Page 153 of Silenced

“With a lot of corruption and a lack of care from the government.” He exhales. “Maxim started the fire at the orphanage.”

The one responsible for his scars goes unspoken.

I gasp. “Why?”

“Because one of the workers had his eye on Misha.”

Disgusted, I demand, “What happened?”

“Misha didn’t tell me at first.” He rubs his hand over his lips. “I wish he had. I’d have just taken him away.”

“Was it too late?”

“No. Maxim caught it in time but he got trapped in the blaze. You think the scars on my hips are bad. His back is a mess.”

“Damn,” I whisper, turning into him.

“The bastard died for daring to target Misha. His body burned in the blast. It was set in his office. Maxim hit him over the head with a piece of memorabilia the pervert brought back from serving in WW2.” He takes a deep pull on his wine. “The fire was to cover it up. I had to get us away from there fast.

“Then afterward, we had to deal with our injuries and that cost a fortune. There’s a national health system in Moscow, but we had to do it off the books, and most of the time, even if it’s legitimate, you have to bribe a doctor for what you’d consider standardized healthcare.”

“That’s terrible!” I squeak.

He smiles at me a little. “Such an idealist.”

I huff. “Nobody questioned you? No one asked why a young kid had two boys with him?”

“They didn’t care so long as I paid them enough. I used to be a pickpocket. I was lucky that I was good at it. I had enough for the early days of our care—”

“But you were injured too!”

“I had mouths to feed and healthcare to arrange. I survived.”

I flinch at the sacrifices he had to make—decisions and choices that no child should ever be faced with.

God, no wonder he’s so weird.

“Afterward, we lived on the streets until I was old enough to get us some digs.” His mouth tightens. “They were not good times.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

When I think of the crap I gave my dad over his refusal to paint my bedroom black while Nikolai, at the same age, was struggling to feed three mouths…

Guilt hits me.

Sorry, Papa.

“I wouldn’t want you to imagine,” he signs, the movements of his fingers hard and biting. “I did some terrible things to protect us all.”

I stare at him, trying to see past that blank expression to the wall that’s between the past and the present.

“It made you who you are today,” I say softly.

“Da.” He glances away. “I have never been a good man. From a young age, I knew what I’d be.” At my questioning look, he answers, “A killer.”

“Environment plays a key part in that,” I argue. “If you’d been raised on my street, I don’t think you’d have turned out that way.”

“Are you defending me,solnyshko?” he queries, but for the first time since this conversation started, he appears amused.

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