Once we made it back to the house, I dismissed the guard with a tight smile and retreated to my room quickly because I needed to get ready for dinner at seven. We dressed formally in this household, so I’d need to shower, do my hair and put on a full face of make-up before I’d be considered presentable.
As I stuck my phone onto charge, I eyed the device, wondering if Father was monitoring me, and if so, would he ask me why I went to the clerk’s office today?
Could I trust the guard to be appeased by the bribe he’d been given?
I wasn’t sure. Had no way of knowing for certain. I just had to pray that tonight’s meal would go without a hitch. Had to pray that he wouldn’t spring Abramovicz on us as a guest again—he’d done it twice this past week already.
Shuddering at the memories from last night of that lech’s gaze on me, undressing me as he gorged on the pelmeni, traditional dumplings, I readied myself for battle.
My make-up was on point—looking better than a professional’s by the time I was done. There were no signs of the fatigue under my eyes nor of the stress lines at my temples. I wore a slim-fitting Chanel dress and Prada heels, and made sure every single scab on my palms were covered with Band-Aids.
No one had ever cared enough to ask why my hands were always covered in Band-Aids, and I used that to my advantage.
Slice marks on my arms and legs would be noticed. My trunk too—with the skimpy outfits we sometimes wore to parties, of which there were many, from weddings to baptisms to celebratory occasions around a business deal—so cutting my hands had always been my thing.
And the best part?
It hurt.
All day.
Every day.
Whenever it got to be too much, I just had to squeeze my fingers. So hard that it would pop a scab, break already torn flesh and make them hurt all over again.
It was perfect. So beautifully ugly that it was my personal salvation.
A salvation I hadn’t needed while I was away from this toxic household.
I thought about what he’d said in the car:
“Cutting isn’t an escape. I see you slicing your palms, see the aftermath of it, I’ll tie you to the fucking bed, spank you, and make you come so fucking hard you won’t remember why you were cutting yourself in the first place.”
Did he mean that?
God, I hoped he did.
I squeezed my fingers, feeling the ragged tissue protest the move.
Coping mechanisms... mine were so bad in the eyes of the world. Brennan dropped F-bombs like a priest prayed, but he didn’t get side-eyed like he was a freak.
Me, I took a blade to my palm and I was the weirdo?
Still, orgasms.
I wondered what they were like. I knew that I’d been so close to experiencing one today. Would he make me feel that again? Or was it a one-time thing? I hoped not.
Once dressed, I eyed the time, and seeing that I had a few minutes to spare, I stared at myself in the mirror.
I’d pass.
My collarbone was a little too prominent which told me I needed to focus on eating over the next few days, and my wrists looked so delicate they could snap, but aside from that, I could have graced a catwalk. The heels were high, elegant and sleek, cupping my feet like slippers. The dress was tight, a rich navy that emphasized the gold in my blonde hair.
Biting my lip as I twisted around on my heel, I moved out onto the landing.
The staircase had a grand railing, like a massive semi-circle, and I leaned over it to peer down to the first floor.
All was quiet.
The place was like a morgue.
My heartbeat sped up, the response out of my control yet all the stronger for it, as my breath caught in my throat.
Morgues—how fitting that I lived in one when this place saw more death than life.
How was it Svetlana could bring herself to live here?
I’d whored myself out too, but the Sinners were honest with their sins. My father shielded his behind lies and boardroom deals that were founded in bullshit.
Give me the Sinners over the Bratva any day of the week.
Shuddering, and wishing that it was tomorrow already, I began the careful descent down the stairs. My heels were high, and it would be so easy to tumble down them. So easy to fall like Mama had.
I’d seen her crumpled form at the bottom of these steps far too often.
Nobody was that clumsy.
Mouth tightening, heart still pounding, and my skin clammy, the desire to dig my nails into my palms was a strong one. Nobody cared about a bunch of Band-Aids, but spilling drops of blood onto the hideous zebra-print rug in the hall? Staining the marble tiles? That was a surefire way to draw attention to myself.
Wondering how it was possible that I could be so much happier in a grungy clubhouse, surrounded by sex-mad bikers, most of them stinking of the road and motor oil, the scent of weed in the air and smoke on their clothes, than this manicured paradise, I entered the living room.
It was a grand affair with high, paneled walls that soared to a ceiling with intricate moldings and an authentic candelabra that had falls of crystal raindrops shimmering glittery light all over the parquet floor. It had never been my favorite place, even before Svetlana had gotten her grubby hands on it, but now it was like something from a strip joint.
What the hell Father was thinking was beyond me.
Had he lost more than his patellas during the shooting?
Everything was faux ornate now. High-backed chairs and sofas in the French-style, but made out of a weird kind of plastic, and in lurid colors. They clashed too—the chairs with the molding around the edges were like baby pink thrones, and the sofas were a chartreuse so bright it was enough to wind anyone with good taste.
A matching coffee table sat between them, and this one made turquoise look like it was muted.
When I thought about the antiques that had once graced this room, I knew that Father wasn’t the only murderer in his marriage—Svetlana murdered good taste with every breath she took.
As I walked in, I saw her lounging against one of the two armchairs. Father always looked out of place when he was there, his ruddy cheeks, piggy eyes, and the belly that overspilled his pants no matter how much he spent on tailoring, made him, somehow, all the more uglier when he was surrounded by Barbie pink.
That wasn't a sight I saw often, however, as it was too hard for him to leave his wheelchair. Only at meals where he had business associates in attendance did he make that kind of effort.
Svetlana’s focus was on her phone, her face down-turned as I took her in. Dressed in black, she looked more like a streetwalker than a Pakhan’s wife. A part of me wondered if that was how Father had met her. It wouldn’t be a stretch of the imagination, considering his line of work, but Pakhans didn’t often marry dime-a-dozen whores.
Everything about their marriage stank, but it wasn’t mine to dissect.
Her dress was so short that I could see her panties thanks to how she had her legs crossed, and the hem sat at hip-height, the PVC showing every single asset off to perfection. She was a beautiful woman, but life had made her hard—I knew how that felt.
I didn’t begrudge her finding a sugar daddy. I just begrudged that she was mean to Victoria, looked at me like I was the slut who didn’t belong here, and was always rude.
As my heels tapped against the marble floor, the clicking sound giving way once I was standing on a priceless carpet that appeared to be one of the only things Father had deemed worthy of protecting from his new wife’s interior design disaster, she didn’t bother looking up from her cellphone, just murmured in Russian, “Someone’s gonna get reamed tonight.”
My nostrils flared, concern hitting me like my father’s fist to my gut. “Abramovicz is coming for dinner?”
She peered up at me, a malicious sneer on her lips. “By the end of the night, you’ll wish that was all that had happened.”
My pulse had calmed down some as I’d made my way i
nto the sitting room, but now, it was back to racing like I’d been running. My stomach churned, and I could feel cold beads of sweat gathering at the back of my neck, my temples, and under my arms.
Svetlana wasn’t warning me—she was telling me she was going to enjoy whatever crap Father was going to hurl at me. She was building up the anticipation. Encouraging me to dread what was going to happen, just so that she could see me hyped up, panicked.
Scared.
Svetlana wasn’t to know that the only thing that would scare me was being locked in the house so that I couldn’t escape tomorrow.
Being imprisoned here had happened before, so I saw no reason why the threat was off the table.
Did he speak about business in front of her?
Even as I was perplexed about how she knew of Father’s plans, I didn’t have time to puzzle over their odd dynamic, not when my time felt like it was running out.
I’d been about to take a seat, but at her words, I remained standing, and drifted over to the fireplace. Either side of it, there were console tables, two massive displays of flowers looming over them in vile colors that clashed with the bright pink and reds. I didn’t even know royal blue tulips were a thing, but seeing them here, I wished they weren’t.
I’d been punished a thousand times by my father.
I knew what he was like in a rage, and while he was just as evil in a wheelchair as he was out of it, these past few weeks, he’d been crueler than ever before. As if the weakness inherent in being injured was making it necessary for him to terrify the men under him.
In the power pit he existed in, it made sense.
But I was his daughter. Not one of his soldiers.
And that was why I picked up the small crystal pyramid that decorated the mantelpiece.
I’d never armed myself before. Never even thought about fighting back. But tomorrow... I had to cling to it. Had to protect myself. I needed to make sure that I could run.
The perimeter wasn’t water-tight. I knew of at least two different ways that I could get off the estate if I needed to, so if Father came at me with his cane, if he beat me with it, I could defend myself before running off and finding one of those exits.
In my head, I planned my route. I wasn’t wearing the best shoes, and it was cold out, the autumn nights already starting to turn chilly. It was getting dark, twilight past us, and I’d left my phone upstairs—dammit—so I wouldn’t have a flashlight with me.
Neither would I have any money.
If things turned bad, and I could only reason that Svetlana’s smug smirk was indicative of how bad it really was going to be, I was screwed.
The minute I retaliated against whatever Father was going to do, Svetlana would call for the guards, and I wouldn’t have time to head upstairs for my phone and purse, wouldn’t have time to do anything other than run for it. Even the car keys to the SUV I used were in my purse. Along with my revolver…
Dammit.
I was screwed.
Temptation hit me to retreat upstairs, just so I could get my things, but I didn’t have time.
The second the pyramid was in my hands, I heard the faint squeal of the wheels in his chair. The sound had me tightening my grip on the impromptu weapon—a memento from when Father had taken his new bride to Egypt, yet another break from his old habits, taking her somewhere that wasn’t Moscow—and the pointed tip dug into my palm. The pain grounded me. Centered me in a way that few would ever be able to understand.
The catharsis came at a moment where I needed to be ready, mentally prepared for whatever could be hurled my way.
I’d never thought the cuts would give me an advantage at a moment like this, but I knew I’d never seen anything as clearly as I did now.
Father wheeled into the room, a nasty scowl on his face, Maxim, his guard, at his back.
I’d known Maxim for years. He was one of Father’s projects. Some Bratva boys showed a special talent for certain aspects of the life, and leadership cultivated that. In this instance, Maxim had come to the Pakhan’s attention.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know exactly why Maxim was a part of Father’s special guard.
He’d always been pleasant to me, and God knew, pleasant was hard to find under this roof.
“Where is she?” Father snarled.
I hadn’t been hiding, but I realized that I was tucked away, sheltered by the natural nook formed by the fireplace, which jutted out into the room. Because the candelabra was old, it didn’t exactly illuminate the space very well, but that didn’t make me invisible.
Svetlana peered up, her attention veering from her phone as it pingponged between Maxim and her husband. She twisted around to point at me, a scowl on her face, one that made me wonder if Father’s eyes were failing him or something because she saw me quite clearly, before grumbling, “She’s right there!”
I took the opportunity to slip out of my high heels as Father’s gaze darted over to me, and his hands tightened around the wheels, his knuckles bleeding white as he surged halfway across the room. Maxim’s face was blank, but when I cast him a look, there was something in his eyes... something that put me even more on edge. Which, truly, shouldn’t have been possible.
The tip of the pyramid dug ever deeper into my palm, until I could feel the blood soaking through the fabric of the bandages that covered my wounds. Nerves had me whispering, “Good evening, Father.” I felt like a coward for shrinking in on myself, for my shoulders hunching, as the desire to disappear into the damn wallpaper overcame me.
I’d spent a lifetime trying to hide, but it never worked out. Unless I was with someone like him. Someone dark and dangerous. Someone more powerful than the Bratva Pakhan. Only then would I ever be safe from the monster who had sired me.
His nostrils flared as he maneuvered around the furniture like it was a NASCAR racetrack, and when he finally reached me, it hit me then.
He was in a wheelchair.
He was injured.
He couldn’t walk.
After that display, I had a feeling he was badly in need of glasses, just too prideful to wear them, and I was still terrified of him.
I could run away, just dart out of the room, but Maxim was here. And Victoria wasn’t. She’d made no mention of going for a sleepover earlier, which was something she would have shared with me if this wasn’t impromptu.
That indicated what was going to happen.
Father was going to beat me. Or maybe Maxim was if Father couldn’t manage it.
I could run, but Maxim would catch me. Would bring me back.
And like always, as was my new normal now, Svetlana would cheer on from the sidelines like the demented harpy she was.
Hatred surged inside me like lava bubbling in the pit of a volcano.
The desire to make him scared, to make him hurt, to terrorize him, to make them all scared was so overwhelming that it made my cheeks flush with color when, seconds earlier, I knew I’d paled.
The Irish were worse than the Bratva.
They were smarter, more devious. They ruled with iron fists but diversified. They had power in unusual places, where we scurried about in the shadows, they were New York’s darlings. Not necessarily the older O’Donnelly, but the sons for sure.
Aidan Jr. and Brennan were considered eligible bachelors in need of snatching up by Park Avenue Princesses, and the A-listers who had attended Inessa and Eoghan’s wedding hadn’t been there for the Vasovs—but for the O’Donnellys.
That was power.
That was protection.
And it was within my grasp. Within my reach. I wasn’t about to let anything get in my way.
As he slid toward me, his wheelchair making him faster even as it was harder for him to maneuver through the many pieces of adult Barbie furniture, most of which he collided with, I sucked in a sharp breath, curling my feet into the rug as I murmured, “Is something wrong?”
“Why were you talking to that O’Donnelly cunt today?”
So, the bribe hadn
’t been enough to keep my guard quiet.
I should have known.
Inside, I squirmed, but outwardly, I presented as calm a facade as I was able and rasped, “You mean Brennan? He uses the same stables as me.”
Svetlana snorted. “A likely story.” She surged to her feet, smoothing down her dress that was more like a napkin, and murmured, “I’m bored. And hungry. Your heir wants dinner.”
Gaze whipping around to face her, I caught her just in time for her to pat her stomach. The smugness in her smile made sense now.
I’d already been useless to my father if I wasn’t going to marry his Sovietnik and tighten his links with his Two Spies—his generals—but now Svetlana was breeding, and if she gave him a son, then my already precarious situation was a thousand times worse.
And that was nothing to Victoria’s position in this family.
She wasn’t in physical danger—she was too good a girl for that—but I could easily see her being married off before she was ready.
Inessa had been fortunate to hit eighteen before she was forced to tie herself to Eoghan for life. But Svetlana would want Victoria out of the house as soon as she physically could, and once I was out of the picture, there were only two years before she could legally, with his permission, get married to Abramovicz—unless he died first.
I had to pray that was the case, had to pray that Victoria would be safe from his clutches because seventeen was far too young to wed anyone, never mind an old man. Yet even as I thought about that thorn in my side, I realized that Abramovicz was only a part of the problem.
My father was the real thorn.
One that dug so deep into my skin that it made the razor blades that cut through my flesh like a fork through buttery lobster appear dulled.
He’d always be a danger to my sisters.
Even after she’d married, I knew he’d caused Inessa problems. Had known that without Brennan confirming it today.
The second I was under his roof again and he was back from the hospital, his first item of business had been to work on tying me to his Sovietnik.
My being in danger was one thing, but once Svetlana had his brat, Victoria’s safety would be in jeopardy too.
I needed her out from under this roof.
Filthy Sex: The Five Points’ Mob Collection: Four Page 10
