Maria
From an empty bedroom, I watch Mikhail being taken away. The red backlights become smaller and smaller as I press my forehead against the cold glass. My mind races with scenarios as I struggle to accept what has happened.
Deep down, I know leaving wasn’t Mikhail’s decision. He would never willingly abandon me like this.
I race down the stairs toward the front door as if I’m not too late. I reach out for the doorknob, and two scowling guards pull me away. I fight against them, shouting that they better let me go. It’s not fair. I’m doing what’s expected of me to become a pakhan’s wife.
Sorokin steps out of the dining room to investigate the shrieking commotion. His gun is drawn, but he quickly slips it under his jacket when he sees it’s only me. What was he thinking? What was he planning to do to Mikhail?
I elbow a guard, breaking out of his tight grip, and hurry toward Sorokin.
“Please,” I beg him, “just let me see Mikhail one more time.” I point at the door. “Before he reaches the gate.”
Sorokin shakes his head. “No, Maria. He took an oath.”
I stare at him dumbfounded as my breathing quickens and my head feels light. “An oath?” I ask, “What kind of oath?”
“To be a better pakhan.” Sorokin’s lip curls. “And to do that, he must give certain things up.”
“Things?” I shout. “I’m not a thing! Damn your oath! I want to see him.” I ball my fists as if to strike Sorokin, but before I can lash out, my father appears in the hallway behind him. My anger turns into ragged sobs as my father pulls me into his arms.
“Bring her inside,” Sorokin orders before he walks away.
Dad leads me to the dining room, where the same hated pakhans who strive to keep me and Mikhail apart are already seated. Dmitri Chuikov and Anatole Popov sit at the carved table with cups of coffee in front of them. The grim expressions communicate they won’t tolerate anything less than total obedience. And in case it isn’t clear, there’s a handgun resting on the table. My father helps me into a chair, and he sits beside me. I want to hold his hand, but I don’t dare.
Sorokin takes his seat at the head of the table between the two other men. He sits back and watches us before he speaks. “We’ve decided to release your daughter into your custody under one condition. She will have absolutely no contact with Mikhail Ivanov.”
“What?” I gasp, and my father grabs my hand, squeezing it tight as a warning.
Sorokin continues. “We will give this warning once. Others will be informed of our decision. If your daughter and Mikhail Ivanov break the oath, there will be consequences.” His gaze shifts to me and back to my father. “You will be accountable for your daughter’s actions.”
“I understand,” Zakhar replies solemnly. “ButIam still a member of the Ivanov Bratva.”
“You are,” Sorokin admits. “But she isn’t. And she will never be.” He pauses for emphasis, allowing the weight of his words to settle over us. “Perhaps if they had married.” The implication is clear that being legally bound to Mikhail could have protected us. But it’s too late now.
“Does Mikhail know what you are doing?” I ask desperately. “He can’t. He would never agree to this. We’re engaged.” I point to the ring on my finger. “I just want to see him one more time.”
My words hang in the air, but Sorokin is resolute in his denial. I collapse into the chair, but my father refuses to touch me as he stares down these men. I can’t believe how they’re treating me.
“One more time to say goodbye. Is it so unreasonable?” My eyes plead with Dmitri Chuikov. I killed a man to save his wife. Sorokin sang my praises when I killed a man, and now they shame me for loving one. Dmitri has to help me, and my hope rises when he opens his mouth to speak.
“We must act on the needs of the greater good,” he replies firmly. “And not the selfish desires of a few individuals.”
Sorokin stands. “Zakhar Sergeyevich Budanov, you must swear on the Bratva oath that if Mikhail Ivanov sees your daughter, you will kill him.” Sorokin pushes the gun forward. “Eto nash prikaz.”
Ignoring my sobs, my father stands and walks to the head of the table. He kneels in front of Sorokin, who points the barrel of the gun at his forehead.
Dad takes a deep breath. “I care for no one but the Bratva, and I shall love none other than the Bratva.” Then, he reaches for the gun barrel, taking it out of Sorokin’s hand before standing up. He towers over the older man and clenches his jaw as he stares down at him.
“Before you leave,” Sorokin commands, “we will verify your record through your tattoos.” Sorokin gestures toward a guard by the door. “Your daughter may wait in the hallway.”
“No, she stays.” Zakhar’s voice is firm, allowing for no negotiations. “She needs to learn what I am.”
Without another word, my father complies by removing all his clothes except his boxers. His skin reveals the intricate ink that tells the story of his life within the Bratva. He stands with his head held high as the pakhans study him like a specimen, and their eyes scan every detail of his body.
“No new ink, Zakhar Sergeyevich?” Popov asks lightly. “No marks from the Lanzzare?”
Dad’s jaw twitches. “I am loyal to the Bratva.”
“Yet you married a Mafia whore,” states Sorokin, smirking.
I clench my fist. How dare they talk this way about my mom! But I keep my mouth silent, following Dad’s lead. He remains stoic as ever.
“I am loyal to the Bratva,” he answers again.
“Only because your lapse of conduct didn’t end well,” replies Sorokin. “Yes?”
Zakhar’s throat bobs. “Yes.”
I bite my lips together and mimic my father. An outburst would do us no good. I hold my head high as if I’m being examined, showing my pride in being my father’s daughter.
“Good,” replies Popov. “Make sure you teach that lesson to your daughter.”
They nod in satisfaction, and a sense of relief washes over me when he’s allowed to dress. “You’re welcome to return to the Bratva,” Dmitri says. “Zakhar Sergeyevich Budanov.”
Sorokin nods. “You may return to Holtsville. But remember this: if you ever see Mikhail Ivanov approach your daughter, you will kill him. That is an order.”
Dad’s jaw clenches as he pulls his shirt on and adjusts the hem before speaking, and I can hear the bitterness with every word. “I will return to Holtsville and carry out my orders there.”
“Maria Zakharovna.” Sorokin aims his sharp eyes at me. “You’re released to your father. Under the same condition: you’ll never see Mikhail Ivanov again. It will cost him his life and your father’s.”
“Please,” I try again. “There must be another way.”
“Maria!” Zakhar snaps, his face set with steely resolve. “This is their order. We have no choice.”
“Take her home,” Sorokin orders. “And remember, your oath will save lives.” With that, Sorokin walks out of the room, leaving us to face our new reality.
Mikhail and I are to remain apart-torn apart by the very world that brought us together.
Late that night, Dad drives us to a warehouse in Twin Rivers, where his truck is parked outside. Inside, he changes out of his suit into flannel and jeans, tossing the dark suit into a trash can. He leads me to his truck in silence, and I think back to that night when he dragged me home from my graduation party.
As we pull away from the building, I realize what my father wanted for me all along. The Bratva was always going to find us, no matter where we hid. His strict rules weren’t only to keep me physically safe but to protect my heart from falling in love with the wrong man.
The person I couldn’t have, no matter how much I wanted them.
“Maria.” His voice is rough with buried emotion. “I’m sorry it ended this way for you.”
“Me too,” I reply wistfully. “But I understand now why you did what you did.”
My heart aches for Mikhail, but this is the price we pay for choosing revenge over love. It hurts, but I did experience a life I would never have imagined by staring at pictures on a glossy page.
He nods, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. “I’m sorry, Maria. I wanted to hide away, and I hurt you doing it.”
As the traffic thins to nothing, the city lights fade behind us as the truck approaches the suburbs. The familiar streets of Holtsville come into view, and a sharp pang starts in my chest. There’s no way to get over a shattered heart. I glance over at my dad, and we share something I wish now that we didn’t.
I look out the window, trying to keep the tears at bay.
My memories flood back like a wave going over my head. I remember my first visit to the Met with Mikhail, the painting he bought me. I remember making love in the vineyard, and my cheeks flush at the vivid memory. Every time I looked into his green eyes, it felt like he could see into my heart.
And then I feel it.
And I gasp.
“Maria, are you okay?”
“Th-the baby,” I stammer. “I felt a kick,” I murmur, placing a hand on my abdomen and feeling a sudden flutter beneath my fingertips. My breath catches, and I stare down in wonder. The baby kicked.
Dad’s eyes widen with surprise and concern. “You’re pregnant with Mikhail’s child?” The truck slows down, coming to a stop at a red light. No one else is at the intersection. Dad remains silent. I know he disapproves, but I can’t help myself.
I nod. “I am.”
“Sorokin should be told,” he says. “You’re carrying a pakhan’s child.”
“They issued their orders, Zakhar Sergeyevich.” I shake my head, using that accursed name that reminds me of who my dad will always be. “And we can do nothing other than obey.”
He stares at me in the darkness and struggles with his emotions. He starts the truck again, and we drive the rest of the way in silence.