53

Sasha
I walk out of my acting class with a group of actors, still talking about the Stanislavaski exercise we did. It’s the third week I’ve been going, and I already feel like I belong. I have friends. I love the exercises. I’m getting the inside scoop on the Chicago scene.
Maxim found a Hollywood speech coach to help me with my accent in virtual sessions, and if I concentrate, you can barely tell I’m not American. At least, that’s what my new friends say.
“Hey Sasha, you want to join us for coffee?” one of the older women asks.
I hesitate.
At first, Maxim didn’t want to let me come to this class alone, but I threw a fit. Having a possessive and protective husband sitting in on class would make everyone think I was a freak. After a throw-down, he ended up dropping me off and picking me up for the first class, but last week, he decided I could start leaving the Kremlin on my own because Dima’s new data mining program is in place, and things are settling down in Moscow.
It finally gave me the chance to pick up a burner phone and call my mom, who still wouldn’t tell me where she is. I felt a little guilty breaking my promise to only go straight to class and home and hiding the phone and the conversation from him, but my mom was still full of suspicions about Maxim’s intentions, which made me wary.
Am I still in danger? Or is the only real danger from him? I don’t really believe it, but I don’t want to be foolish, either. I read every Agatha Christie book as a child. I know large sums of money make people untrustworthy.
“Not this time,” I say. It’s not just my promise to Maxim. It’s that the chef was going to cook a nice meal, and we were all going to eat together tonight. And as much as I want to make new friends, especially actors, I’d rather get to know and hang out with my new family.
I walk to the parking lot next to where my class is held. No valet nearby, unfortunately. Parking the Lamborghini in an unattended lot made me nervous, and I’m so relieved to see it’s still there.
I open the door and slide in, tossing my purse on the seat beside me. When the door opens back up, I shriek in surprise.
“Get out, the car is going to blow,” she says in clipped Russian.
“Mama?”
“Get out, now.” My mother drags me out of the car and pulls me, ducking low, at a run through the rows of parked cars.
An explosion knocks me forward. I think I scream.
Even though she told me it was going to blow, I’m in disbelief. I turn to stare at the smoke and flames.
My mother yanks me forward until we reach an alleyway, and then she pulls me into it.
“Mama! What’s happening”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps yanking me along, down the alley, up a side street, back around until we’re on the other side of the street, the sirens of police and fire trucks shrieking as they race to the scene.
We go into the hotel across the street and straight for the elevators.
Tears drip down my face. “What’s happening? Who did that?”
“It’s all right, darling.” My mother turns to face me in the elevator and takes both my hands. To my surprise, she looks happy. Giddy, almost. “We did that!”
“Wh-what?”
My mother nods, beaming. “Viktor set the bomb. You’re free now!”
It must be the reverberation of the bomb because a ringing in my ears suddenly makes me deaf. In a bubble of confusion and shock, I don’t hear the elevator ding or notice the doors open, but my mom tugs me out of it and into a hotel room. Alexei sits on one of the double beds watching television. Viktor stands at the curtain watching the mayhem below. He gives me a curt nod.
I run to the window to look down at my sweet car-my beautiful baby that Maxim bought me because I’d look hot in-but it’s completely gone. Viktor grabs my upper arm and yanks me roughly back, jerking my shoulder and giving my neck whiplash.
“What the hell?” I snap in Russian.
“Keep her away from the window,” he orders my mother, like I’m not even worth explaining things to. His words sound far away, filtered through the echoing in my ears.
I stare at his handprint on my arm in shock. “What did you do?” I ask my mother.
She cups my face. “I killed you. You’re dead now. You’re free of Maxim and Ravil and their plans for your money. Now it all goes to me-to us!”
“Us?” I ask.
My stomach drops out. My body turns ice cold. I think I always knew my mom had money issues. She loved money but was terrified of losing it. That’s why she put up with my dad-to be kept in luxury. And then her worst fears manifested when he left Vladimir in control of her purse strings. I knew she had these fears, but now I suddenly see her through a new lens. Like when the wicked witch in a fairytale-the one who was beautiful and said all the right things-is suddenly unveiled as an ugly old hag.
“D-did you kill Vladimir?” I ask.
She turns away when she answers, “Don’t be ridiculous,” and I know at once it’s a lie. She did it. Maybe not personally, but she was a part of it. My mother and these two men, Viktor and Alexei, were somehow responsible.
I want to cry, but no tears come out. I’m in too much shock.
“You didn’t have to do this. Maxim would’ve taken care of you,” I say weakly. I think it’s true. She sowed all that doubt-she’s the one who was conniving.
My mother whirls back, anger marring her pretty face. “Would he? I doubt that. This is a man who tried to rape you when you were seventeen.”
I shake my head, nausea hitting my belly. I’m just as bad as my mom. Cut from the same cloth. Taking stupid, desperate measures to prove I’m not as powerless as I feel. “He didn’t. I lied about that. I offered myself, and he refused.” It feels horrible to say it out loud.
I barely get the words out, but they turn all the heads in the room-Alexei lowering the volume on the television as he stares at me. “What a bitch,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking away.
“I wondered why Igor married her to him,” Viktor snorts. “He must’ve known.”
“Well, Maxim won’t get his consolation prize afterall,” Alexei says.
“Too bad for him.” Viktor looks down at the scene below. “Here he is now.”
I rush to the window. Viktor throws out an arm to stop me from getting too close, but I see the scene unfolding below.
Maxim’s Conquest Knight is parked askew at the end of the police barricade. Ravil and Oleg are still climbing out, but Maxim is running down the sidewalk, a cop chasing him. When he gets to the scene and sees the wreckage-the residue of what used to be my car and the two cars parked near mine only partially extinguished by the firemen on the scene-he drops to his knees.
His fists punch the air, his head drops back. I see his mouth open in a howl of rage, and in that moment, I swear I feel his pain like my own.
Like I’d just lost my one true love.
Him.
I don’t think-I just move. “I’m going down there.”
Fuck this. Fuck my mom and her stupid plan to get me free of Maxim. I don’t want to be free. I want him in charge of me and my life and my money. I want him looking out for me, protecting me. Insanely possessive of me.
He’s my man. He’s always been the one.
Viktor grabs me by the hair and yanks me back. I have to frantically stutter step backward to keep from falling on my ass and losing a whole chunk of hair in the crash.
“You’re dead now,” he growls. “You have to stay dead. What do you think Ravil and his cell will do to your sweet mother if they find out what she planned?”
What she planned?
My heart thunders in my chest.
“Viktor!” my mother snaps.
I look at her in disbelief. This is what she brought on us? She thought I’d rather be owned by Viktor over Maxim?
She basically sold us both out to Igor’s lowest two-bit thugs. How long does she think they’ll let us live before they take all the money for themselves? Does she think she can keep Viktor entertained on her back with her legs spread forever?
I doubt she can.
I don’t know if I’m satisfied or dismayed to see her flicker of fear at the way Viktor’s roughing me up. The color drains from her face.
We are both so fucked.
But then she rallies. “Let her go! It’s fine! I can handle her, you don’t have to,” she soothes him.
Viktor yanks my hair harder. “You stay dead. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “I’ll stay dead,” I say.
He still doesn’t let go of me.
My mother draws herself up. “Viktor.”
“I’ll stay dead!” I repeat.
He releases me and shoves me away from him. My mother catches me, and even though her face is a mask of soothing, I note the trembling in her hands.
Tears burn my eyes and throat. Unwilling to cower and hide, I turn back to the window, my gaze glued to Maxim. Ravil and Oleg haul him to his feet and hold him up as a ring of police officers surround them.
Maxim. Gospodi, I’m dying for him. If I were in his shoes thinking he’d been blown up, my heart would be torn in pieces.
And in the darkness of all that, creeps a tiny sliver of light.
He did care.
My mother was wrong about him.
He was down there on his knees over losing me.
If I could somehow get out of here and get to him, I could end that pain.
But what if Viktor’s right? What if Ravil retaliates against my mother for scheming to take the money away from them? But I could beg for her life. I could make them see. If I went back, they’d still have the money.
Except my stomach goes queasy at all the uncertainties there. Would I even be welcome back after my mother staged this coup and apparently the one in Moscow against Vladimir? Would they have to kill her now to settle scores on both continents?
My eyes burn, but I blink the tears back. I’m an actress, and it’s never been more important that I hide my emotions.
My mother gathers herself and comes over to me, clasping my arms and smiling into my face like I didn’t just get assaulted by her boyfriend. “This is the perfect arrangement, Sasha. You will see. As soon as I get control of the money, we can live the rest of our lives on a beach in the Canary Islands. All that money, ours.”
Dream on, Mama. I fear she’s just lying to herself now. She must realize how tenuous her hold on Viktor is. How dangerous he might turn out to be. How screwed we are. But she’s set this plan in motion, and there’s no going back on it.
For any of us.
“You won’t ever have to answer to that man who hates you again,” she promises.
That man who hates you.
Yes, I believed Maxim hated me. The day my father died I was sure of it. But not anymore. He’d dropped his grudge even before I gave my virginity to him. He’d let me play brat-flying to L. A. and making him chase me-and he hadn’t even been angry. His punishment had been delicious. He’d brought me a wedding ring and played nice with my friends.
He bought me a car.
Helped me find my way in the theatre scene.
Took me out and shared his friends with me.
All I’d done was make his life difficult and let him fold me over the hood of my car for hot sex.
If I make it out of this alive, I’m going to be the most grateful wife a man could ever have.
But it’s a big if.
And I’m not about to use the skills my mother modeled on another man. I owe Maxim that much. If I get myself out of this, it won’t be using my femininity as a weapon.
It will have to be my brains.
Maxim
I can hardly see, hardly think with the pounding behind my eyes. It feels like the center of my head will split open.
My chest already has. I left my organs-my fucking heart-out on that sidewalk in front of the parking lot.
“Who killed her,” I rage back at the penthouse.
Dima’s working like a maniac, his head down, his fingers flying over keys. I’m about an inch from severing his head from his shoulders over this. His fucking program was supposed to keep her safe. Alert us to anyone coming into the country.
“I’m analyzing everyone who came in before the program was in place,” Dima says quickly, shoulders hunched. Nikolai stands behind him looking at the screen as well. Possibly to protect his twin from me when I lose my shit.
“There.” Nikolai points at the screen. “What about that one? One male entering San Francisco from Moscow two weeks ago.”
Dima shrugs and taps away at the keyboard, fingers flying even faster.
“Can you get scans of passenger’s passports?”
“I’d have to hack a database. That will take time.”
“I want a name now!” I thunder.
Sasha will be avenged. Blood will be spilled. By tonight, if I have my way.
“Hack in on the Russian side,” Nikolai advises in a low voice. “Haven’t you been in there before?”
Dima bobs his head and taps away some more. Ten minutes later, Nikolai shouts, “There! I know him.”
“Who is it?” I demand.
“Alexei Preobrazhensky,” Dima reads. “Lived in Moscow. In the same building as Galina and Sasha. Must’ve been a guard?”
I stomp over to look at the photo. “Mother. Fucker. He’s a dead man now.”
“He’s a nobody,” Ravil says. “This is not his operation. Whoever has Galina must’ve sent him to do the dirty work.”
I glare at Dima. “Find him.”
Dima shoots a helpless and stressed look at Ravil, but then returns his focus to his screen. “Checking domestic flights to Chicago under the false alias.”
I pace the living room.
“Put that away in here,” Ravil commands.
I hear his words but I’m not listening.
“Maxim.”
I look over.
“I said put that away.” He lifts his chin in the direction of my hand.
I look down to find I’m palming my gun. The safety is off.
Fuck. I put the safety back on and shove the piece in my waistband. “Give me something, Dima. If I don’t put a bullet between this guys eyes tonight, I will fucking lose it.”
Oleg stomps over to me. He stands at least a head above me, his shoulders half again as wide as mine.
“What?” I snap.
He drops a giant ham-hand on my shoulder and then lowers his head.
If it were anyone else, I’d probably punch him, but Oleg so rarely tries to communicate, I force myself to receive his condolences.
But it’s a mistake. I suddenly can’t breathe, grief tearing at my throat, making my eyes burn. I wheeze and drop my hands to my thighs, trying to draw a breath.
Fuck. Sasha’s dead.
My beautiful, smart, funny, lively, incredible wife is dead.
She’ll never brighten this room again with a smart remark. Never toss that red mane of hers. I’ll never get to see her act.
I never saw her act!
I try and try, but I still can’t breathe. My heart pounds, my throat’s closed tight like a fist.
I want to die.
Yeah.
Living without her isn’t worth it.
So I let myself choke out. I stop trying to breathe and stumble to one knee. My head hits the coffee table on the way down. The blackness that follows is relief.