Page 42 of Kept in the Dark
“Do I want to know what kind of messes you’re talking about?” I ask hesitantly.
“Probably not,” he allows.
“Well, then, I’ll answer the question I think you were trying to ask. Which is ‘why go into nursing?’”
He nods.
I sit back, dropping my hands into my lap. “I guess the idea did ultimately come from my dad—he definitely believed healthcare is the noblest profession. Nursing seemed like a better fit for me in a lot of ways. I graduated sooner, with less debt. It offered a better work-life balance and had excellent opportunities, like travel nursing. That one was a no-brainer. I didn’t really have ties anywhere, the pay was better, and I got to see new places and then leave after a few months when my contract was up.”
“You prefer this life of moving from place to place?”
“I mean, traveling was exciting, especially at first—I got to try out new cities to see where I’d fit,” I shrug. “But it’s getting old. I’ve lived in nine cities in as many years.”
His brows shoot up. “So many places. Are you running from something or looking for something?”
I blow out an amused breath. “Both, probably. It was always part of the plan to put down roots eventually. I’ve just been waiting for somewhere to feelright—somewhere to call home, somewhere to buy a house and get a permanent position and join a gym and make friends… This was supposed to be the last move,” I mutter. “Guess it won’t be.”
“Why?” he demands.
“Um… was that a serious question?” I narrow my eyes at him, but his neutral expression gives nothing away. “Maybe because there’s a guy in the mafia after me? Because I’ve potentially got drugs in my stomach? Because I don’t know what I’m up against? I think even if Kyle is dead, I’ll be looking over my shoulder forever. It’s honestly easier just to pick up and move far away. I’m good at it by now, and I have nothing holding me here.”
His jaw flexes, giving him a distinctly angry look, and he nods once, curtly.
I know his next move is meant to bait my queen into taking the piece, but I don’t see a better move, so I make it. “What about your family? Did you grow up in Russia?”
Dimitri crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, regarding me with a shuttered gaze. “I grew up in a very small village. My father was a soldier in the Chechen war, and my mother was…” he pauses, and the corners of his mouth twitch, “a nurse.”
“Really?” I ask brightly. I love that.
“Yes.”
“What did your father do after the war?”
He sighs. “This is not something I share with people.”
My happy heart deflates, and I nod, understanding. Of the two of us, he has way more secrets to guard. “That’s o—”
“When I was a boy, my father owned a bar where the locals would come after work,” he begins ominously, like he’s gearing up.
My heart bangs around wildly. He wasn’t refusing to answer; he was warning me, trusting me with an untold story.
“One night the bar was robbed. Some men beat him and burned down the building. Knowing what I know now, I believe he was approached by aBratvaand offered protection, which he turned down.”
I tuck my hands under my thighs, warming them. “Protection?”
His smile is wry—no mirth at all, just a baring of his teeth—as he scrubs at his short hair with his knuckles. “ABratvahas the unique position of acting as shield and sword. They offer protection from dangersfor which they are responsible. They take tributes from local businesses to mark or expand their ‘territory,’ and in return these businesses receive protection. If they are attacked, theBratvathey pay tribute to will respond on their behalf. Of course, they are only attacked for being part of that territory to begin with.”
“Sounds like the business owners get the raw end of that deal.”
“My father believed so, but after the fire, he wished to protect my mother and me. Because he had experience as a soldier from the war, thePakhan—the leader—of a neighboringBratvahired him to be an enforcer. That is how he got involved in organized crime. When it was obvious that I would grow to a similar size as my father, I was also recruited.”
I don’t want to know, but I ask, “How old were you?”
He’s quiet as he rasps, “Not old. Too young. ThePakhantold me he saw my potential early. When I was a boy, it filled me with pride; and so, to keep his favor, I became what thePakhantold me I was—strong, ruthless, and loyal—an ideal soldier. As a man, I understand it had little to do with me; it was a thing he did to keep my father in his grasp. Aleksandr was a clever man, one who knew how to control those around him. Son to control father, then later, after my father died in a fight over territory, mother to control son. He took my mother as a mistress when he sensed I was pulling away. She died some years later, but it was exactly the right thing to do to keep me in his fist at 16.”
The information alone feels like an assault; I can’t imagine living it. What Dimitri is describing is the worst kind of stolen childhood. His anger wraps around him like a shield, even now, though he delivers the words with a kind of resigned detachment, like the memories are more inconvenient than horrific.
I want to reach out to him, but I tuck my hands more firmly under my legs. My heart aches for him.
