The Weight of Blood (The Valachi Family #2)

Prologue

Katya’s Diary

He came again tonight. My heart stuttered, and I forced myself to lie perfectly still.

I heard the clink of the belt buckle first—a cold, metallic promise—before his shadow even fell across the doorway. I don’t fight anymore. I learned that lesson the hard way; every struggle only made him worse, and my pain greater.

As he climbed into the small, narrow bed with me, I pressed my nails deep into my palms until the skin threatened to split. I focused on that bright, sharp sting. It’s the only pain that’s mine. It reminded me I’m still here—that he hadn’t hollowed me out completely.

My eyes drifted to the window. The curtains used to be white. Now they’re yellowed with age and dust. Maybe that’s fitting. Nothing pure survived in this place.

March 2, 2002

He called me his favorite girl. The nuns at St. Agnes said I should be grateful. They called him a benefactor—a man who “keeps the orphanage alive.” A savior.

I think they meant buyer. They traded girls for donations and call it God’s will. Their prayers are lies whispered over rosary beads. I used to pray too—until I realized God doesn’t visit this orphanage on the outskirts of Utah. Not anymore.

April 17, 2002

He said I should count myself lucky.

Lucky. The wretched bastard.

If luck were real, I’d be anywhere but here.

I counted instead: twelve steps from my bed to the door, fifty-four seconds between the guards’ rounds. Counting calmed me; it turned panic into calculation as I plotted how to escape this life.

One day, those numbers will open a door. And when they do, I’ll be ready.

May 29, 2002

I think I’m pregnant. The nausea has visited every morning for the last couple of weeks.

I hide it as best as I can—pretend it’s anxiety, bad food, anything but what it is.

My stomach feels bloated—terrifying and sacred all at once.

If the nuns find out, they’ll take the baby.

If he discovers, he’ll either claim it or destroy it, to remind me of his cruelty and ownership.

But this child... this small life... It’s mine. The only thing untouched. I whisper and softly sing to it at night, beneath the blankets.

You’re mine. You’re safe. I won’t let them take you.

June 14, 2002

The back door isn’t always locked. I’ve watched after dinner, after prayers. Sometimes they get careless. One night soon, I’ll go. I haven’t packed yet—just hidden a coin and a small silver cross I stole from the chapel. The bread I’ll take when it’s time. Maybe the cross will keep Sofia safe.

That’s her name. Sofia.

If she ever reads this, I want her to know I didn’t run just for myself—I ran to give her a life that doesn’t begin in chains.

July 22, 2002

I ran last night. It was raining. I remembered the roof leaking in a steady rhythm, like a clock counting down.

Everyone was asleep, but Anna woke when I moved.

She begged me to take her with me. God forgive me, I refused.

She was too weak, and I could barely move fast enough as it was.

My body felt slow and clumsy, each step weighed down by fear.

I promised to send help, speaking with more hope than certainty. I didn’t know if I could keep it.

When I checked, the door was unlocked. I wondered if it was mere chance—or a moment of mercy. For a second, I dared to hope that someone was listening after all.

The wind was howling like a warning. I was cooped up in an abandoned hunting cabin I came across last night.

I needed to rest, had to. But now I must forge forward.

I don’t dare look back, though ahead the road stretched slick and endless, trees black as sin looming against the storm.

Cold bit through my dress, sharp and unrelenting—but the air smelled of wet earth, pine, and freedom.

I must make it. That way, you will be born free, Sofia. And if I don’t… we will die free. This diary will carry the truth. I would somehow hide or protect it. It would have to tell our story: who they were, what they did, and why I ran. I swear some debts have to be paid.

If you are reading this, it means I died while running for my life and for the life of my unborn child. My name is Katya Ivanova. I escaped from St. Agnes Home for Girls.

And I am hunted by its current benefactor, a powerful man whose name I do not know, only that he visits often, watches too closely, and does not let go of what belongs to him.

June 8, 2003

It’s been nearly a year since the river.

I don’t know how we survived—luck, maybe, or a grace I no longer recognize.

An old hunter with a limp took me to his cabin, finding me half-conscious by the river.

He never asked questions, and I offered no answers—just the silent language of shared meals and stoked fires.

When I had recovered enough, we left before dawn and kept moving.

I’ve learned never to love a place enough to be found there.

Sofia’s asleep now. Her little hand is curled around mine even in her dreams, as if she already knew the world required holding on. I watch her chest rise and fall and tell myself this must be what freedom feels like—quiet, fragile, borrowed. But it’s ours.

We’ve moved again. Second time this year. I still see shadows in every passing car, hear voices in every knock. Fear is my oldest companion now—it keeps us alive.

The men who broke me—who broke so many—still walk free in the sunlight. Those who looked away, who chose a comfortable silence, sleep soundly in their beds. I trace the cracks on these new walls and pray they are a map that leads to nowhere.

If you’re reading this someday, Sofia, don’t let my fear become yours. Don’t live in the shadows I left behind. The world can be cruel, but it can also be kind. Seek the kindness. Treasure it. Protect it.

You are the only thing I ever did right. You are my hope, my light, my reason.

Mama loves you. Always.