Chapter 7 Katya
KATYA
Seven days.
I've been locked in this tack room for seven days, and I'm starting to lose track of time.
The darkness blurs together with brief moments of light when someone opens the door to shove food at me or swap out the bucket I'm forced to use as a toilet.
The smell is unbearable now, even though they empty it regularly.
The stench has seeped into the walls, into my clothes, into my skin.
I sleep on the floor because there's nowhere else, curled against the wall with my arms wrapped around my knees.
My body aches constantly, and I've stopped trying to keep track of the bruises.
They're everywhere now, from the hard floor, from working too hard, from the way my muscles cramp when I can't move.
I want that pendant back, but I can't stay here and keep being that man's slave anymore.
I want to go home, back to the routine of my grifter life.
I think I've convinced myself that I'm ready to make a trip back to Perm when I have enough cash, and seeing my mother will be better than a pendant anyway.
I just have to get out of here, and I'm waiting for my chance.
So when the door opens, I squint against the light and ready myself.
Gavriil walks in, carrying a fresh bucket of water, and I see my chance.
I don't think. I just move.
I lunge past him, shoving him hard, and I make it three steps before his arm wraps around my waist.
He lifts me off the ground, tucking me under his arm as if I weigh nothing, and I scream.
I kick and thrash, my fists pounding against his back, but he doesn't even flinch.
He carries me out of the room and down the hallway, and I'm too exhausted to keep fighting.
By the time we reach Dimitri's office, my voice is hoarse and my body is limp.
Gavriil sets me down in front of the door and knocks once before pushing it open.
Dimitri is sitting at his desk, and he looks up when we enter.
His eyes are wide with curiosity, brow raised so high, creases appear on his forehead.
"She tried to run," Gavriil says.
Dimitri nods once, and Gavriil leaves, closing the door behind him.
I'm standing in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, and the anger surges back through me as I jerk my shirt down over my waistband and glare at him.
"Let me go home," I say, and my voice cracks. "Please. Just let me go."
He doesn't respond.
He leans back in his chair, his arms crossed, and he watches me with those dark, flat eyes that give nothing away.
"I'll leave Moscow," I say, and the words tumble out faster now.
"I'll go back to Perm. I'll disappear. You'll never see me again. Just let me go."
"Are you finished?" His voice is calm, almost bored, and it makes the rage flare hotter.
"No, I'm not finished!" I shout, and I take a step toward him.
"You can't keep me here! I'm not your property! I'm not—"
"You are."
He cuts me off, his tone still calm, and the certainty in his voice stops me cold.
"You belong to me. I've explained this to you already."
"You can't just decide that!"
"I already have."
I stare at him, my chest heaving, and I feel the tears burning at the edges of my eyes.
I won't cry.
I refuse to cry in front of him.
But the fear is clawing at me now, deeper and darker than before.
I think about my mother, alone in Perm, never knowing what happened to me.
She won't look for me.
She won't file a report or call the police.
She'll assume I moved on, the way I always do, and eventually, she'll forget I existed at all.
The thought sucks the breath from my lungs, and I sink to my knees.
My hands are shaking, and I press them against the floor, trying to steady myself.
"Please," I whisper. "I just want to go home."
Dimitri rises from his chair and crosses the room.
He stops in front of me, and I feel his presence looming over me before he crouches down, his face level with mine.
I force myself to look up at him though it strains my neck.
"Have you learned your lesson?" he asks.
I don't answer.
"I asked you a question, Katya. Have you learned your lesson? Do you understand that you belong to me, that I can do with you as I please?"
The words taste bitter, but I force them out.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I belong to you." My voice is barely audible, and I hate how small it sounds. "You can do with me as you please."
It's degrading in this context, being broken like a fucking horse in a corral.
Next he'll have a bridle and saddle and he'll try to whip me into shape.
He studies me for a moment, and then he stands, offering me his hand.
I hesitate, staring at it, and then I take it.
His grip is firm, and he pulls me to my feet.
My legs are unsteady, and I sway slightly, but he doesn't let go.
"Good," he says. "Now we can move forward."
He releases my hand and walks to the desk, pulling out his phone from one of the drawers.
He makes a call in low, hushed tones and I hear him ordering a car to come around to the back for him.
When he hangs up, he turns back to me and this time, his expression is softer.
It's the first time I've seen him look anything but hostile.
"You're coming with me," he says.
"Where?"
"My home."
He opens a drawer and pulls out a gun, checking the chamber before tucking it into the waistband of his pants.
"Don't make me use this," he says, then he grabs his wallet and slides it into his pocket.
I nod, too tired to argue, and I follow him out of the office.
The car is waiting in the yard, a black sedan with tinted windows, and Dimitri opens the back door, gesturing for me to get in.
I slide into the seat, and he sits beside me, the gun resting on his lap.
The driver doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge us, and the car pulls away from the track.
I press my face against the window, watching the buildings blur past, and I think about jumping out.
The door isn't locked.
I could open it, throw myself onto the street, and run.
But the gun is there, a constant reminder of what will happen if I try.
The drive takes twenty minutes, and when we pull up to a building on the edge of the city, Dimitri gets out and motions for me to follow.
The apartment is on the third floor, plain and utilitarian, with white walls and sparse furnishings.
He closes the door behind us and locks it, pocketing the key.
Somehow, for a man in his position, I assumed his apartment would be different—maybe messier, or maybe more luxurious.
It appears either he is a very rudimentary man or he doesn’t spend much time here at all.
"Shower," he says, pointing down the hallway.
"There are towels in the cabinet. When you're done, come to the kitchen."
I don't argue.
I walk down the hallway and find the bathroom, small and clean, with a narrow shower stall and a sink.
I strip off my filthy clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and I position myself under the water.
It's hot, almost too hot, and I let it burn away the grime and the stench and the fear.
I scrub my skin until it's raw, and I wash my hair twice, trying to get rid of the grease and the dirt.
When I'm done, I wrap myself in a towel and step out.
There's a T-shirt and a pair of boxers folded on the counter, both too large for me, but I pull them on anyway.
They smell clean, faintly of detergent, and I realize they're his.
The thought makes my stomach twist, but I push it down.
It's not like I can run away wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxers.
Even in early summer here in Moscow, the attire just isn't appropriate.
I'd stand out like a sore thumb, so I'm going to have to endure whatever this is a bit longer before I try to slip away again.
At least for now, I'm clean and I'm not locked in a tiny room.
When I venture out of the bathroom, I find him in the kitchen, standing at the stove.
He's cooking something, the smell rich and savory, and my stomach growls.
He glances at me, his gaze traveling over the too-large clothes, and then he nods toward the table.
"Sit," he orders, and I do, and a few minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me.
Potatoes, meat, vegetables.
Simple food, but it's the first real meal I've had in a week.
I pick up the fork and eat, too hungry to care about manners or pride, and he sits across from me, watching.
"I've removed the mole from the track," he says, his voice conversational. "Rodion won't be a problem anymore."
I stop chewing, the food turning to ash in my mouth.
"You killed him?"
"Yes."
I set the fork down, my appetite gone, and I stare at the plate.
Dimitri leans back in his chair, his arms crossed, and he continues like this is a casual conversation.
"There's a more pressing matter now," he says. "One I think you may be useful for."
I look up at him, and the fear is back, coiling in my chest.
"What matter?"
"The Radich crew. They've been circling for months, testing my defenses, waiting for an opening. Rodion was feeding them information, but now that he's gone, they'll come harder. I need to know what they're planning, and I need someone who can get close enough to find out."
"You want me to spy on them?"
My voice is flat, disbelieving.
"I want you to infiltrate them. You're good at lying, at playing roles. You've already proven that. And they don't know you, which makes you perfect."
"And if I refuse?"
He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, and his eyes lock onto mine.
"You won't. Because you've learned your lesson.
You belong to me, and you'll do what I tell you to do.
And if you do it well, if you get me the information I need, then maybe you'll earn a longer leash.
Maybe you'll get to sleep in a bed instead of a tiny room.
Maybe you'll get to eat real food and take hot showers.
But if you refuse, if you try to run again, I'll put you back in that room and leave you there until you rot. "
The words settle over me and I know he means every one of them.
I look down at the plate, at the food I can't finish, and I feel the trap closing around me.
There's no way right now, but if I play along, if I get on his good side and earn that leash, then maybe I can find a way to escape.
Maybe.
"What do you need me to do?" I ask, and my tone is colored with resignation.
I don't like it, but I've been through worse.
And he's right.
I’m good at what I do or I wouldn't have been successful as long as I have been.
I can lean into my strengths and use them to free myself, and then I can get the hell out of Moscow and back home where I belong.
He smiles, and it's the first time I've seen him smile.
It's not warm or kind. It's predatory, like he's satisfied with me, and it makes my skin crawl.
"Good girl," he says.
"We'll start tomorrow."