Chapter 4 - Janella
The syncopated rap of knuckles against the door jars me awake. I feel as though I’ve barely slept. I’m confused because Dad never bothers knocking. Who else could it be?
Then I remember that it could be any number of scary suspects.
“Miss Driscoll?” It’s a woman at the door. Her voice is thickly accented, though I can’t immediately figure out the origins. It’s a game I play at the Pit. Usually, I’m better at it. “It’s time for breakfast. Sir said you must eat something.”
“I’m not hungry,” I rasp out, my voice hoarse from crying and sleep.
There’s a pause. Did she leave?
“Sir insists,” the woman says firmly, her tone brooking no arguments. “I will come get you myself in ten minutes if I have to.”
My head drops in resignation. I don’t even want to know what that would entail.
“I will wait, Miss Driscoll,” she says.
Undeniably, she means it. I can tell that she will follow whatever orders Yuri has given her.
She will wait by the door until she has to barge in and drag me kicking and screaming if she needs to.
The last thing I need is to make a scene.
I already lost my cool last night. Whatever punishment my disobedience will incite, I’ve got a sinking feeling it will make my father’s version look like child’s play.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I finally choke out.
There’s nothing to do but drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom.
My reflection confirms what I already suspected—I look like a wreck.
My blotchy cheeks match the puffy, swollen state of my eyes.
I turn the tap and splash icy water on my face, then drag my damp fingers through my frizzy mane until it’s smooth enough to bundle atop my head.
It isn’t a real improvement, but it’s all I can manage.
The silky pajama set I’d changed into last night will have to do for now. My skin crawls at the thought of slipping back into last night’s dress.
When I open the door, the woman standing in front of it looks nothing like I’d already imagined.
For one thing, she’s older. She has to be at least fifty.
Her pepper-dark hair has been scraped back into a severe bun that puts my makeshift top-knot to shame.
She looks like she hasn’t smiled since the Cold War. She fits Yuri’s lair perfectly.
I try to leech some comfort from her eyes, which aren’t empty or cruel.
Helpfully, she introduces herself instantly. “I am Oksana. I manage this household. Come with me.”
“Uh,” I grapple, stumbling forward when she gestures me onward. “Hi. Good morning. I’m—My name is Janella.”
“Yes, I know, Miss Driscoll,” she says brusquely.
She turns on her heel without another word. It is clear I am supposed to follow her. I do. I’m regretting not putting my shoes back on, even if they were stiletto heels. The marble is cold beneath my bare feet, padding down the hallway.
The apartment is even more staggering in the cold light of day, with cathedral ceilings and a floor plan that makes it feel like a showroom.
One thing’s for sure—I don’t belong here.
What’s worse is that, now that some of my shock has worn off, there’s nothing to keep me from clocking the cameras.
Last night, I’d been too out of it. It had been all I could do to keep up with Iosif, trying to meet his demands and follow his directions.
The full scope of it all hits me now, like a mallet.
As Oksana leads me straight to the dining area, I can’t miss the men.
There are men everywhere.
Two of them stand by the windows, their arms crossed in front of their broad, muscular chests.
Their expressions are vacant, and their watchful eyes piercing.
Another one of them—this one, I recognize from last night, the man who had brought Iosif the first-aid kit—leans across the counter, phone in hand.
He’s speaking… Russian. Rapid Russian down the line, his thick, dark brows knit together in a frown.
They are all armed.
Including the fourth man already sat at the table, casually reading the newspaper.
It isn’t Iosif.
I whip around to stare at Oksana, eyes bugging out of my head.
“Where’s—?”
“Sir is out,” she says. Clearly, she is not a chatty woman.
“He’s—”
“Out,” Oksana snaps, and pointedly pulls out a chair for me. “He had business to attend to. He left early this morning. He will return in the evening.”
Disgruntled, I slowly sink into the seat, trying to process that. Am I meant to be relieved or petrified by his absence? Oksana does not care. She doesn’t look back at me before she strides to the kitchen.
She bats the man in the kitchen away, grunting, “Podvin’sya, Ivan,” whipping at his arm with a stray dishtowel.
A moment later, she returns with a tray laden with too much on it.
She sets it down, then begins to arrange the items in front of me.
Swiftly, I snatch my hands off the table.
The space is filled with a platter of fried eggs, another with a pile of bacon, a basket of toast, a bowl of fresh fruit, and little pots of different jams.
Once she steps back with an expectant nod, I reach for the teapot. My stomach is in knots. I doubt I can keep a single bite down. I pour the tea mostly just to have something to do with my hands. Still, even the familiar comfort of the cup warming my palms can’t quell my unease.
None of the men so much as acknowledges me outright.
There are no merry greetings, that’s for sure.
Yet I’m anything but invisible. Their attention burrows into every side of my skull like laser beams. When I squirm, Ivan catches my eye from the kitchen.
I splash hot tea onto my fingers with a yelp.
This is nothing like the men Dad keeps on.
Sure, he has security. He has his poker games and his…
clients. I’ve never been more keenly aware of the difference between a couple of beefy guys posted at the door and men who would kill without blinking twice.
The men at the Pit monitor the goings-on on a grainy feed they’re usually too drunk to pay attention to by the end of the night.
Every single one of these men is stone-cold sober. And a stone-cold killer, too.
This is something else.
I understand the fear in my father’s eyes last night, viscerally. It echoes through my own bones now, sitting here. Surrounded, wearing silk pajamas that probably cost more than our monthly groceries’ budget, and sipping tea from fine china.
I can’t believe my father is the one who put me here.
He knew. God, he had to have known. There’s no other explanation for the way he reacted to Yuri. He is a lot of things, but he isn’t clueless. One doesn’t take money from shady characters who stab people like it’s nothing, cater to their whims, and invite them back… if they can say no.
But would Iosif Yuri have noticed me if Dad hadn’t put me up as a prize for the taking?
No. He never has before. If my new keeper is to be believed—and I’m not sure if he is—there was worse in the eager crowd last night.
That crowd, my father had gathered. Had egged on.
Had taken money from. Money, the only thing he gives a damn about anymore.
Oksana clears her throat, and I automatically pick up a piece of toast.
It is sawdust in my mouth.
But all I can do is slather some jam onto it and keep chewing.
The truth is that it doesn’t matter how much the blood in my veins simmers.
My hurt and hatred don’t matter. I don’t get to fling plates full of food I’ve no appetite for at these pristine walls, guarded by soulless sentries.
I want to scream at these stone-faced men, at the unflinching Oksana, at the cameras recording from every angle…
and those wants are inconsequential. I am trapped.
My fury did me no good last night. I’d shouted at the man all of these people are afraid of.
I’d shoved at him and called him insane.
I had raged and demanded my freedom. In return, he’d looked at me like I was a petulant child.
He hadn’t even had to raise his voice to cut me off at the knees.
His clear grey eyes had been calm. His mouth had quirked in amusement.
My agony, my outrage, my confusion… it had been nothing more than a tantrum to Iosif Yuri.
He had been unmoved.
I’m terrified.
I raise my cup to my lips and force the tremor out of my anxious hands.
I fight to remind myself I’ve handled worse.
There’s nothing Iosif can do to me that could wound me worse than what my own father did last night.
I’ve dealt with my father for years. I have swallowed any dregs left of my pride and been obedient.
Silent. As close to invisible as I can get.
I know how to stay under the radar—to stay safe, and to survive.
Even if I’m not sure what I’m surviving for anymore.
***
As a minor mercy, it turns out I don’t have to spend the day in pajamas after all.
I’ve only just escaped back to my assigned room when Oksana reappears at my door. This time, with her arms—and those of another, younger helper—laden with garment bags. It’s shopping bags and shoeboxes galore.
“Sir arranged delivery this morning,” is all she offers by way of explanation.
I just stand frozen by the door, watching the pile on my bed grow taller and taller.
They cart the items to the closet, where they show me an array of blouses, trousers, and dresses.
There are sweaters in kitten-soft cashmere.
There is not a single pair of jeans. I don’t even know how to process the lacy sets of underwear that will almost definitely lend no support to my substantial curves.
But I can’t help but appreciate the coat—a real winter coat, that is a different species than anything I’ve ever worn.