Page 61 of Vasily the Hammer

It makes me wonder if he was in his daughter’s life then, if he was struggling to raise a kid while in the throes of addiction or if he was living his life hard until an old fling showed up on his doorstep with a kiddo in tow.

I wonder if he rewrote his life for her, and now she’s a teenager and this is his last chance to hold onto her before he has to let her go.

I tell Bernie what we know. The reports about the resurgence of the IRA, the bombing at our place in Santa Clarita. Alex’s disappearance. Kseniya’s disappearance. The ransacking of our shop. He listens through it all, clearly unsure why we think his boys have anything to do with it, but then Janson shows him the image that was lifted from the security camera.

“Well, shit,” Bernie mutters, waving a hand at Dooley.

Who hands him a set of eye glasses.

He studies the image again, holds it up close. Sid takes the phone from him and zooms in. It would all be comical if it wasn’t so grave.

“Who the fuck is that?” he mutters. “Dools, who is this fucker?”

Dooley shakes his head. Same with Sid.

It’s the fourth guy, the prospect, who says, “Look at the badge on the front. I don’t think he’s one of ours.” He reaches out and demonstrates the length of the patch that identifies Bernie as Flagstaff chapter.

Bernie slaps his hand away. Dooley smacks him upside the head.

The initiate isn’t even bothered by it. Frat house hazing, I swear. “San Antonio, I think.”

Sid straightens up at that. “One of their guys vanished. A week ago.”

“Convenient,” Kostya growls.

I glare at him. Not necessary right now. “Is San Antonio thinking a kidnapping or a defection?”

“We’re about to find out,” Bernie promises me as Dooley and Sid both pull out their phones.

Dooley’s clearly calling San Antonio, but as Sid walks out of the room, I hear him saying, “Hey, babe? Do you think that room at the Olive Garden is still available?”

We all hear his old lady screaming on the other end of line.

Chapter 19

Ana

It’s hard to tellthe difference between dreams, nightmares, and memories. I have no idea where I am and there’s no one to guide me, but they could be replays of actual moments in my life and I just don’t realize it. I’ve woken up in a panic several times since my rescue, and I’ve had to just accept it as my current reality and hope that one day, it’ll resolve itself.

When I wake up gasping for breath, I’m reminded of the times it happened when I was sharing a bed with Vasily and he would sling an arm out, drag me to him, and either mumble a sleepy, soothing hush or make his way inside me to silence my brain with orgasms. It felt so natural that I wondered if I’d always had nightmares.

And it makes me sad that he’s not here with me now. I go so far as to grab the other pillow in my bed to pretend it’s him comforting me, but theneverythingcomes back.

He wasn’t used to handling my night terrors. He barely knew me. He didn’t love me. He was my actual nightmare.

I dash the tears from my eyes even as I struggle to name the emotions causing them. Grief, anger, repulsion, fear. And heartache. And frustration. This dream was stolen from the video Tony showed me, concocting an idea of what happened after I stopped watching, and I’m as repulsed with Vasily as I’m repulsed at my own horrific fantasies of what happened next.

And even more repulsed at the dampness in my panties.

I have to resist the urge to touch myself, to satisfy the sexual frustration that shouldn’t exist. I have to chastise myself for secretly wishing, deep down inside, that Vasily was here to do it for me because he’s so damn good at it.

I know my thoughts are going to run for a while, so I get out of bed and take a long shower to reset myself. Start my day or tire myself out, I’m not sure. I dig through my closet for something to wear before, in a moment of weakness I’m absolutely disgusted with myself over, I dress in the clothes I came here in, already back from the laundry.

I throw Vasily’s hoodie on.

Artom’s room is just down the hall. I tell myself I just want to check on him since that’s the only thing I can do right now to feel less like a terrible mother, but I stand in the doorway for all of ninety seconds before I creep around to the other side of the bed, cringing as the floorboards of the aging house creak beneath my feet, and slip under the covers. And then I watch him.

Nothing else feels right. My clothes feel wrong. This house feels wrong. Phoenix feels wrong. Even Camilla, who is obviously still my friend if my kid is friends with hers despite being across the country from each other, doesn’t feel quite right to me. But lying next to Artom, listening to his deep breathing and smelling his freshly washed scent, watching him as he throws an arm over his head and flopping his opposite leg over, all but pretzeling himself, this feels right. This is joy in its purest, most concentrated sense.

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