by Nicole Fox
I gasp. I can’t stop myself. I always thought it was cowardice that stopped me from going inside. I thought it was fear that made me pass out. But it was fucking chloroform?
“But the police—”
He grunts out a laugh. “Don’t be naïve, Andrei,” he snaps. “There are more Irishmen on the police force than you could believe. A fucking army of them. We know their cousins, their sisters, their wives and mothers. The Bratva is a blight on this city. It wasn’t difficult to make them see that. To get our stories straight.”
“To threaten and bribe them, you mean,” I correct. “Why are you telling me this now? All this time, you could’ve told me. You could be lying, Cormac. Trying to get under my skin.”
He reaches into his pocket. Smiling. It’s almost a sad smile. Like he regrets that it’s come to this. I don’t believe it for a single moment. He brings out a golden pendant. When I look closer, I see that it’s a heart locket with a photo of me and Father in it. I must be no older than five in the picture.
“I asked for a memento, and here we have it. I have your father’s glasses, too, the ones he had inscribed for his fiftieth birthday. Who does that, Andrei, has their fucking glasses inscribed?”
My whole body is shaking.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says into the silence. “I could’ve gotten this pendant another way. It’s true. I could have. But if you ever cared to look, you could’ve found this out yourself easily enough. If you questioned the right cops. But you believed Osip’s story. It was convenient for business.”
I want to say he’s lying. But looking at him, I can tell he’s not. This is just sadism, pure and simple.
“But why not tell me when you first bought me? Why now?”
“Why now?” he roars. He leaps forward, stopping just short of me. He knows that, even with my arms and legs bound, I’m still a threat. “You defile my daughter, Russian, and yet you ask me a question like that? Why now?” He shakes his head, spitting on the floor. “You were useful as a hostage. Now, you’ll be useful as a message. We’re going to find one hell of a creative way to kill you.”
“Do that and Egor will never stop.”
He snorts. “Then it’ll be all-out war! You think I’m not ready for that?”
“I think you think you are,” I whisper. I feel deflated. Knowing I can’t get to him to avenge my parents, my body floods with useless adrenaline. “But what if Egor calls over the Russians from the motherland? What if all the troops mobilize? What then, Cormac?”
He shrugs. “Then maybe we’ll lose,” he allows. “Or maybe I’ll call up Boston and Dublin, and we’ll see how bloody this can get. Either way, it won’t help you. But, shit, Andrei, at least you’ll be able to see your coward parents in hell.”
“Who was it?” I call, just as he’s about to leave. “The man who burned down my house. What’s his name?”
Cormac smirks. “His name was Mike, but don’t worry, he’s dead now. We had to punish him for not following orders like we told him to, letting you live. He really fucked us there, leaving the Bratva prince alive. Osip swooped in too damn quick for us to correct his mistake. And then he had you under guard pretty much your whole childhood.”
“So you’re the only one left to kill,” I say. “Interesting.”
His leer widens. “We’ll see about that, Andrei. We’ll see.”
“Yes. We fucking will.”
He leaves. A moment later, Jerry walks in and collects the stool. They shut the door.
Leaving me in the dark.
Leaving me with my memories.
21
Jamie
In my bedroom, I keep myself busy by taking Polaroid photos of random stuff, like the shadows of my bed sprawling across my wall, or the ornate marble chess set Molly’s uncle bought for me when I was a kid. I never touched it, but it photographs nicely.
Hours and hours go by like this. I know damn well what I’m doing—trying to distract myself from all the fucked-up things they’re almost certainly doing to Andrei.
I keep glancing at the clock. It was evening when they burst in on us. The minutes seem to crawl by, seeming so slow that I even check to see if the clock’s busted a couple of times. But, nope, it’s just that time is an evil piece of shit and it’s intent on drawing this out for as long as possible.
Eventually, though, it’s five in the morning and I still haven’t slept. I just keep snapping photos like a woman possessed. The photos stack up on my bedside table, a whole tower of pointless Polaroids. I can’t even call Molly, since they’ve taken my phone.
Plus, they’ve purposefully assigned a guard I don’t know to the door, one of the men from a business or club I’ve never been to. If it was Garret, or even Ronan, I bet I’d be able to smooth-talk a cell out of them.
But this man might as well be a statue, for all the response I get from him.
Get them to keep me alive until June 12.
Why was he so intent about that? As I walk around my bathroom, playing with the reflection, half of my face in frame and half out, I try and puzzle it out. Is it possible he’s somehow gotten word to one of his Bratva men and thinks the house will be less secure on exhibition night? But Andrei said it was just a reason to keep him alive longer. I mean, that could be true, but he was so urgent, so intense.
As I take the photo and it prints, I wonder if it’s really possible that the father of my child is going to die without even learning that he’s a father. What sort of messed-up world are we living in where that can happen? How is that even remotely fair?
But then, if Andrei dies and I go on living as Dad’s personal property, basically, there’s not going to be a baby. Here’s the blunt truth: Dad will marry me off and, if he discovers I’m pregnant, will force me to get rid of the child. These past few weeks have taught me just how vicious he truly is.
I add the reflection selfie to the stack of Polaroids and wander around the room, grinding my teeth. My eyelids are so heavy, I could collapse into a fitful sleep now. But I don’t, because every minute I stay awake is another minute I can trick myself into believing that Andrei is okay, that he’s not being tortured or killed, that he’s not already dead.
Jesus. How has it come to this?
With a savage cry, I grab the Polaroids and start tearing them into little pieces. I throw the pieces into the air, letting them flutter onto the bed.
My chance at happiness has been stolen from me. By Dad. By Declan.
They are the two men in my life who, at one time or another, have claimed to love me the most. And yet they are also the two men who have caused me the most harm. Maybe that’s how it is with sadists. Then—speak of the devil—Dad knocks heavily on the door.
“Jamie?” he says, barely a split second later. “Are you awake? I can hear you pacing around in there. And crying. Are you decent?”
“There’s nothing decent in this fucking house,” I whisper fiercely.
“Did you say something?” Dad calls.
I want nothing more than to scream at him, but if I do that, it’s game over. I have to try and convince him to keep Andrei alive, even for a little bit longer. And there’s no way I’m doing that if I show him how I really feel. No, the way I’ve always gotten stuff from Dad is by playing the role he wants me to be.
The naïve, silly daughter. So that’s what I’ll do now.
“I’m coming!” I shout, forcing my tears and my heartache deep down. I erase any thoughts of the pregnancy for now.
Opening the door, I quickly rush across the room, remembering the Polaroid pieces at the last second. I should’ve taken care of them before opening the door, but obviously, my mind is a little overworked at the moment.
I turn to find him looking at me. I think he’s going to mention how strange that was, me running across the room like that. But then he sighs and shakes his head. I can tell that he’s thinking, This poor girl, my poor, naïve daughter. Women are so feeble and weak-willed.
I play up to it, d
ropping into the bed, putting my head in my hands.
“I’ve really messed up, haven’t I, Daddy?” I sob. I don’t have to fake the tears, which is a bonus. “I’ve humiliated you. I’ve humiliated the whole Family.”
“No, no,” Dad rushes to say. He moves across the room, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Yes, you have behaved poorly, Jamie, but it’s not your fault. You were clearly …”
I can tell he’s struggling to think of a reason I would possibly do something as disgusting as sleep with a Russian which is, in his eyes, basically the same as sleeping with a farm animal.
What I’ve done to him is unacceptable in his eyes.
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” I supply for him. “I couldn’t have been, could I, Daddy?”
He seizes this, dropping into bed next to me and wrapping his arm around me. I shiver to think that the hand he’s stroking my shoulder with was probably just beating Andrei to a pulp. I want to find out if he’s alive, but know better than to ask that.
“No,” he says. “Of course you weren’t thinking properly. How could you have been? Did he beat you, Jamie? Did he hurt you?”
I have to be careful here, because, if Dad thinks that Andrei laid a hand on me in that way, he’ll have him executed way, way before June 12.
“No,” I say quickly. “But it’s just the art, Daddy. You know how much it messes with my head. I was just getting into the project, and then the project became him and …” I throw my hands up, the archetypical ditzy daughter. “I really didn’t mean to.”
“He manipulated you,” Dad coaches, rubbing my hand.
I want to throw his hand off. I’m so disgusted with this whole twisted arrangement.
“You weren’t thinking straight and he took advantage. That’s what men like Andrei do, Jamie. They know how to get into your head. It’s not your fault. Not as long as you know what you did was wrong.”
“Of course I know it was wrong!” I yell, leaping to my feet.
I walk across the room, keeping my back to him. The anger is real, but the words are fabricated. How could what we did be wrong when it felt so right? Not just the sex, but emotionally, too. I’ve never had a connection like that.
“I just want to make him pay,” I whisper angrily. “He can’t be allowed to get away with this.”
“Don’t worry,” Dad growls. “He won’t. You can take my word for that.”
“But … he’s humiliated me, publicly.” Inspiration has struck. I can twist this. I can use this. “Everyone saw. Declan, Rafferty, you, Garret … everybody.”
“Garret didn’t know already?” Dad mutters.
“No!” I exclaim. “I lied to him, Daddy. You know how much he’s always liked me.”
“Good,” Dad says quietly. “That’s a relief. I was afraid I was going to have to …” He trails off.
I was afraid I was going to have to torture and kill him, just like I’m going to do with Andrei. That’s what he was going to say, I know.
“He needs to be shamed, like I have,” I say, clenching my fists. “He needs to know what it feels like.”
“He will, Jamie, I promise,” Dad says.
“No!” I spin on him. The fury that comes into my face is real. “I want to parade him around so that everybody can see how pathetic he is! Let me use him for my private showing on the twelfth. I’ll put him in handcuffs and lead him around on a chain, letting everybody see the subject of the photographs. We’ll invite all the top Family lieutenants and their wives and—and then they’ll all see how pathetic he is.”
I’m sorry, Andrei.
I’m so sorry.
I don’t mean any of this.
“Hmm,” Dad mutters, considering. “But what’s this photography exhibition you’re talking about? Where is it? We’d have to check the venue for security.”
I huff in a decent imitation of exasperation. “I asked you and you agreed already!” I lie. “Molly wants to hold a private viewing of my photography work so far here, at the house. In the function room. You said yes. Don’t you remember?”
His expression twitches. Of course he doesn’t remember, because it never happened. But he’s so used to forgetting about my photography work, he goes on regardless. “Yes, of course I do,” he mutters. “That all sounds just fine. And your idea … yes, it does have a certain poetry, I guess you’d call it. It’d make him look like a real worm, wouldn’t it? And that gives Declan time to do his work on him, too. Ha!”
Dad’s grinning now. “June 12, you said? Can’t we just do it tomorrow?”
“No!” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. “I need time to get all my photos ready and everything. He’s already ruined my … um, my honor, Daddy. Don’t let him ruin my work, too.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Dad says, wrapping his arms around me. “He hasn’t ruined your honor. You’re still my little girl, okay? And I’m going to find you a great husband, one who deserves you. So don’t say stuff like that again. I just know …” He swallows audibly. “I just know Mom would be so proud of you.”
Fuck.
It’s hard to say what the most messed-up part about this royally messed-up situation is, but the confusion I feel for my sadist, torturing, civilian-killing dad has got to be up there. Because when he says stuff like that, I can almost be duped into believing he’s not the monster I know he is.
He grabs my shoulders and puts me at arm’s length, smiling proudly. “We’re going to make him a laughingstock,” he grins. “Everybody’ll see the great Andrei Bakhtin brought low. And then we’re gonna execute him, that same day.”
“Won’t that mean war?” I whisper, heart pounding so hard it hurts.
Dad shrugs casually. “It might,” he says. “But Timofey holds as much sway as Egor, and Egor is clearly a coward. All this time, and there’s not been a single retaliation—” He cuts himself off, grimacing. “But this is not the sort of conversation you need to hear, sweetness.”
He kisses me on the forehead. I repress the urge to shiver. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I think you’re right.”
He is definitely right, because, one way or another, this can’t go on forever. I swallow nervously when I think about how this is going to end. Somebody’s going to die, I sense, either Andrei or Dad or Declan or Garret.
Or maybe all of them.
There’s a distinct chance that maybe just my baby and I will be the only ones left standing.
I don’t mean to sleep so late, but I didn’t even get into bed until six in the morning, so when I wake at midday, I consider it a victory of sorts. I wanted to go to Andrei last night as soon as Dad left, but I thought that’d look suspicious. As I go into the bathroom to splash some water in my face, I think about last night, how hysterical I felt.
Maybe it’ll just be me and the baby left standing …
Sleeplessness, stress, yeah, fine, it made me a bit melodramatic. With the morning sun glaring through the window, I feel ready, primed to do instead of just passively let things be done to me. I bought Andrei some time. That was goal number one.
Now?
Now, I need to tell him about the baby. He deserves to know. It might change how he approaches this situation. It might change … heck, everything. It’s been over a week now and that’s too long for him not to have this vital piece of information.
I think about putting on makeup and making myself presentable, but then I realize it’ll be better for the narrative that I’m heartbroken and depressed if I look bad. But then I realize that I don’t want to look too bad in front of Andrei.
In the end, I go for the half measure of a shower and some light makeup, my hair in a bun.
When I open my bedroom door, I’m glad to find Garret there. I throw myself at him without thinking, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
“I thought they—I thought he—”
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, clearly not wanting me to mention anything that m
ight get either of us in trouble. He disentangles himself from me, but a smile touches his lips. “I’m your personal guard again … if you’ll have me.”
I glance up and down the hallway, making sure nobody’s eavesdropping on us. “You knew about me and Andrei, didn’t you?” I whisper. “At least for a little while. Since the fight in the garden, maybe?”
He flinches. “If I knew about that, I would have told your father. You know that.”
I lean in, whispering in his ear, “Thank you for keeping us safe as long as you could.”
He squeezes me briefly. “You’re welcome.”
That’s it, I sense, the only true acknowledgment I’ll ever get from him. Shouldering my camera bag, since I’ve gotta keep up appearances, I make my way through the mansion toward the elevator shaft that leads to Andrei’s cell.
Ronan is at the elevator doors. He winces when he sees us approaching. “I don’t know if she’s supposed to be here,” he says, addressing Garret.
“She can speak for herself,” I say, stepping forward. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to cause problems. I just need to check a couple of things with the subject. For the exhibition.”
“What things?” Ronan asks uncertainly.
Thinking quickly, I say, “I’m having the mask adjusted to be tighter-fitting. I want him to find it hard to breathe in there. I want him to suffer.”
Ronan swallows, looking at me like he’s never seen me before. I feel sick at having to tell these twisted lies, but I’d feel sicker if Andrei died without learning I was pregnant.
“I need to clear this with Cormac,” Ronan mutters. “Or at least Jerry. I can’t have you just walking in and out whenever you want, Miss O’Gallagher. No offense.” He bows his head slightly. “I’m not questioning your position, but—”
With a sigh, I take out my cell phone, which has been returned to me now that Dad thinks I’m on his side. I call Dad and wander off to a private corner, not wanting them to hear me. Staring at one of Dad’s many old-timey tapestries, I find myself thinking, What an arrogant jerk my dad is.
