Page 59 of Shackled

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen is the sizzling of the vegetables and the low boil of the pasta water. "I tried to cook for my whole family as a surprise. My father was having a bad day," she says with a rueful smile. "That's what my mother used to say. Your father is having a bad day. As if somehow that gave him free rein to act like a child. Anyway, I did what I thought I had seen done before, but the pan I used was too small, and oil splashed onto the flame. I caused a small kitchen fire. My mother found out before my father did, and she took the blame for it."

Her voice trails off. She doesn’t like her mother, or maybe she hasn't forgiven her for past sins. I don’t know, but she doesn’t like telling these stories. I don’t like hearing them, but I need to. I need to know every thread that weaves the fabric of who she is today because this is no passing relationship. This woman is my wife.

"When he saw the fire, he screamed and raged at her. He didn't hit her, but he broke things." She looks away. When she looks back at me, her eyes are shining. "I hated that she was taking the blame for me, so I told him the truth. That’s when he hit her… for lying."

I season the chicken and lay it in the frying pan and scowl at it. "My father also wasn’t a nice man. I understand."

I don’t offer details on my own because this is her story, not mine, but apparently, she wants to know.

"Tell me. What was Stanislav Romanov really like?"

Of course, she knows his full name. She’s researched my family. "It was his way or the highway… typical.” I don’t look at her while I stir the pot of pasta because I don’t like to talk about this.

"Lev," she prompts, pouring herself a glass of wine. "This is a two-way street, mi querido jefe.”

Now that I know what that actually means, it holds a different kind of weight.

"He had his own way of dealing with us. He got physical."

"I didn't ask how he treated everyone," she says in that way of hers that cuts right to the heart of the matter. "I asked how he treated you."

There's no harm in telling her, so I don't know why I hesitated to begin with. "You know my brothers and Polina were adopted. My father did that on purpose, believing there were advantages to taking in people who were mistreated and then treating them well."

She nods, understanding. "It's one of the most basic rules of management," she says with a smile. “El perro es fiel a la mano que lo alimenta. A dog is loyal to the hand that feeds it.”

"I honestly don't remember much before being adopted. My family was poor, and I was orphaned. I had no siblings, just my mother. When she died of illness in Moscow, the Romanovs took me in. But I was the youngest, and much was expected of me, more than I could manage as a child. At least, that's what my mother tells me."

Her eyes soften as she listens, but thankfully, she offers no sympathy. She just takes another sip of wine in that elegant, beautiful way that makes my heart ache a little.

"As I grew older, nothing I did was good enough. He assigned ulterior motives to everything I did and took things personally."

She shakes her head. "What is it with these narcissistic parents?" she says.

I laugh, but she's spot on. There's nothing funny about it. "Yeah. I don't really like to label things, but I guess that's accurate."

I flip the chicken and move it around the pan, appreciating the aromas in the kitchen. My stomach growls. "Wine?" she asks.

"Yeah." I take a glass and sip it. "For a long time, my older brothers treated me the way my father taught them to. Viktor was the one to be feared—too big for my father to handle—so he gave him over to Kolya. Mikhail was the oldest, and we had to obey him." I don't know why I say "had to." We still do. “Mikhail was in charge. Ollie always kept to himself, and Nikko was older but an ally. When I was a teenager, Nikko taught me to shoot. At fifteen, I made my first kill."

She doesn't even flinch, just listens to me as if I'm talking about fishing. It's only then that I appreciate being with a woman who understands. She's not horrified by my reality because hers is so similar. The details differ, but the end result is the same.

"I felt like I had to prove myself for a very long time. Prove that I was loyal, that I was strong."

"How did that assault a few years back affect you?" she asks. Fuck. Of course she knows about the assault. She's done her homework. She knows I was overtaken, beaten, hospitalized. We long since got our revenge for that, but I still bear the scars.

"Honestly? This might be hard to understand, but I'm grateful it happened."

She shakes her head. “It's not hard to understand at all. For a man like you, it was a defining moment, no?”

God. She understands more than I gave her credit for.

I look at her and nod. Maybe it hasn't been that long since we've known each other, so why does it feel like we've known each other our whole lives? Maybe humans are more alike than I thought.

"Exactly. It was exactly that. I had two choices: nurse my wounds, let the trauma hold me back…” My voice is choked, and I'm uncharacteristically emotional.

She completes the sentence for me. "Or let it shape you into who you are today. Determined that no one will ever do that to anyone you love again."

The pan is smoking. I shut it off and pull it off the heat, scooping the chicken onto a plate. I toss the pan in the sink and run water on it, steam filling the room.

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