Page 28 of Used By the Bratva

I do as he says, hoping that this means Boris wants to talk to me. As I stare into the camera, my heart pounds. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as the phone rings.

The guard shuffles over to it without saying a word. He looks at me and nods toward the door on the right. “Go through there and up the stairs. Mr. Petrovsky will be waiting for you.”

Shit! This is a bad idea.

I ignore the voice in my head, pull open the frosted glass door, and see a white staircase. Another camera points at me, whirring as it changes position to watch me walk up the stairs. Every step feels like a giant leap over a ravine.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I want to turn around and rush back down with every fiber of my being. Part of me wishes I'd never come here.

Maybe Mamá is right, and some things are better left unknown.

A door swings open, and a man in a tailored suit stands before me.

The color disappears from his face as he stares at me. “Natalie?”

“Yes.” My throat thickens as I look at him and step back to distance myself more. “Do you know me? I mean, besides the fact that you’re the one who sends my mom money every month.” I get straight to the point.

I don’t know what I expected Boris to look like, but I was surprised. He looks very dapper in his expensive suit and shoes, and his short, dark hair with silver streaks is nicely styled back. I think he could be pretty charming, but his expression somehow hardened when he saw me.

“No,” he says, short and sharp, steps aside, and gestures to an office with a black floor and beige furniture. “Come in.”

“I am sorry. I didn’t have your number to call ahead and make an appointment. My mother would be ashamed of me for barging in here, assuming you have time to meet me.” I said half-jokingly.

Boris follows me into the room and sits by the window on one of the couches.

I follow his lead and sit down opposite him. “I wanted to know why you’re sending us money.”

His eyebrows pull together, arms crossing over his chest. “What makes you think that young lady? Who is your mother?”

His eyes darken, and he looks at me sternly, his fingers tapping his arm. Oh God, is he a mafioso too? A shiver runs down my spine, and goose bumps cover my skin. I feel he knows more than he's letting on, but his intimidation does not deter me. I jut my chin out and look him straight in the eye.

“Her name is Marina Popov. I was adopted when I was five. Look, Mr. Petrovsky, I heard your name in my house a few years ago. I know it’s your money that pays our bills, paying for my education, one of the best English schools back home.”

He clears his throat. “And where’s back home?”

“Russia. But I also know that I lived in the States before I was five and had a family here. And you're the only link I’m trying to piece together in this puzzle. I must find out the truth about my real family and who I am.” My voice rises at the last words, and I clasp my hands together to calm my agitation. This man isn't going to play a stupid game with me. I’ve come this far, and I will get my answers.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, and his voice is deep and gravelly; his gaze bores deep into me as if searching my soul.

“Why do you want to find out?”

The question hurts more than it should and borders on an accusation. The words I want to say are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t think cursing will improve the situation. He's just as stubborn as I am.

I keep my composure and take a deep breath. “I have the right to know who I am, where I come from, and what happened to my family.” That came out harsher than I intended. But I wasn’t done yet and stood up, pacing back and forth, and pointing my finger at him. “I need to know why I was sent to Russia. Why I wasn’t loved, why my family thought it was best to send me away. And you, you have answers, Mr. Petrovsky.”

Boris smirks, shakes his head, and stands up. “Easy, young lady. I don’t think I can help you. I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.” His brash tone cuts through the air like shards of glass.

“Does … um … Mrs. Marina Popov know you’re here right now?”

“No. But I have a friend who does.” I snap back.

He chuckles. “Relax. I’m not the type of man to lay his hands on a woman.”

“No offense, but that’s a classic line for men who do exactly that.”

“Fair point.” He looks at me, obviously waiting for me to call it quits, but I remain rooted to the spot.

Our eyes lock in a silent duel, and the tension thickens. I will not leave this office without answers. The truth is a price worth my determination.

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