phrases to use for acquaintances and some more grammar.
By the time I’ve made lunch and curled back up on the couch with my book, I hear the door open.
I stiffen, frozen for a moment.
Roman doesn’t usually come back so early. My pulse steadies when I see it’s actually him stepping inside.
His jaw is set in a hard line, his features rigid.
“What happened?”
He lets out a breath. “I can’t keep you here anymore.”
“Your father knows, doesn’t he?”
He eases closer. “I don’t know. He might know soon. We have to go someplace else. Outside of the city.”
He lets out a sigh and says, “I rented this place to keep you hidden. Not forever. I was going to move you someplace nicer, once things cooled down. You know this isn’t my real apartment.”
I nod.
“I go there sometimes,” he continues. “To check on things. Switch up my cars and rotate where I leave them.”
“He thinks you’re living there?”
Roman nods. “I went there today.” He pauses, then laughs without humor. “What do I see? One of my own men parked on my street, watching the building.”
My stomach turns cold. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he says, lifting a hand and letting it fall. “I tapped on his window and asked him what the fuck he was doing on my street, outside my place. He said he had orders from the top to keep an eye on who comes and goes.”
“Roman,” I whisper, fear creeping into my voice. "He's going to find out. What if he’s been watching us here too? What if he already knows I’m here and he’s just messing with you?”
“If he knew,” Roman says flatly. “I’d be dead already.”
He drops back against the couch cushions, letting out a long breath. “I don’t doubt he’ll figure it out. If he has enough time.”
He turns to me. “Come here.”
I join him at the window as he reaches for a thick strip of fabric attached to the wall and pulls. The metal blinds begin to rise.
“There’s a reason I told you not to open these,” he says. “It’s for safety, in case anyone’s watching. But I also didn’t want to scare you with the view.”
The blinds reach the top and for the first time I see where I am in daylight.
“My father hates this part of the city.”
I try to catch my breath, understanding what he meant by the view.
Every building across the street, in every direction is gray.
Cracks trace alongside walls stained with black streaks of dirt and erosion.
Broken windows patched with cardboard or plastic offer almost no protection from the wind and cold.
Laundry hangs from balconies, some of them slanted, looking like they might collapse under a single wrong step.
My gaze drifts down the building across from us. It’s covered in graffiti. On the wall, I see a hammer painted beside a curved tool I don’t recognize.
“What is that?”
“A communist symbol.” He issues me a gentle look, adding. “From when the government controlled everything. You’ll see it sometimes because some people miss it.”
I nod, grateful he explained without me asking and without making me feel dumb.
On another building, there’s more graffiti. This time it’s a naked woman on her hands and knees, with a naked man behind her. I try not to stare at that one, even as heat creeps up my neck and curiosity tugs at me.
Why’s he behind her?
I drag my gaze away. Another wall shows exaggerated, Asian-looking eyes painted large with words with Cyrillic words I don’t understand. I’m sure it’s something rude.
I keep looking, peering closer to see the street below. It’s filthy with trash scattered everywhere and broken furniture dumped along the sidewalk.
“This is one of the worst neighborhoods from the Soviet-era,” Roman says.
“This building used to be different. It was a kommunalka. You had to share everything with everyone else. My father grew up here. His own father died in a fire inside one of these buildings. If you ask him where he’s from, he’ll lie and pretend this place doesn’t exist.”
“How did you find out he lived here?”
“He told me. I was seven at the time.” Roman snorts. “My mother went to him for help. For money to help us move. Our apartment didn’t have proper heating. She took me with her.”
Roman laughs under his breath. “Probably thought he’d be sympathetic if his kid was there.
I don’t remember what he said to her, but I remember him coming to me, rubbing my hair, and saying, “If I survived growing up in a kommunalka, you can survive a cold winter. He made us leave after that.” Roman exhales slowly.
“He won’t remember any of it. It meant nothing to him. ”
“Roman…” I search for the right words to say.
He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this for sympathy. I want you to understand why you’re safe.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re heading toward the countryside. That’ll buy me an extra day or two.” His eyes narrow, cold and focused. “Then I kill him.”
My stomach twists with nausea and fear so strong it hurts. I always knew this was coming. It’s why Roman took me out of the basement in the first place. “I’m scared,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “I know he needs to die, but—”
“But nothing,” Roman says, eyeing me carefully. “This was always going to happen. With or without you. I set things into motion that I can’t reverse. Things I don’t want to reverse.”
He cups my chin. “At first this was about me and needing to be the one to kill him. No one else. It’s personal and also business. I’m the only one who can lead Volchya and fix the mistakes he’s been making.”
His thumb brushes my jaw. “But now—after what I know he did to you—you’ll never be safe unless he’s dead. If I have to meet the devil himself in hell, I’ll do it smiling, as long as I drag my father down there with me.”
I can’t bear to hear him talk about dying, like it’s no big deal. I bury my face in his chest, hating Grigori more than ever.