CHAPTER 5 #2
The more she drinks, the more violent she gets.
After I was ripped out of the UK, everything went wrong all at once. The family rejected me. My father was killed. Mother became worthless to Grandfather because the Irish were dismantled, so he banished us to this house in the countryside.
That’s when she started drinking. It’s especially bad around her birthday and the holidays when she hosts elaborate parties. Afterward, the silence sets in again, reminding her that her life is empty and she’s not the Bratva queen she’d hoped to be.
When I just stare at her, it once again makes her volatile temper explode.
Letting out an enraged shriek, she yanks wildly on my hair while her other hand delivers slap after slap. I try to grab her wrist but trip over the basket and fall on my butt, losing a fistful of hair in the process.
“Ms. Fedorova,” a guard calls from the house. “The first guests have arrived.”
Like a switch is flipped, she straightens up and pats over her hair and dress with trembling hands. She shoots me a hateful glare, and lifting her chin, she walks back to the house.
Climbing to my feet, I gingerly rub the sore spot on my head before I continue hanging the laundry. Once the basket is empty, I take it inside and wash my hands so I can get started with dinner.
I’ve already prepped everything yesterday and will be serving racks of lamb with garlic and rosemary alongside beef tenderloin in rich red wine sauce for the main course.
The sides are all Ms. Fedorova’s favorites.
Honey-glazed baby carrots, green beans with butter and toasted almonds, cauliflower in creamy cheese sauce, and roasted potatoes.
Once I have the meat in the oven, I open the fridge and remove the three charcuterie boards with cured meats, cheeses, olives, and crackers.
I make two trips to the dining room and place the boards on the large rectangular table where Ms. Fedorova is chatting happily with Polina Belov, one of her cousins, who’s recently become a widow herself.
The list of guests is actually embarrassing, made up of family Grandfather has no interest in and ‘friends’ who stupidly think they can gain importance by being associated with my mother.
“I’ve heard rumors that people are starting to fear and respect Volkov more than your father,” Polina mentions. “Is your father retiring soon?”
“No!” Ms. Fedorova lets out a disgruntled snort. “Volkov is a bit of a loose cannon, but my father will keep him in line like he’s always done.”
It’s not the first time they’ve talked about the underboss of the Bratva, and from what I’ve overheard over the years, the man sounds even worse than my grandfather.
The women continue talking about the organization as if they have any say in it, but I know it’s nothing more than a feeble attempt to convince themselves they’re more important than they’ll ever be.
Returning to the kitchen, I get lost in my work while more guests arrive and the party gets underway.
I’ve gotten really good at cooking and baking over the years, and even though Ms. Fedorova has banned me from having any of the elaborate dishes, I still manage to eat enough to maintain my lush figure under the guise of tasting the food to ensure it’s right.
It’s one of the few pleasures I have left, and I pay for it dearly with slaps and insults.
Stirring the cheese sauce so it doesn’t become lumpy, my thoughts drift to the last time I was happy.
God, I miss my old workshop terribly. I still get to sew when I fix holes in clothes or adjust one of Ms. Fedorova’s outfits, but it doesn’t ease the yearning to create something new.
I also cling to every second of the unforgettable night I spent with the man of my dreams. Rodian. When things get really bad, I daydream that he finds me and takes me away from this hell.
He was the last good thing to happen to me.
What I’d give to erase the past five years and wake up in my little apartment in the UK.
A sharp sound rips me out of my deep thoughts, and frowning, I glance over my shoulder. The next instant, frightened screams sound up from the guests, making my heart jump in my chest.
I hear Ms. Fedorova’s shrill voice as gunfire erupts all over the property.
My eyebrows fly up, and before I can process what I’m doing, my body is already moving. Panicked, I rush out the back door and run as fast as I can through the fresh laundry and across the yard.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out we’re under attack, and I’m not hanging around to be killed along with the rest of my family.
Russian shouts fill the air, and when I glance over my shoulder and see a man aim a weapon at me, I let out a shriek and push myself to run faster.
“Oh God,” I cry, fear flooding my chest and making hard tremors shudder through me.
Another gunshot cracks through the air, and a couple of seconds later a bullet slams into the back of my calf. I tumble forward, plowing into the dry grass, pain ripping through my skin and muscle.
“Ahhh!” As I sit up and grab hold of my leg, a sob building in the back of my throat, I see two men running toward me. Their firearms are trained on me, and they’re shouting Russian commands I don’t understand.
“English!” I begin to gasp the word over and over as they grab me by the arms and haul me to my feet. “I’m English.”
They continue to bark Russian words at me as I’m dragged to the front yard where mother, the other guests, and some of the guards are being forced to get into the back of a truck.
Where the others help each other to climb up, they ignore me. I grab hold of the metal edge, but when I’m unable to pull myself into the cargo hold, the two men quickly grow impatient with me and begin shouting again.
My leg is on fire, and I grit my teeth as I use all my strength to climb into the box.
Unable to stand up, I scoot across the floor, my eyes wide as I glance from Ms. Fedorova and the others to the soldiers.
Ms. Fedorova screams something at them, but the soldiers laugh, and while one sneers a reply at her, he slams the doors shut, and we’re plunged into darkness.
Everyone talks all at once, and not being able to understand, I cry, “What’s happening?”
Once again, I’m ignored, and when the truck begins to move, my body is jostled, making the pain in my calf increase. I clamp my hand over the wound, hoping to slow the bleeding.
While everyone else loses their minds, I sit with my head lowered, the realization that my crappy life just took a turn for the worse shuddering through me.
One by one they fall quiet, only sniffles and heavy breathing filling the air. Minutes pass before I try again and ask, “What is happening?”
“They say my father has been overthrown and there’s a new pakhan.” Ms. Fedorova’s tone is void of the usual hatred and filled with ungodly terror.
Oh no!
When the truck shakes, I bite my bottom lip to keep from making a sound as it sends a fresh wave of pain through my leg.
A new pakhan taking over can only mean one thing. Yegor Fedorov’s family, men, and associates will all be rounded up to be killed.
I’m as good as dead.