Page 1 of Used By the Bratva

Prologue – Natalie

Two years earlier

“Mamá, I can’t spend the rest of my life trapped in Russia.” I sit down and hand her the little cup of tea, leaning across the worn vinyl-topped table to add a dash of sugar for her. “Please, New York is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

She shakes her head, her scarred hands wrapping around the cup. “No, Natalie. We don’t have the money to send you to New York.”

“I can get scholarships.” I sit across from her, drumming my red-painted nails on the table.

“No.”

For the last week, I mustered all my strength to talk to her about going to New York. I knew she wouldn’t be keen on the idea, but I also didn’t think her answer would be a resounding ‘No.’

“Please,” I grab the information pamphlets one of my teachers gave me. “Just look through these. The art programs at New York Universities are among the best in the world. “

“There is nothing wrong with the education here.” Mamá sips her tea, her pale blue eyes narrowing. “You are going to stay in Russia and go to university here. You will live a happy life here.”

The corners of her eyes wrinkled, and her mouth twisted into a harsh frown that only exaggerated the burn scars on her cheeks.

I sit down and push the pamphlets toward her. “You always told me that I could do whatever I wanted with my life. This is what I want to do. I want to go to New York and study art. I want to see more of the world. Learn the way that other people live.”

“Is life in Russia so poor for you?” She pushes her tea aside, takes the pamphlets from the table, and throws them in the trash. “You will not be going to New York, and that is final.”

My chest tightens like a hand is wrapped around my ribs, squeezing the air from my lungs. “Is this because of Boris?”

The color drains from her face as she shoves back from the table and stands. “Where did you hear that name?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I stand up and cross my arms in front of my chest, although it feels more like I’m trying to hold myself together than standing up to Marina Popov. The woman I've called Mamá since I was five years old.

“It does matter! Tell me where you heard that name.” Her voice raises, her tone as sharp as a knife's edge. “Now, Natalie!”

“It’s not important,” I say, forcing out the words even as the world around me shrinks. Our little kitchen is suddenly too warm, and the air feels too thick to breathe. “What matters is why you’ve been keeping secrets from me. Is Boris the reason I can’t move to New York?”

She moves closer and places her hands gently on either side of my face. “You can go anywhere else in the world, Natalie—study in Italy or France, like all the greats have done. Spend time traveling through Europe or Asia. Move to Canada or the North Pole if you want, but not to New York.”

“Why not?” I pull away from her, stepping to the other side of the kitchen and leaning against the cheery yellow cabinets. “New York is where I want to be.”

“There is a reason for everything, my dear, but you can’t go to the States. Just stay with me. In Russia. I can keep you safe here.”

“What do you mean by ‘safe’? For heaven's sake, I’m eighteen. Don’t you think I deserve to know the truth about my past life? You're the only mother I know and always will be, but I want to know more about my real family. Who were they? Where do I come from?”

“I am your only family; there is no one else. Sometimes, we aren't meant to know the truth–it's best if it's forgotten.” Her eyes glaze over as she picks up her tea and takes a sip as if she needs it to calm her down. “Just stay with me, please. You are all I’ve got.”

“Sorry, but I can’t.” Frustration and anger burn inside me. Before I let it get the better of me, I turn around and walk down the gloomy, dark hallway that reflects my current mood. It feels like storm clouds are brewing over my head, just waiting to pour over me.

As I push open the wooden door to my room, I am greeted by the fluffy quilt on my bed. It’s one that Marina made for my birthday last year. I throw myself onto it, bury my face in my pillow, and take a deep breath. As I turn on my back, I stare at the ceiling while a million questions run through my mind.

This was the first time our argument became more serious. Her sad and almost fearful look when I insisted on going to New York made me believe even more that she was hiding something from me. Why does she think I’m only safe with her?

Of course, I will be sad to leave her alone here in Russia. It won’t be easy for her. As I am also her only family, there are no other relatives in our lives. She has only spoken about her past life once, when I was old enough, and asked her about the scars on her hands and face. Marina was married and had two little boys. Her husband and the boys died in a house fire about two decades ago. She tried to save them but couldn’t.

After this tragedy, she never found love again. And one day, a few years later, she found me in an orphanage. I was five years old. But every time I ask her the orphanage's name, she refuses to tell me and diverts from the topic. I know that I wasn’t born in Russia and that either my father or my mother must have been Latino. With my olive-colored skin, dark hair, and eyes, I look different from the locals here in our small town.

Goddammit! Why isn’t she telling me more? What is she hiding from me?

Every now and then, I have this weird dream of a big family in a big house with servants, and I wonder if that's where my real family is from. I see boys running around and me standing on a ferry, looking at the Statue of Liberty. Did I have brothers?

That’s why I must go to New York. I think that’s the city I lived in or near for the first five years. That’s where my parents lived and raised me. I want to find out what happened to them.

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