by A. Zavarelli
“Nakya.”
The chill of Nikolai’s voice startles me, and when my eyes rise to meet his, a weighted awareness returns to my chest.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
The magazine in my hands falls together. I was right to worry. His energy is dark and distinctly volatile. It was out of line barging into his office when he was in a meeting, but to admit it would be a mistake.
“I’m not doing anything.” My voice is too soft, barely audible, but it does not tame the harshness of Nikolai’s features.
“What do you mean to do, coming into my office dressed in ...” He gestures to my clothing. “It’s not appropriate.”
If he weren’t so nettled, the irony of his declaration might be humorous, considering there are women leaving this house at all hours of the night in various states of disarray. What unspeakable offense I’ve committed by wearing a leotard is a puzzle only his mind can solve.
When he stalks toward me, instinct triggers me to hunch down and protect my head by curling into myself. My heart is sluggish, and my palms clammy as I wait for the inevitable. But when it doesn’t come, I dare to peek up at him, only to find him frozen midstep, his expression uncertain and his eyes dazed.
His actions are at odds with the certainty I feel in my gut. Life has taught me well that when the storm comes, you take whatever shelter you can find. When he doesn’t move, I dare to try.
Scrambling from the chair with feverish limbs, I hobble desperately in the direction of my only sanctuary—the bathroom. Deprived of my crutches and too far gone to reach for them, I’m nearly immobile. Even with the brace, pain splinters every step, and tears prick my eyes. Before I’m halfway across the room, my legs give out, and I collapse to my knees.
Nikolai watches wordlessly as I totter forward onto my elbows, clutching the carpet between my fingers as I crawl away like an injured animal.
“Nakya,” he bellows. “Stop. Stop this right now.”
Logically, I know I should, but I can’t. I’m too terrified of what will happen if he catches me. And so I go on, dragging my body forward until my fingertips cross over the threshold of the cold bathroom floor. The marble gives me something concrete to grab onto, but it’s of little use when Nikolai’s iron grip catches me around my good ankle.
A strangled cry squeezes from my lungs when he flips me over and pins me down with the overbearing weight of his powerful body. There isn’t a chance in hell that I could fight him off now. His pulse is strong and steady, his muscles unyielding. I’m out of breath and out of hope.
His hand hovers over my face, and I shake my head frantically, pleading to a higher power to save me. Calloused fingers come to rest on my jaw, contracting in warning.
“Stop,” he repeats.
It’s another wasted command, considering I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. The wall of his chest has me trapped. My head spins and my pulse thrashes in my ears. Every breath is a labored struggle, and I think I might pass out.
“I’m not going to hurt you, zvezda. Breathe. Relax and breathe.”
My hands come to rest on his biceps, determined to push him away. I can’t take false comfort in his honeyed assurances. I don’t want to. But right now, it feels like that’s exactly what’s happening.
He’s a liar.
But if it’s true, he’s a convincing one. More skilled than perhaps even me. When my eyes clash with his, the fight in me dissolves.
He is blue. Hazy blue. Electrifying blue. Blue like the sea and the sky and the storms that rule my life. And right now, his blue is ruling over me. In a matter of seconds, he’s rendered me a servant to the breezeless ocean in his eyes. They are soft around the edges, unmarred by the lines of time. Everything about him is harsh, but I did not realize his eyes could be so sedating.
I’m hyper aware of him now. The way he smells of tobacco and cloves and vanilla. His scent is smoky, dark, and faintly sweet. His body is warm and rigid. And I have witnessed men in all their muscular glory on the stage of the ballet, but I have never been so close to one. I have never felt a man’s weight pressing into my body, making me feel small and soft in contrast. I have never stared so intimately into eyes like these while he touches my hair, untangling it from my face the way I imagine a lover would.
I’ve never had a lover. I’ve never been touched by a man or even a boy. But there is no mistaking which side of the spectrum Nikolai falls on. He is all man. And his domination of my smaller, weaker frame has left me feeling drunk and slightly disoriented. A battered driftwood wrestling with the tide. Rocking against the waves, desperate for solid ground, he’s pulling me farther and farther from the shore. I’m going to drown in his energy.
“Stop.” The word rushes from my parted lips, reeking of my desperation and confusion.
Nikolai halts, his hand still tangled in my hair. The air between us is thick and sticky. Hot and humid like an East Coast summer. His ocean eyes carve a path to my lips, and he is so close I can taste the cinnamon on his breath. I think that he might kiss me, and it horrifies me that I want him to.
I feel like I’ve been doused in ice water when he yanks away abruptly and without explanation. In the time it takes me to blink, his face has neutralized, the dangerous chemistry between us expertly defused.
“I’ll carry you back to the chair.”
His voice is without color or emotion. A man without feeling. Somehow, I am the one left feeling wrecked when he lifts me without effort and deposits me into the chair like a child.
This isn’t right. None of this is right. When Nikolai stalks out the door without another word, my ankle throbs, and my chest does too.
I knew my captor was dangerous.
I just didn’t realize how dangerous he was to me.
4
NIKOLAI
“WERE YOU ABLE TO FIND ANYTHING?”
Alexei glances up at me from his desk, his eyes cataloging every micro expression on my face. Born of necessity, the habit has become second nature to him. It’s just one of his talents, but I am yet to find something Alexei does not excel at. Driven by an insatiable hunger to prove his worth, he is an overachiever in all things Vory related, bearing the title of cybercriminal genius and unrivaled master of the chess board.
While his achievements are many, his sacrifices are greater. For all the years that I’ve known him, I’ve known him to be a recluse. He chooses the safety of his home over the potential exposure of his secret. Though his seclusion is hardly necessary, considering most would never suspect he is mostly deaf. He learned to read lips after he lost his hearing as a boy, and if it weren’t for Sergei making me aware, I would have never known myself. Even so, he is justified in hiding his affliction. Such an impairment is a weakness in our line of work. And though his condition makes little difference to me, Alexei does not see it that way.
Bad blood has tainted our relationship for as long as I can remember, but our duty to the Vory brotherhood obligates us to civility. As far as any of the Vor know, the only common link between us is the stars we bear on our chest. They would never suspect that we also share DNA. I find it difficult to believe it myself sometimes, but the rivalry that lives between us can only be born from blood. He has always been jealous that I had our father’s approval, and I have done well to nurture my own resentment of his freedom from Sergei. Brotherly affection has not grown with time, and especially not after the unforgivable offense I committed against him.
“Your answers are in the file,” Alexei tells me.
He wants me to leave. He would like nothing better. And perhaps, I should. It’s the easy thing to do. But each encounter only reminds me that we are not so different. Alexei would not have followed through on this favor if all hope were truly lost.
What my pride won’t allow me to admit is that I do regret the actions that severed the trust between us. Had I known how much it would hurt him, I would have reconsidered my position on the subject. Some might say it is better to be blissfu
lly ignorant, but in our world, it is a costly luxury. If a Vor is disrespected, he must be given the opportunity to reap his vengeance. Someday, I hope that Alexei will come to see it that way too. However, today is not the day to rehash history. Today, something else weighs heavily on my mind.
“What did you discover about her mother?”
Alexei’s disposition remains flat. He could easily dismiss my questions. Already, he has granted me more than I expected, but I have a disturbing need to discuss this with someone. And regardless of the fact he hates me, I know my secret will be well kept with him.
“She died when Tanaka was twelve,” he answers. “Suicide.”
Retrieving the cigarettes from my pocket, I rap the packet against the desk. “I assumed she had left.”
“You would be a fool to believe that,” Alexei scoffs. “And you can’t smoke in here.”
I stuff the packet back into my jacket to appease him. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it was that Manuel did not put up much of a fight when I volunteered to take his daughter instead of his throat.”
Alexei’s brows draw together as he leans forward. “Tell me what this is really about so you can stop wasting my time.”
The answer gets lodged in my throat. It shouldn’t matter what happened in Tanaka’s past. The only thing that matters is what happened to my mother. Alexei is right. This is a waste of time. I reach for the file and push back from the seat.
“What purpose does she serve to you?” His question stops me, and when I look at him, a restless worry has taken root in his eyes. He has always been soft when it comes to women. The same was true with Katya. She was a whore and a liar, and Alexei could not see it for himself until I helped him along.
“What difference does it make?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. His judgments dictated long ago that I’m cut from the same cloth as our father. Sergei can be vicious, and perhaps, I am like him. But the truth is I don’t know.
“She is just a girl,” I tell him. “Collateral.”
Alexei moves his attention to the chess board always present on his desk while he contemplates my answer. I have little faith he believes me, but after picking his thoughts apart against the space that he knows best, he gives me the benefit of the doubt.
“There is one detail I didn’t include in the file, if it interests you. I have been told that Mrs. Valentini wore a head scarf to hide her face.”
“And why would she do that?”
“I suppose it was because she was horribly disfigured. Or so her maid tells me.”
Upon my return to the house at midnight, I am surprised to find Nonna waiting up for me. Unconsciously, my eyes move up to the ceiling where Tanaka should be sleeping on the second floor. The first thought that comes to mind is that she has escaped. Her slimy mole of a father has come for her, and she has escaped.
“Nika, I am sorry to disturb you,” Nonna sighs. “But something is troubling me.”
“What is the problem?”
She gestures to the ceiling. “This girl, there is something wrong with her.”
“What is it?”
“I try everything.” Nonna purses her lips. “She will not eat. Picking at food like a bird all day. Very little. And sometimes, I hear her in the washroom, vomiting.”
The vein in my neck throbs, stabbing against my skin as white heat congeals my blood. I will not stand for this behavior. She may have escaped punishment under her father’s watch, but it won’t be tolerated here. If anyone is going to destroy the girl, it will be me.
“I will take care of it, Nonna.”
She reaches out to touch my arm. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
The concern on her face is sobering, but also frustrating. “Do you believe I would hurt her?”
Her mouth falls open, and she shakes her head quickly. “No, Nika. I meant no disrespect. It’s just that she startles so easily—”
I leave her in the entryway, her words affecting me in a way they shouldn’t. It is, in fact, the intention I set out with. I took possession of Tanaka with the understanding that it might eventually mean taking her life. These are the rules our Vory abide by. An eye for an eye is only fair and just. But admittedly, I did not expect Manuel’s daughter to be so innocent and pure. And with every day that passes, her exotic beauty seems to infect my mind.
Being a Vor means never showing weakness, and I’m not of the mindset to start now. Despite my confliction, my course does not deviate as I move toward her bedroom. When I open the door, she startles, just as Nonna predicted, shooting up in bed and clinging to the sheet. A sliver of moonlight falls from the curtain, bathing her in soft light, and it gives me pause. She is too beautiful to wreck herself this way, and I have the sudden urge to question the authenticity of Nonna’s words. But regardless of my uncertainties, the signs can’t be ignored. She is weak and too thin. Something I credited to her endless routines was a misconception on my part.
“Hello?” Her voice is timid and frail as she attempts to make out the shadow in her doorway. This little mafia princess is always expecting wolves at her door, and it leaves me to wonder how often she has encountered men like me before. When I flip the light switch, her sleepy eyes adjust in phases, relaxing as they move over my features.
Irritatingly enough, her sudden comfort in my presence causes my dick to stir to life. She should not be relieved when she sees me. But what’s worse is that the warmth of her feminine scent eases me too. I could think of nothing more relaxing than bathing in her scent right now. I would like to bury myself in it, fuck it, and douse my body with the fire of her skin to carry with me always.
These thoughts are dismissed the moment I realize the absurdity of them.
“Until you can show some respect for my hospitality, you are to remain in this room.”
Her brows draw together, and she pulls the sheet tight around her, obscuring her hardened nipples and white camisole from my view. “What did I do to disrespect you?”
“It’s your body you are disrespecting.” I gesture to her willowy form beneath the blankets. “I have provided you with three nourishing meals a day, and you choose to waste them or deposit the contents in the toilet?”
Her eyes widen, and her hair falls loosely around her face when she shakes her head. She is embarrassed, and she is a liar.
“I forbid you to use the gym until you can show me that you have learned to eat properly.”
“You can’t do that,” she cries out. “I’m still rehabilitating.”
Desperation claws at her features, transforming her from a sleeping beauty to a simpering child. Whatever relief existed before has now morphed into hatred. It’s better this way. She should hate me, and she should know better than to defy me.
“The doctor will come to your room to continue physical therapy, but you can forget dancing until you are healed.”
Her lip quivers, and for the first time, I think I might see real tears from her. This girl
is skilled at hiding her true emotions, but this seems to be the thing that will break her. How she can cling to something so violently troubles me deeply. It isn’t normal behavior. Certainly not for someone who was aware that she would be forced to give it up once she married. Her reaction only fills my head with more questions and doubts, but I can’t give voice to them.
I’ve established the boundaries, and I’m prepared to leave her to her sorrow, but she is not willing to let it go so easily.
“It was you,” she sneers. “Wasn’t it?”
I arch an eyebrow at her, waiting patiently to hear the crime I am accused of.
“I have gone over it so many times,” she says. “The events of that night. It’s no coincidence that you showed up to take me away the same day someone sabotaged my shoes.”
I smile at her naïvety. “That would be the easiest thing to believe, I suppose. Wouldn’t it?”
“It’s the truth,” she insists.
“Ahhh but, Nakya, the truth is I think you know wh
o sabotaged your shoes. I had nothing to gain by doing so, and I would have taken you regardless. But I was not the one who wanted you to give up nonsensical dreams, so you could marry in the traditional way.”
Her lips slam shut, and she doesn’t say another word on the subject. But it’s just as well.
I’ve made my point.
5
TANAKA
WITH THE LIGHT of morning comes a renewed sense of hope. When I slip from my bed, the house is quiet, and my breakfast is waiting on the dressing table. Everything is as it should be. I’m confident that when I walk to the door and turn the knob, I will laugh at the absurdity of my dreams last night.
But the knob doesn’t move regardless of how I turn it because it wasn’t a dream and he’s locked me in here. My palms lock into fists at my sides, and I resist the urge to slam them against the door.
I have always been a prisoner, and in that regard, nothing has changed. But the cruelty lies in the small taste of freedom Nikolai granted me before he snatched it away. He thinks he can alter my strength of will by challenging me in this way, but he doesn’t know that I’ve already walked the streets of hell and dealt with devils worse than him.
His attempt to blame what happened on my father or Dante is weak and pathetic. He is a liar and a thief, and there is no honor in his word. I refuse to believe anything other than what’s obvious. As my mother always used to tell me, the simplest answer is usually the correct one.
The room isn’t ideal, but I can still make the situation work. I can continue to practice and work on strengthening my ankle. But now that I’m aware of Nikolai’s intentions, I must stay ahead of them.
I chop up my breakfast to dirty up the plate. It’s a trick I learned long ago, and it’s never failed me yet. When I’m done, I scrape all but a few small remnants into the toilet and flush with a resounding sense of victory. This has always been the one area of my life where I’ve had complete control, and I’m not about to let him change that.
