Page 55 of Last Hand

“And if that’s what Leone does to people heloves,” I say. “Imagine what he’ll do to you. For touching me.”

He goes to say something when Rebecca stops in the doorway.

“Igor can you help me with the light in the kitchen, it’s out again,” she says her shadow falling across the floor from the hallway light.

“Is everything okay?” she asks. Igor though is still staring at me.

“I’ll be right out,” he says dismissively, and I hear her steps hesitate.

Igor moves to shove past me when he stops tilting his head down and I peer up at him. “I will wait until after Mikhail has me starting to remove limbs. I’ll take your arms first before telling him, that way you can watch your baby grow knowing you’ll never hold it,” he says. I swallow thickly.

“And I’ll make sure the last face you’ll see is mine,” I warn and he laughs walking out of the room.

The moment he’s gone, the strength drains out of me like water from a sieve. My knees buckle, and I catch myself on the edge of the armchair, my knuckles white. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My arms. The words echo, a sickening refrain.

I can hear Rebecca’s voice from the hallway, a nervous lilt to it as she speaks to Igor. Her footsteps fade as they move toward the kitchen.

Alone, finally. Though not really. The cameras on the wall are silent, unblinking observers. Mikhail’s eyes, even when he isn’t here. And now, Igor knows. He knows the one thing I’ve guarded more fiercely than my own life.

My hand creeps to my stomach, protectively.

I push myself up, my legs trembling. The thin dress offers no comfort, no barrier against the chill of the room or the ice in my veins. I have to be smarter. Stronger. This changes everything. Igor won’t keep this secret for long, not if he thinks it benefits him or Mikhail.

I glance at the monitors, at the grainy images of the forest surrounding the house. Escape. The word is a whisper, a dangerous, seductive thought. But how? With Igor knowing, the leash just got shorter, tighter.

The moment I step out of the room, my mother moves toward me with an armful of folding. “What happened?”

“Igor knows,” I whisper, and she pauses staring at me when her eyes widen. “Where is he?”

“Fixing the kitchen light, I have to get the girls to bed. Mikhail has returned, he seems in a…” she shakes her head. “Never mind, go before Igor comes looking for you.” I wander out to the living area.

When I enter, Mikhail is on the phone and I move to the couch.

Just as I sit, I know Rebecca is in the girls’ room because I can hear her humming is off-key, gentle as she closes their bedroom door. Her footsteps don’t return. She stays with them. I don’t blame her. I would, too, if I could.

I sit at the edge of the living room, where the hard, cold floor meets plush rugs. My hands press against the thin fabric of my dress, trying to warm myself. The fireplace crackles across the room, and I don’t dare move closer. Not with him pacing nearby.

Mikhail seems like he is in a good mood.

And that terrifies me.

He pours himself a drink of vodka, neat—and starts talking to himself in Russian as he hangs up on whoever he was talking to. Laughing. Smiling like a man who’d just closed a good deal or crushed someone beneath his shoe.

That smile is worse than his rage.

I’ve learned to recognize the signs. The way his eyes glow colder, not warmer. The way he holds the glass loosely like he’s toasting to some victory. I don’t know what he’s won tonight, yet I know how he celebrates. Someone always pays for it.

“Strip’s about to fall,” he says, swirling the glass as he sinks into the leather armchair. “Leone surprised me tonight.”

My pulse stumbles.

What did he do?

Mikhail doesn’t usually talk to me—not like this, like we’re having a conversation. That’s the first warning.

The second comes when one of his men ducks to whisper something in his ear. Mikhail chuckles darkly, then flicks his fingers toward Igor who I didn’t hear enter behind me.

“Igor, television. Now.”

---