Page 35 of Vitaly

I sigh and look out the window. Toward those old flower beds. “Even if you were married to him, it wouldn’t change anything. You’d still be a prisoner here.”

Discomfort settles deep inside me, and I shift as if that’ll help. “I hate to admit this, but… If you’d married me all those years ago, your situation wouldn’t have been any different then either. Ring or not, the women of this world are made to be servants.”

“If this world is too unsettling for you, you’re free to leave it at any time. Downtown, they’re having a feminist march next week. You could go find your people. As your assigned servant, I’ll help you make your poster.”

“Wow, what a kind offer.”

“The anti-gun protests are the week after.”

“Oh, good. You know how much I hate violence.”

“I don’t know anything about you,” Mila snaps, her hair swaying as she whips her head my way before resuming her position.

Silence fills the space between us for what feels like a long while, bringing with it tension twisted by Mila’s resentment. The sadness she keeps locked inside unfurls, and the longer we let the space fill with her energy, the more the sadness leaks out. Nine years’ worth.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” I say, knowing it could never be enough.Hatingthat it will never be enough.

She lets that hang in the air for seconds that turn into minutes. Finally, she sighs. “What do you want, Vitaly?”

What do I want?

I look out at the yard as if I’m thinking, but the answer is obvious to me.

I want redemption. I want to right my wrongs—at least the ones I’m capable of. I have done things in my life that will never allow me a single night of peaceful slumber, and there are so many things I’ll never be able to take back, togiveback.

Not just to Mila. Not just to my father or my mother, but to every person I’ve ever come across.

I’m ashamed to say it. It isn’t the story I want to tell.

But the memory of Krysa’s bird is one I recall well because it was my blade that touched its neck. It was my boot that connected with Krysa’s skull. My tears that remained dammed behind my eyes instead of flooding onto the concrete floor like Krysa’s.

Because in prison—and the world, for that matter—there are two kinds of people. Those who are victims and those who are not victims. Those whose purpose is to help the vulnerable and those whose purpose is to help themselves.

I know which type I am. I’m the type who will bash a man’s skull in for an extra scrap of meat. It’s done. It’s too late to pretend I’m someone else.

But thisonewrong, thisonething I did can be corrected. If I can spare this one life, perhaps I’ll prove to myself I have a soul after all. Perhaps my mother and father—if they’re looking down on me—won’t cry today.

“I want you to be happy,” I say, my voice low.

She laughs, finally looking at me with a cruel smile. “Yes, I’m sure that’s just what you want. To travel across an ocean to make some girl you threw away years agohappy.” She shakes her head. “Am I truly supposed to pretend to believe this? Because, frankly, I don’t know that I can. I don’t know thatanyonecould be that good an actress.”

“Did Nikita ask you to act for me?”

Her smile falls some. “What?”

When I don’t respond, she narrows her eyes. “You’re a Petrov living in this house. I’m to serve you with a proper attitude out of respect, regardless of whether you deserve it or not. That requires acting. Nobody had to ask me to do that.”

“Ah.” I nod.

Curious, though, that he sentherto ‘serve’ me instead of one of the other women. Except, of course, it isn’t curious. He wants to use her against me somehow.

“Look…” She blows a strand of hair from her forehead. “I think, maybe, I haven’t had the best tone. I apologize.Sir.”

I just stare at her. Her bright red lipstick is smudged in one corner of her lips, and I can’t help but wonder if it was an application error or if Nikita kissed her. It’s hard to imagine this woman messing up her lipstick. She seems … meticulous.

As if checking for confirmation, I run my gaze over her manicured hands, up to her carefully styled curls, so long and beautiful. I know her hair is dyed, but I can’t see a single off-colored root.

Mila clears her throat, bringing me to her annoyed face.

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