by James, E L
Anatoli’s gaze follows her, and his lips press into a thin, angry line. “Feeling a little more docile now?” he sneers.
Alessia says nothing.
He snorts and reaches for their luggage. Alessia glances around. They are in a parking lot in the center of a city. An imposing hotel looms in the near distance. It’s several stories high and lit up like a Hollywood movie with the word WESTIN crowning its façade. Abruptly Anatoli grabs her hand and tugs her toward the entrance. He doesn’t break his stride, so she has to scurry to keep up.
The foyer is all marble, mirrors, and modernity, and Alessia spots the discreet sign: they are in the Westin Zagreb. Anatoli checks them in to the hotel in what sounds like flawless Croatian, and a few minutes later they are riding up to the fifteenth floor in the elevator.
Anatoli has booked them a luxurious suite that is furnished in creams and browns. There’s a couch, a desk, and a small table, and through the sliding doors Alessia can see one bed.
One.
No!
She remains standing, tired and helpless, just within the threshold.
Anatoli shrugs off his coat and throws it onto the couch. “Are you hungry?” he asks, opening the doors of the dresser beneath the TV. Eventually he finds the minibar. “Well?” he snaps.
Alessia nods.
Anatoli motions with his head toward a leather-bound book on the desk. “We’ll get room service. Choose something. And take off your coat.” Alessia picks up the book and leafs through the pages to the in-room-dining section. The entries are in Croatian and English; she scans the selections and immediately chooses the most expensive item on the menu. She has no compunction about having Anatoli spend his money. She frowns, remembering how she resisted Maxim’s attempts to pay….Anatoli has retrieved two small bottles of scotch and is unscrewing the top from each in turn. Yes, Alessia has no compunction at all. She’s a kidnap victim, and he’s meted out enough physical abuse on her body already. He owes her. But with Maxim…the balance was all wrong. She had owed him. So much. Her Mister. She lets him slip quietly from her mind, to be mourned later.
“I’ll have the New York steak,” she declares. “With an extra salad. And fries. And a glass of red wine.” Anatoli turns to regard her with surprise.
“Wine?”
“Yes. Wine.”
He considers her for a moment. “You have become very Western.”
She stands taller. “I would like a glass of French red wine.”
“French now?” He raises a brow.
“Yes.” And as an afterthought she adds, “Please.”
“Okay, we’ll get a bottle.” He lifts his shoulder in a nonchalant shrug, and he sounds so reasonable.
But he’s not. He’s a monster.
He pours both whiskeys into a glass and watches her as he reaches for the phone. “You know, you’re a very attractive woman, Alessia.”
She freezes. What now?
“Are you still a virgin?” His voice is soft, cajoling.
She gasps and feels a little faint. “Of course,” she breathes, attempting to look outraged and embarrassed at once.
He cannot know the truth.
His gaze hardens. “You seem different.”
“I am. I’ve had my eyes opened.”
“By someone?”
“Just…by my experiences,” she whispers, wishing she had never responded. She’s antagonizing a snake.
Anatoli dials room service and orders their meal while Alessia removes her coat and sits down on the couch to watch him warily. When he finishes his call, he grabs the TV remote, switches on the local news, and sits at the desk with his drink. For a while he watches the news, ignoring her, occasionally sipping his whiskey. Alessia is relieved that his attention is elsewhere. She watches the TV as well, trying to understand the newscaster, and she catches a few words. She concentrates; she doesn’t want her mind to wander. It will only wander back to Maxim, and she refuses to grieve his loss in front of Anatoli.
When the program is over, he turns his attention back to Alessia. “So you ran away from me?” he says.
Is he talking about yesterday?
“When you left Albania.” He takes a last swig of scotch.
“You threatened to break my fingers.”
He rubs his chin, thoughtful for a moment. “Alessia…I—” He stops.
“I don’t want excuses, Anatoli. There’s no excuse for treating another human being the way you have treated me. Look at my neck.” She pulls down her sweater, revealing the bruises he left yesterday, and raises her chin, making them conspicuous.
He flushes.
There’s a discreet knock on the door, and with a frustrated glance at Alessia, Anatoli retreats to open it. A young man dressed in Westin livery is outside with a dining cart. Anatoli beckons him in and stands back as the server transforms the cart into a table. It’s covered in a white linen tablecloth and plush place settings for two. There’s a jaunty single yellow rose in a ceramic vase, striving to represent a little romance.
Ironic.
Alessia’s sorrow surfaces, eating at her insides, and she has to fight back tears while the waiter opens the wine. Placing the cork in a ceramic dish, he pulls several plates from a warming drawer beneath the cart and removes their metallic covers with a flourish. The aroma is tantalizing. Anatoli says something in Croatian and slips the waiter what looks like a ten-euro note, for which he seems extremely grateful. Once the young man has left the room, Anatoli summons Alessia to the table. “Come and eat.” He sounds like he’s sulking.
Because she’s hungry and tired of fighting, Alessia sits down at the makeshift table. This is how it will be, a slow, grinding erosion of her will, so that in time she will submit to this man.
“This is most Western, yes?” he says as he sits opposite her and picks up the bottle of wine. He pours her a glass.
Alessia mulls over his earlier statement. If Anatoli wants a traditional Albanian wife, then that’s what he will have. She will not eat with him. Or sleep with him, except when he wants sex. Surely that’s not really what he wants. She stares down at her dinner as the walls of the room close in, suffocating her.
“Gëzuar, Alessia,” he says, and she looks up. Anatoli has raised his glass in a quiet salute to her, his eyes wide, his expression warm. Her scalp tingles. She wasn’t expecting this…honor! Picking up her glass, she offers it in a reluctant toast to him and takes a sip.
“Mmm,” she says, closing her eyes, seduced by the taste of the wine. When she reopens them, Anatoli is watching her, his eyes darkening, and in his gaze she sees a promise of something she doesn’t want.
Her appetite vanishes.
“You won’t run from me again, Alessia. You will be my wife,” he murmurs. “Now, eat.”
She stares down at the steak on her plate.
Chapter Thirty
Anatoli refills her glass again. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“In that case I think it’s time we went to bed.” The tone of his voice makes her look up sharply. He’s sitting back in his chair, watchful. Waiting. Like a predator. He taps his bottom lip with his index finger as if deep in thought, his eyes gleaming. He’s had at least three glasses of wine. And the whiskey. He tosses the remaining contents of his glass down his throat and rises from his seat, slowly. His eyes on her, intense, darker. She’s paralyzed by his stare.
No.
“I don’t see why I should wait for our wedding night.” He steps closer.
“No. Anatoli,” she breathes. “Please. No.” She clutches the table.
He runs a finger down her cheek. “Beautiful,” he whispers. “Get up. Don’t make this hard for both of us.”
“We should wait,” Alessia whispers, her brain churning through her options.
&n
bsp; “I don’t want to wait. And if I have to fight you, so be it.” He moves suddenly, grabbing her by her shoulders and yanking her upright and out of her seat so forcefully that she knocks her chair to the floor. Fear and anger surge through her body. She twists and kicks, her foot striking his shin and then the table, rattling the crockery and cutlery and knocking over her glass so that it spills the remaining wine.
“Ow. Fuck,” he whines.
“No!” she shouts, lashing out with both her feet, her fists flailing, hoping to strike him. He lunges at her and grabs her around the waist, jerking her into his arms. He lifts her off her feet while she kicks out at anything and everything in their path in an effort to strike him.
“No!” she screams. “Please, Anatoli!”
Ignoring her cries, he tightens his arms around her and half drags, half carries her into the bedroom.
“No. No. Stop!”
“Quiet!” he shouts as he shakes her and throws her facedown onto the bed. He sits beside her, holding her still, pressing down on her back with one hand while the other starts tugging at her boots.
“No!” she screams again. She twists, kicking him, once, twice, trying to struggle out of his hold as she pummels him with her fists.
“For fuck’s sake, Alessia!”
She’s wild, her anger and loathing giving her a strength she didn’t know she possessed. She fights, consumed by her rage and directing it at the man she hates.
“Fucking hell.” Anatoli throws himself on top of her, crushing her into the mattress and knocking the breath from her body. She tries to buck him off, but he’s too heavy.
“Calm down,” he pants in her ear. “Calm down.”
She stills, marshaling her resources and struggling to gulp air into her lungs. Anatoli shifts his weight and flips her over so that they’re nose to nose. Keeping his leg over her thighs, he grabs her hands and pulls them above her head, pinning them there with one hand.
“I want you. You are my wife.”
“Please. No,” she whispers, staring into his wild, wide eyes. In them she sees his excitement—his lean body vibrates with it. She feels it against her hip. He stares down at her, breathing hard, and one of his hands moves over her body, over her breast and belly to her fly.
“No. Anatoli, please. I’m bleeding. Please. I’m bleeding.” She’s lying, but it’s a last desperate attempt to stop him. He frowns, as if not understanding, and then his expression changes from lust to distaste.
“Oh,” he says.
Releasing her hands, he rolls off her and stares up at the ceiling. “Maybe we should wait,” he grumbles.
Alessia twists onto her side, drawing up her knees and curling into a ball, making herself as small as possible. Despair, revulsion, fear—these are her bedfellows now. Her tears start to choke her, and she feels the bed move as Anatoli rises and walks back into the living room.
How long can she cry before her tears dry up?
Moments. Seconds. Hours.
* * *
Later Anatoli drapes a blanket over her. She feels the bed dip as he climbs in, beneath the covers. He shuffles over, wraps his arm around her, and tugs her unyielding body closer. “You will suit me well, carissima,” he murmurs, and his lips brush her cheek in a surprisingly gentle kiss.
Alessia puts her fist to her mouth, stifling her silent scream.
* * *
She wakes suddenly. The room is in semidarkness, lit only by the gray light of the coming dawn. Beside her, Anatoli is fast asleep. His face is relaxed and less stern in repose. Alessia stares at the ceiling, her mind on full alert. She’s still dressed and wearing her boots. She could run.
Go. Now. She wills herself.
Slowly, stealthily, she rolls off the bed and tiptoes out of the room.
The detritus of their meal from the previous night is still on the table. Alessia eyes the cold fries, hastily grabs a few, and stuffs them into her mouth. While she eats, she rummages through her bag and finds her money. She slips the notes into her back pocket.
She stops and listens.
He’s still asleep.
Beside her duffel she spies Anatoli’s suitcase. Maybe he keeps his money in there….If he does, it could help her escape. Carefully she unzips it, not knowing what she’ll find inside.
It’s neatly packed. There are some clothes—and his gun.
The gun.
She fishes it out.
She could kill him.
Before he kills her.
Her heart starts pounding, and her head begins to spin.
She has the power. The means. The pistol is weighty in her hand.
Standing up, she sidles toward the bedroom door and watches Anatoli sleep. He hasn’t moved. A tremor runs up her spine, and her breathing shallows. He’s kidnapped her. Beaten her. Choked her. Nearly raped her. She despises him and everything he stands for. She’s terrified of him. She raises her trembling hand and takes aim. Quietly she releases the safety. Her head is throbbing, sweat beading on her brow.
This is it.
Her moment.
Her hand wobbles, and her vision blurs with her tears.
No. No. No. No.
She dashes them away and drops her hand.
She’s not a murderer.
She turns the gun around. And stares down the barrel. She’s seen enough American television to know what to do.
She doesn’t want to blindly accept her fate. This is one way out.
She could end it all, now. Her misery would be over.
She will feel nothing. Ever again.
Her mother’s anguished face comes to her mind.
Mama.
How devastated would she be…?
She thinks of Maxim. And dismisses the thought of him immediately.
She’ll never see him again.
Her throat is closing. Choked with emotion. She screws up her eyes. Panting.
She can die at her own hand. Not Anatoli’s…
And someone will have to clean up afterward.
No. No. No.
She crumples to the floor. Defeated. A failure. She cannot take her own life. She doesn’t have the gumption. And deep down she wants to stay alive in the vague hope of seeing Maxim again. She can’t run. She needs to get home. Zagreb is not five days’ walk from London, it’s so much farther. She’s helpless. She rocks quietly to and fro, holding herself and cradling the gun, while she silently surrenders to her grief. She’s never been so distraught. She’s never wept this many tears. Ever. Even after her traumatic escape and on her long walk to Magda’s. She’d mourned her grandmother and felt her loss—but she never felt this desolate. This sorrow is overwhelming. She cannot kill him, and she cannot kill herself. She’s lost the man she loves, and she’s bound to a man she loathes.
Her heart is broken. No. Her heart has disappeared.
* * *
As the sun peeks over the horizon, she stifles her sobs and through her tears she examines the gun. It’s similar to one of her father’s.
There is something she can do; she’s seen her father do it often enough. She unclips the magazine and is surprised to find only four bullets in it. She removes them and then sharply pulls the slide back and catches the remaining round as it’s ejected from the chamber. She reloads the magazine into the gun and pockets the bullets. Then she places the pistol back in Anatoli’s case and zips it up.
Standing, she wipes away her tears. Enough with the crying, she scolds herself. She glances toward the window as the skyline of Zagreb materializes in the early-morning light. From the fifteenth floor of the Westin hotel, the city is spread out beneath like a terra-cotta patchwork quilt. It’s an arresting vista, and in a distracted moment she wonders if Tiranë is similar.
“You’re awake.” Anatoli’s voice startles her.
“
I was hungry.” She glances at the table of leftover food. “Now I’m going to have a shower.”
Grabbing her bag, she scuttles into the bathroom and locks the door.
* * *
When she emerges, Anatoli is up and dressed. Their crockery and the leftover food have been cleared away, and there’s fresh linen on the table, with a continental breakfast laid out for them.
“You stayed,” Anatoli says quietly. He seems subdued, though he’s as watchful as ever.
“Where would I go?” Alessia replies wearily.
He shrugs. “You left once before.”
Alessia stares at him. Mute. Despondent. Exhausted.
“Is it because you care for me?” he whispers.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says, and, sitting down, picks out a pain au chocolat from the bread basket.
He takes his seat opposite her, and she can tell he’s hiding a slight and hopeful smile.
* * *
Tom and I wander across the vast Skanderbeg Square, which is close to the hotel. It’s a clear, chill morning, with the sun reflecting off the multicolored marble tiles that pave the gargantuan space. It’s dominated on one side by a bronze statue of Albania’s fifteenth-century hero on horseback, and on the other by the National History Museum. Although I’m anxious to get to Alessia’s town and find her home, we have to wait to meet our interpreter.
I’m unsettled and jittery and unable to keep still, so to kill time Tom and I take a quick walk through the museum. I distract myself by snapping numerous photographs and posting the odd one online. I get told off twice, but I ignore the officials and continue to take photographs surreptitiously. It’s hardly the British Museum, but I’m fascinated by the Illyrian artifacts. Tom, of course, is preoccupied with the displays of medieval weaponry; Albania has a rich and bloody history.
