Maria
The penthouse was like living in a gallery, but living in the castle is like living in a museum. I wander freely from room to room, and the only thing that stops me is the occasional locked door. I admire paintings of landscapes and saints that are centuries old. Paintings in carved gold frames of bearded men in cloaks, caught in the throes of ecstasy. Landscapes of the West when it was first settled. I gasp loudly when I find a room of Madonnas. A wall covered in icons, ancient and breathtaking.
I walk in a trance toward the serene faces and smell a whiff of incense in the air.
But a guard materializes like magic when I step too close to a door leading to the outside. I’m always reminded when I forget I’m not really a guest. My life is ironic. I made plans to find freedom and ended up being held captive. A pawn in a strategy controlled by a Bratva I didn’t know existed.
I laugh bitterly at a painting of a small, naive girl holding a bouquet. Well, I wanted to spend my days visiting museums and looking at art. Now, I have nothing else to do with my life but wander through this castle, looking at a recluse’s massive collection.
And yet …
Be careful what you wish for; it might happen.
Ascending the stairs, I start to explore the upstairs bedrooms. Most are empty, but the sheets are changed daily as if someone is expected. Natasha has stayed on but warns me almost daily that she won’t stay much longer.
Every day after lunch, she and I go to the range to practice. It’s getting colder outside, and I should ask for a coat, but I don’t care. Closing my eyes, I inhale the biting air as we walk to the building. This is my last bit of freedom.
Sorokin doesn’t have a social life. His butler stays with him in his office, and they talk like old friends. I try not to eavesdrop, but the sound of laughter and happiness is so infectious that I want to hear it. If nothing else, to indulge in the lack of either in my life.
Snooping is a bad habit, but I never learn anything unless I do it. So when I find an unlocked bedroom with framed photographs, I study each one.
A framed black-and-white photograph of a much younger Sorokin is on a dresser. I almost drop the frame when I see his wide smile. He’s always sneering or smirking, but this is a genuine smile, and he gazes at the viewer with warmth. His hair was once dark, and I see that he was actually handsome, with a cleft chin in his younger days.
I place it down and pick up the next photograph of a gorgeous young woman with blonde hair and pale brown eyes. She’s dressed in a frilly blouse, holding a rose and smiling sweetly. But the next photo gives me a shock that lowers my jaw. Sorokin and the woman are standing together, and his arms are wrapped around her. They’re dressed in formal clothing, and maybe it’s a wedding photo.
“That was my wife, Ksenia.” His voice answers my unspoken question. “She died young.”
I almost drop the photo but manage to place it down carefully. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t mean to get caught.” He walks over to the vanity and straightens the photos, placing them back into their original positions. “You have been kept in the dark, which has made you curious. Not a bad thing, but a dangerous one if you don’t know how to be sneaky.”
I swallow hard. “I wouldn’t know anything if I didn’t spy.”
He smiles at my sarcasm and then looks thoughtfully at her photo. “Ksenia was my first love before I joined the Bratva.”
“You joined?” I ask.
Sorokin laughs. “Willingly. Because I thought she deserved to look like the queen that she was, and I had nothing else to offer her.” He glances once more at the photo. “Natasha has been looking for you. It’s time for your lesson.
When we leave the room, he pulls the door shut and follows me down the stairs. I wonder what happened to her, and I’m unsure if I should ask. Was she not able to become a good Bratva wife? Is that how he lost her? I stare at the tapestries lining the walls.
All this wealth can’t hide his loneliness.
Natasha is waiting for me in the hallway with a guard. They stop chatting when they see me with Sorokin. Natasha takes a fur coat out of the guard’s hands. “This is for you, Maria Zakharovna.”
The guard holds it up for me to slip on, and I shiver. The fur is soft against my skin as if I’m stroking warm butter, but I can’t stop thinking that it’s a dead thing.
Natasha laughs as she slips her fur on. “It will keep you warm, Maria Zakharovna, on those cold nights.”
They laugh, but there’s no kindness in it.
And I remind myself why I should always hate it here.
In the mornings, I can forget a little. Looking out the bedroom window, I can pretend I’m not here against my will. I can forget that Mikhail will never come back. I can forget the story my father told me-the story that devastated his life.
I can forget that Anton and Dominika are dead.
I forget it all while I sit at a little table having a breakfast of tea and toast. I spend the mornings alone before I spend time with Sorokin and the rest of the household. I won’t make allies hiding away.
Sighing, I look out the window at the bare trees. Winter has stripped the vineyard of its grapes and leaves, exposing gnarled vines to the cold in straight, uniform lines. I admire the geometric pattern and play games in my mind of connecting the dots.
It’s silly, but it keeps me from dwelling on missing Mikhail.
Something moves out the window, and at first, I think it’s a deer looking for something to eat in the vineyard. But then the deer stands up, and something flashes. I hear muffled shouting as men in camouflage run toward the back of the house.
The sound of shattering glass breaks the silence, and the shouting rises to hysteria. I dive to the floor, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets that shatter the glass. A sharp metallic sound hits the floor, and a metal container spins, letting out a trail of smoke. I cover my belly and crawl to the door, hurrying out of the room.
The hallways of the Bratva’s most coveted stronghold have turned into a noisy battlefield. Screams and gunshots echo throughout the castle as Sorokin’s men fight to protect his territory. Infiltration always seemed impossible, but Gunsyn’s men are attacking, driven by a fool’s desperation.
I sprint through elegant halls filled with tear gas and breathe in ragged, burning gasps. The sound of the relentless fighting comes closer, making it impossible to know if someone is pursuing me. I’m barefoot, which might be an advantage, keeping my footsteps silent, or dangerous as I dodge broken glass. Desperately, I search for a place to hide.
Gunsyn will not take me again.
Finally, I spot an old tapestry hanging from the ceiling at the far end of the hallway. I slip behind it, praying that I’ll remain unseen.
As I crouch in the tight space, my mind drifts back to a time when I was locked in a closet, terrified and alone. Back then, Dad was there to rescue me, to wipe away my tears and tell me everything would be all right.
But he’s not here this time. He can’t come save me.
This time, I’m on my own.
If I want to survive, it’s up to me. I have to stop relying on anyone else-even Mikhail.
A pakhan’s wife shouldn’t only know how to kill with her looks.
With a deep breath, I steel myself. No matter how terrifying or dangerous, I must face this world head-on. But I’m not quite ready yet.