Page 33 of Vitaly

Nikita’s hand stills. “Yes?”

“If you were to die today, Vitaly Petrov would take over. Once he’s dead, there will be no Petrovs left to surpass you.”

“And?”

I swallow. “And if I accomplish what you want me to, I will have helped take down your greatest threat. I will have proven myself in every way I know how. I’ve shown you loyalty from the day you first called me yours, but Pakhan, I do not wish to be a whore, and I believe I can offer you something greater.”

“Greater…”

I nod.

His hand leaves me. “You mean anheir?”

Again, I nod.

He runs his hand over his jaw and clucks his tongue. “You’re saying you’ll only do this if I agree to marry you?”

I shake my head. “Of course not, Pakhan. I’m only expressing my wishes.”

“I know your wishes, Mila. You don’t hide yourself from me.”

I lower my head and don’t respond to that.

“How ironic would it be if Vitaly were there to witness our marriage.” Nikita chuckles.

It’s one big joke to him, I know. He has no interest in marriage. But the idea of the Petrov legacy dying… One day, that will occur to him. I only need to be the woman he chooses.

Then I will be safe. I will be powerful. No more games, no more tests. As a servant, my existence is always at risk. But he wouldn’t kill me so easily as his wife.

“Do this for me, and I’ll consider it. It’ll certainly make you more desirable.”

I don’t know if he means it, but it’s the most he’s ever given me.

When he dismisses me, I get up and prepare myself for the evening ahead. The days ahead.

I have no idea how I’ll ever hide my fury while standing in the same room as Vitaly Petrov. But tonight, for the first time in nine years, I’ll try.

10

VITALY

The walls in my old room were never repainted. The dark, wooden bed frame was never replaced.

I wonder if Mila still sleeps on the same mattress I had. The bedspread has at least been changed—replaced by a thick, cream comforter, pillows resting atop that look like clouds.

Every bit of the mansion I saw earlier looked like it had been stripped of my father, but this room is haunted by the ghost of my past self. It’s cruel that Nikita gave this room to Mila, but I guess she wouldn’t know how much life was lived in here before her.

Tucked inside the reading nook I never once used to read in when I was young, I stare out the large window at the view of the lawn, darkness hiding the flowerbeds my mother tended. Roses were her favorite when I was youngest, before her interests dove into purple and white lilies. I asked once if she pivoted because roses were too difficult. She said that’s what she liked about them. She said they reminded her of her son.

My heart warms at the memory. I let my head rest against the wall as I breathe in, certain I can smell the flowers now, dead as they must be. I wonder if anything is growing there anymore.

I wish I’d helped her instead of merely standing over her while she dug her hands around in the dirt. I didn’t understand the purpose of what she was doing then. No one gave a shit about those flowers but her. Why put so much care into them? Was it truly worth the dirt beneath her nails, the bruises on her knees?

Then, six years ago, there was a man called Krysa—which meansrat—who found a wounded bird in the orchard where he was stationed to work. He snuck the bird into the barracks and cared for it for the next three weeks, feeding it from the tiny bits of scraps we were given, barely enough to keep himself alive. He held the broken little thing like a child, spoke to it with love we all collectively agreed to ignore. As I watched him one day, it struck me why no one said anything.

We all understood. It may have seemed feeble or even pathetic to some, but the man weighed less than a hundred pounds, took beatings on the daily, shook like a Parkinson’s patient, and cowered if anyone so much as looked at him. And still, every one of us had more in common with that man than with any of the guards.

He was a prisoner who had nothing. The bird became his purpose, his escape. And on the first day of the fourth week, when one of the guards caught wind of the little bird, Krysa came back from the orchard to find its head cut off and waiting for him beneath his pillow. Those in the barracks ignored him while he wailed, and when he was beaten nearly to death, they ignored that too.

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