I touch my forehead and a jolt of pain sears through me. There’s no blood on my fingers, but I feel like there has to be a gash. Maybe it’s dried, because it hurts too damn bad to be bruised.
One side of my body doesn’t seem to work, numb from lying on the cold concrete. I rub my hands together, trying to warm them up. The sting feels like pins and needles as circulation comes back.
Suddenly, the door opens and prickly goose bumps pop up along my arms. The thought of being questioned by KGB already had me nervous, now I’m terrified.
I squint at the figure, trying to make out features to remember if I ever get out of here alive, but all I can see is a dark orb surrounded by a halo of bright light from the hallway.
As the door closes, my eyes adjust and my heart soars.
“Kirill Konstantinovich!” I croak in surprise. My eyes well up with tears, seeing the familiar face of my old friend. Despite the joy, my heart pumps faster, a mixture of excitement and fear, as I frantically scan the room for the man who dropped me in here. “Help me, Kirya!” I whisper loudly, rising to my knees and shaking my bound hands in a silent plea. “Hurry! Before he comes back.”
“Too late,” he whispers, tucking his black hair behind one ear, revealing his face. He’s just as handsome as I remember. A five o’clock shadow dusts his strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones. My eyes go straight to his full, pink lips as they have since I was thirteen. I’ve never seen his hair so long. It falls past his ears and brushes the middle of his neck.
His appearance wasn’t the only reason Kirill became the first boy I had a crush on, but seeing him standing here, looking so handsome, reminds me why he had such a huge effect on my teenage years.
The initial excitement at seeing him drains, along with any hope in my heart. Despite the memories, I swallow hard before looking at him again. Glaring back at me are the same eyes I saw before I passed out, cold and hard as ice. “You are him.”
“Yes, Stasya. I am him,” he affirms, using the familiar diminutive of my name, as if we met on the street, and he didn’t kidnap me and dump me in a damp room. His long, black, leather trench coat flaps against his calves as he stalks closer. A glint of silver flashes at his side.
I close my eyes and fall back on my calves, defeated.
The man standing before me with sinister, hooded eyes and a knife clutched in his hand is not the sweet boy I grew up with. He is not the boy who would slide to the floor, put a comforting arm around me, and sit next to me in the shared hallway between our family’s rooms after Papa hit me.
Kirill must have heard the yelling and slamming—maybe even the beating itself—as the walls we shared were very thin. There are no secrets in communal living.
Everyone in the apartment knew what was going on, as we’d seen it many times within the families over the years. And it wasn’t just men; I’d seen Maria Borisovich beat her husband with a bag of potatoes. For as much as everyone is in each other’s business, living in the same spaces and sharing everything, no one talked about the violence. It’s so common, no one blinks an eye. There were even jokes. “Mikhail Grigorovich is drunk again. Stasya better hide the frying pans!”
What could I do? Walk away from my father? Leave my family? Where would I go? It’s so common that no one even batted an eye.
Except Kirill.
He’d do anything to cheer me up—ridiculous jokes, sharing his grand plans for the future, sometimes give me treats, like candy or special fruit. I remember the first time he shared a banana with me. Despite my appreciation, I couldn’t help the look of disgust that crossed my face when he brought out the odd-looking fruit and started peeling back the yellow skin. Then he offered me a piece and urged me to try it. It was so sweet and delicious I almost cried. There were no exotic fruits at the store where we shopped.
Kirill’s uncle must have been a high-ranking official because he brought them treats whenever he came for dinner. At the time, I thought that was the only way they could have gotten such special things.
The curve of the blade in his hand reminds me of that silly banana—a resemblance that brings me back to the present situation. And now I understand.
The only people who wear black leather coats in today’s turbulent times are mafia.
The man standing inches away, looking down on me as though I were just another stain on this dirty floor, is not that same man I thought I’d fallen in love with during the years he protected me from Papa’s abuse when my brother wasn’t around.
This Kirill is the man who got so upset, he beat my father to within an inch of his life the last night I saw him.
The sliver of light from the cracked door seems as bright as the afternoon sun after being stuck this pitch-black room with no windows. I squint, trying to remember his cold, hard eyes as I once knew them. Back when the light blue hue resembled that of dreams and clouds—things that could carry me away from my miserable existence.
“Why have you done this?” I ask meekly.
Kirill pauses, looking at me pensively before answering. “Short answer: You belong to me now. Long answer: I saved your life.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, blinking a few times to make sure I’m awake and not in a bizarre nightmare, gaining my voice in the process. “How do I belong to you?”
“I won you in a card game.” He shakes his head dismissively, as if that’s the end of the subject. “It was a long time ago.”
“You won me in a card game,” I repeat. “What the hell does that mean? ‘You won me.’ I’m not a piece of property.”
“That’s true, but your father keeps gambling with no means to pay. He said he had nothing of value, but I begged to differ.” His lips turn up in a smile, but it’s not kind or friendly. It’s the sinister smile of someone toying with me.
“I’m not my father’s property,” I say, ignoring his backhanded compliment.
How can I stop to appreciate anything when my life is worth so little that my father offered it up in a card game?
“You’re free to walk out right now.” He gestures toward the door. Silky, black hair pops out from where he’d tucked it behind his ear.
“Are you serious?” I ask. After being thrown onto a filthy, freezing floor in a dark room and left for hours, I can’t help but be suspicious. But I’m also intrigued to find out why he’d offer to let me leave. My gaze shifts from the door to him. “What’s the catch?”
“It’s not a catch, but there is something.”
“Of course there is.” I roll my eyes. He’s mafia. There’s always a catch.
“But it’s still your choice, Stasya. I’ll give you the facts—and the offer—and you can decide.”
Any hope I had of returning home, to the warmth and stability of my apartment, seeps out in a slow, sad breath.
A mafia thug would never give me an offer or choice that benefits me. Not even a thug I once loved.
Kirill raises the knife and I recoil immediately. He smirks, amused by my fear. Instead of striking me, he saws the rope at my wrists, freeing me within seconds. I flex my hands a few times, working out the tightness from being bound for hours.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, figuring it can’t hurt to use manners when being held against my will.
“I’ll admit these aren’t the nicest accommodations.” Kirill looks around the dank room. “But I saved you from being kidnapped, so I figured it would be okay for a few hours.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. “You kidnapped me to save me from being kidnapped?” I ask, slowly getting to my feet on legs that feel too soft and wobbly to support my weight.
“We didn’t kidnap you. We took you before Oleg Sobakin’s men could.”
“Grabbing someone off the street, shoving her into a car, and drugging her is definitely kidnapping,” I argue.
Though, I’m unsure why explaining the definition of kidnapping is more important than the part about why Oleg Sobakin—a known mafia leader—wanted me.
“Would you have taken my hand and sk
ipped into the sunset with me if I had told you I was collecting your father’s debt?” Kirill asks with a snort.
I fold my arms across my chest and curl my lip in disgust.
“Exactly.” He flips the blade down and shoves the knife into his back pocket. “I knew you wouldn’t come quietly, so I had to—”
“Kidnap me,” I interrupt him.
“Jesus,” he says, rubbing his forehead with exasperation. “I had no intention of collecting until—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder toward the door, as if he’s expecting someone to be there. Maybe his friend from the BMW is coming back.
“Until what, Kirill?” I snap.
He turns around fast, cocking his head as he stares at me, obviously not used to someone speaking to him like that. “I can offer you protection if you stay with me.” There’s a trace of desperation in his voice, as if he needs to convince me of something.
The final thread of hope I’d been holding onto evaporates. “You want to be my krysha?” I laugh at the suggestion. “What in the world would make you think I need protection? You know that I have no money, Kirill.”
He laughs. “Yes, I know.”
His smug laugh makes me sick, but I bite my tongue because I have a feeling I’m working on borrowed time. I know him well enough to know he won’t stand for my attitude for long. “Then why are you offering me protection?”
“There is a price on your”—he pauses and looks me up and down—“head,” he finishes.
His voice is flat, but the way he ogles me makes me shift uncomfortably. Excitement buzzes through me as his eyes scan my body, which makes me feel like a fool. I should be ashamed of being flattered by the gaze someone who’s holding me captive, but this is Kirill—and he’s different. He’s kind and funny and the only person outside of my family who truly cared for me. The only man I could ever trust when Vanya was gone.
Knowing he’s mafia now should temper the old feelings his presence stirs inside me, but it doesn’t. I remember the man he was before he got involved in this life, and it’s stirring up the lust I haven’t felt in years.
“Who would put a price tag on my head? I don’t have anything that anyone would want.”
“You may have nothing, but Ivan Mikhailovich has millions now.”
“What does that have to do with me? I don’t have access to Vanya’s money.” I scowl. My brother is in America, enjoying the freedom and extravagance of the West. Without me. I have none of his life.
“It’s not about you having access to his money. It’s about him having the means to pay if anything happens to you. That’s why I’m offering my protection.”
If anything happens to me? My brain is finally putting together the puzzle pieces. Something will happen to me if I don’t agree to Kirill’s protection.
“Are you threatening me?”
“No. But someone else will.”
My throat is dry when I try to speak, but I manage to whisper, “I don’t have money for protection. I told you that, Kirya.”
“You call me Kirya now.” He chuckles. “Does that mean you trust me?”
I’ve always trusted him, but I won’t admit that to him right now. Not when I don’t know his motives. Not when he’s holding me here against my will under the ruse that I can leave if I want.
“I trust you to tell me the truth. You and your friend grabbed me and stuffed me into a car. You bound my hands, drugged me, and left me in this cold, dark basement. I’m starving. I’m sore.” I sigh and close my eyes for an extra beat. “And I’m scared.”
When he reaches out and tries to touch my forehead, I cringe and back away.
“I’m sorry, Stasya,” he says softly, lowering his hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have done all of this to me. You are like family, Kirya. I would have talked to you.” Keeping my voice strong is hard when all I want to do is sink to the floor and cry.
“There was no time to talk.” Warmth floods his eyes, reminding me of the old Kirill—the one who always looked out for me. “Stasya, I wasn’t lying when I said you are free to go. But if you choose to leave, you will be kidnapped by very dangerous people. They will torture you until your brother pays them money.”
Money runs the world. Especially now, when the stable—if not boring—life we’ve known is unstable and lawless. And when people who have been living without money for generations will do anything to get it. Everyone needs it and wants it. Mafia extorting to get it isn’t a surprise.
Since Gorbachev’s economic reforms, the stability we were used to is gone. With the restructuring, we’ve seen enough to realize that we’ve been a depressed, sheltered people for so long. The streets of Moscow—probably the entire country—are a free-for-all, for those who know the right people and have the money to bribe to get what they need.
The mafia has both—money and people under their thumb. They always win.
“They won’t be kind, Stasya,” Kirill continues. “You won’t be having a rational conversation like this. They don’t know you. They don’t care about you. All they care about is Ivan’s money. They will beat you and rape you without mercy. They will enjoy doing it. They will take pictures and videos and they will send them to your brother.”
Fear sends a shiver from head to toe.
He’s not lying, this I know. I’ve witnessed the heinousness of the mafia—even before he kidnapped me. I’d seen cars stop, grab people, and speed away. I’d seen black BMWs roll down their windows and shoot others dead on the street right in front of me as I was walking home from the metro. I’d stepped over dead bodies, swallowing back vomit as I watched their blood drain from their wounds and seep into the snow.
The reality of what Kirill told me hits me harder than the bus that killed Mama five years ago. No matter what I do—I’m screwed.
Once you are a mafia target, you’re as good as dead.
It’s a matter of when, not if.
Since I found out Vanya defected, I’ve been wallowing in self-pity and anger because he didn’t take me with him as he always promised he would.
But extortion never crossed my mind. Which is completely stupid. I should have realized the mafia would demand their cut of any Russian making money—especially American dollars.
An icy tingle causes the hair on my arms to raise and I swallow the bile rising in my throat as I realize the hopelessness of my situation.
My brother’s choice to defect to the USA for freedom and money didn’t just affect him—it sealed my fate as well. A future that holds either relentless torture leading to death—or being Kirill’s property.
“As long as Vanya is playing hockey in America, they’re always going to want his money, yes?” As I speak, Kirill nods, pressing his lips into a grim line. “They won’t stop going after it. Whenever you let me go, they will come after me,” I say, connecting the dots in my head out loud, so he knows I understand the situation I’m in. “I’m trapped with you forever.”
“Trapped?” He winces. “Would you rather be safe with me or dead out there?” His jaw tightens, waiting for me to answer.
My eyes narrow. “It depends on what ‘be safe with’ you means.”
“‘It depends’ is not the answer I expected.” He laughs, but it’s not menacing. It’s light, a reminder of the old times. “You’d rather be dead than be my lover?”
“The whore of a mafia thug,” I say dryly. “Sounds like a wonderful life.”
“Whore?” He reels back as if I slapped him. I didn’t know mafia men had so much emotion over derogatory words. “What makes you think so little of me, Stasya? You didn’t always feel this way.”
“You’re asking me to give you my body in exchange for something. That’s the definition of a whore.”
“While it’s true I want you to be mine, Stasya, I’d never force you to fuck me. I’m not desperate.” He smirks. “If you choose to be with me, you’d be my queen, not my whore.”
“If I choose,�
� I repeat softly.
We both know I don’t have a choice.
“Let’s pretend Sobakin doesn’t kidnap you,” Kirill steps back. “Is going home a better choice? Do you live without fear now? Your father won’t stop taking his anger out on you. His wife is dead. His beloved son left without consulting him. And now he’s stuck with you—the daughter he’s always hated. The girl who makes him sick because you remind him of what he’s lost.” He paces back and forth in front of me as he ticks off the truths of going home.
“Please stop.” It comes out as a whisper because I can’t deny it. He’s absolutely right.
“Just think.” Kirill stops in front of me. “You’d never have to worry about anything again. You’d never worry about Vanya. You’d never have to work or wait in line for food or clothing.” He reaches out and tilts my chin up until my gaze meets his. “Your father will never beat you again.”
I glance at the scar that slices his left eyebrow in half before shaking his hand away and dropping my gaze to the floor. Seeing the wound fills my heart with shame because it was my fault. I remember the night it happened so well, it feels like it was yesterday.
After hanging my coat and scarf on the coat rack in the hallway and changing into my slippers, I stop at the kitchen where Babushka and Maria Androvna, a member of one of the other families that live on our floor, are working at their respective tables across from each other, as they have for as long as I can remember.
Soon, Irina, Kirill’s mother, will come home with fresh fish and fry it on one of the four stoves. Our families will share everything they’ve made. As co-tenants who have lived together for so long, it’s a natural part of life to share what we have and eat together. The sweet smell of borscht and loaves of freshly baked bread makes my stomach growl. All I had for lunch was a small bowl of okroshka—a soup Babushka makes from leftovers.
“I’m so hungry, I could eat two of those loaves by myself,” I tease the old women.
“What do you know about hunger?” she scoffs. “Did you live through the Great War?”
“Here we go,” I mumble under my breath and roll my eyes.
SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1 Page 6
