Page 8 of Vitaly

My eyes scan the nave until I find who I think is my uncle in one of the front pews. It’s hard to tell, it’s been so long, and all I have is the back of his head to go on. I recognize his dark blond hair and the straight way he sits. The way he holds his head up.

I eye the woman beside him with nearly black hair cascading down her back in curls. She sits as straight as he does, close to him but not touching.

Reaching into my coat pocket, I don’t take my eyes off the woman. Not until the photo is in my hand and held in front of my face.

I peer at it, studying the dark hair on the half-naked woman kneeling at Nikita’s side. He sits—peering away from the camera—like a king in a purple, velvet chair in what I know to be myfather’s old office. The woman in the photo has similar hair as the woman with him now, but it’s straightened and partially pulled back. It could be her.

I flip the photo over and read the note as I have every day since it arrived in my prison block. Only days before I was miraculously released.

Nikita Petrov has what’s yours.

That’s it. That’s all it says.

At first, I thought it was referring to my uncle holding the title of Pakhan, as if I still gave a shit about my birthright. As if I had any lingering loyalty to the Petrovs.

But then I saw the mole beneath the woman’s brown eyes.

Mila Alekseev. The girl I was supposed to marry.

I hadn’t thought about her in nine years. After I was sent away, I couldn’t have predicted she would’ve stayed, let alone that she would’ve been gifted to Nikita.

I flip the photo back over and stare at the woman, wondering how much I would care if her circumstances were slightly different. She came to the United States for a future Pakhan, and it’s what she got.

But the lingerie…

The kneeling…

She isn’t his wife. She’s his whore.

And she was the last thing my father tried to give me. The last lesson he tried to teach. He was wrong for it, and my grandfather must’ve seen—as I did at the time—that she was more fit to be a servant than a wife. My uncle must feel the same, but I will not let my father’s wishes be desecrated like this.

He chose Mila Alexseev to be a wife. The least I could give her is her freedom.

People stand as Alik and his bride are pronounced husband and wife, and they cheer as the couple walk down the aisle. I stayseated, watching carefully as the woman from the photo turns, along with my uncle.

I won’t lie, the two look like a nice pair. Her fitted, scarlet dress matches his tie and the red painting her lips. Breasts I don’t recall her having spill from the deep V cutting all the way down to her waist, but as suggestive as it is, the way she holds herself screams class. I wonder if she dyes her hair because if I remember correctly, her natural hair is more of a soft brown.

My head tilts as Nikita clutches a cane and limps a step forward toward the aisle. That’s new.

As people shuffle, I stand and glide down the stairs to beat the crowd to the door. I don’t plan to approach her yet. I’m only here to get a peek.

I slip out of the church and watch the front doors from my vehicle. To my surprise, Nikita and Mila don’t leave together.

She walks from the church alone, and after briefly running her hands up her arms, she lowers them as if afraid that to be cold is to be weak.

She climbs into the back of a black Escalade that pulls away when the driver arrives five minutes later.

I start up my new-to-me, old Jeep and follow after them, not expecting much excitement from Mila Alekseev’s life.

I remember her with her head bowed submissively, her eyes trying so hard to be brave, and I wonder…

What kind of woman did that little girl grow up to be?

3

MILA

My mother used to tell me she had eyes in the back of her head.

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