by A. E. King
“Explain.” My father sets down his glass.
“She’s self-serving and shrewd with a remarkable talent for manipulation.”
I hate hearing myself described in this way, especially when it’s so painfully true. I have been all of those things in the last few weeks. No wonder Dima can’t stand to look at me.
Dima continues. “She displayed a natural ability for leadership at the orphanage. We’ll teach her to control herself, and she’ll be very useful. We could go on a pre-wedding national tour, to remind the Organizatisaya of why they need us. I’ll meet with each of the families to strengthen the alliances, and she’ll pacify the people.”
“Everyone can be controlled with the right motivation.” My father looks at me greedily. “What would it take to break her?”
“Zhenya. Her maid,” Dimitri answers. “Killing the maid would leave Yulia completely alone.”
I clasp my hand against my chest. For a moment, even the air stops. How could he offer Zhenya up like this? “She raised you too!” I shout at Dimitri. “How could you?”
“Because I grew up.” He looks away from me.
My father brings his hands together and rests them under his chin, relishing in my emotional response. “That’s one problem solved.” He peers at me, savoring every last sign of pain I cannot hide. “See how his brilliant mind works? The old maid is disposable. Her death costs us nothing, but we gain so much. We’ll need more than the maid though. We still have another . . . layer to break through.”
Dimitri’s eyes dart toward me momentarily before returning to my father, who looks excited at the prospect of orchestrating my emotional and mental destruction.
“Show me your handiwork.” He nods to Dimitri.
Dimitri stands and pulls me roughly to my feet. Then he pulls down my waistband, revealing a large bruise on my hip, and lifts my shirt to unveil my purple ribcage. He pulls my jacket off to show the handprints on my forearms along with my bruised shoulder. My skin swirls with purples and reds. While I know the context in which I received these injuries, my cheeks burn as I’m displayed like an animal.
“Plus, the bump on her head. She won’t forget that soon.” Dimitri releases me and returns to his seat, leaving me to rearrange myself and gingerly sit back down.
Next to me, my father smiles triumphantly. “This is perfect.” He laughs and claps his hands together, looking perfectly at ease. “I thought it might take us months to get to this point. But here we are.”
“Do you know the last time I saw such perfectly formed bruises, Yulia? So isolated to a single side of the body?”
My father isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at Dima, whose face has drained of all color.
“Your brother’s punishments used to result in such tidy formations. Do you know what it really looks like when someone has been beaten?” He pauses, relishing Dima’s discomfort. “Fists flying and kicks landing on any available surface look nothing like this, although I don’t mean to minimize your suffering, Yulia. I’m sure it still hurts.” He puts his arm around me as if in consolation. It makes my skin crawl.
“Should I show her Dimitri? Should I show her what a true beating looks like?” His lips curl into a cruel smile.
Dima looks up for the first time. “Don’t.”
My father’s smile widens at his palpable desperation. “Did you honestly think I didn’t know?” He laughs at Dimitri. “You were a sneaky little ublyudok even back then, fondling my daughter.”
My eyes shoot to Dima before I can force myself to not react. My father knew about our relationship?
“I wanted to send you away long enough for me to marry Yulia off and put an end to it once and for all, but Yelena was sure the two of you were soulmates. She mounted a fierce defense of your young love. She would have appreciated all those years you spent your free time monitoring Yulia’s Peredacha so that another pervert wouldn’t pleasure himself while watching her shower. And you were such a gentleman that you didn’t even peek, did you?”
My father walks to his liquor tray to grab a third glass, to the coffee table for the vodka. He refills his glass and pours one for me. Dima’s is still full.
“You’ve loved her all these years. You’re a fool. But a loyal one.” He hands Dimitri’s glass to him a second time. Dima’s face is white, and his hands shake when he accepts the drink. I don’t say a word as he passes the glass to me.
“Just tell me what you want me to do,” Dima pleads.
“We’re dropping the deception then?” my father asks.
“Yes,” Dima whispers hoarsely.
“Good.” My father downs his vodka in a single gulp. He stands towering over Dima’s defeated frame.
He grabs Dimitri’s jaw, forcing him to look up. My father’s grey eyes bore into Dima’s onyx ones until Dima looks like a trapped animal. Broken, but unpredictable. My father is an imposing man in countenance, but he would be helpless if Dimitri turned this situation into a physical confrontation.
Dima doesn’t move. He’s barely breathing. What is he thinking?
“The maid is Yulia’s trigger. Yulia is yours.” My father pauses to let those words sink in.
Dimitri places his head miserably into his hands.
“I need her too much to kill her, but we both know there are so many things worse than death. Sasha learned that the hard way.” Dima is so pale I’m worried he might be sick from my father’s psychological warfare.
All of Vladimir Bituskaya’s intensity is focused on Dima, and I fear Dima will break beneath it. I have no doubt that death would be the outcome of that fracture, but whose?
“All I require is your obedience, and I’m sure that given the right inducements, you’ll both give it.”
“It’s not quite that simple, Papa.” I speak up, wanting to break this power he exerts over Dima. Dima wordlessly pleads with me to be silent. I rub my hands together, trying to let him know I’m with him. I wish we were a united front. But even if we’re not, I will protect him, just as he has protected me.
My father smiles cruelly at me. “I’m afraid it is. And I’m happy to show you.” He presses a button on his desk, opening his office door. “Ivan!”
His guard enters and moves toward me. Dimitri stands between us, ready to fight. But he can’t fight our way out of this. I have to play my father’s games.
“You have triggers, too, Papa.”
My father holds up his hand, and Ivan stops.
“I killed my trigger when my enemies tried to use her against me.” He surveys me.
“No. Power is your trigger. But power never stays the same. It’s either growing or diminishing. Yours is diminishing.” The twitch in his eye sends a thrill of triumph through me.
I press further. “You overreached. You grabbed too much power, and now you can’t hold it all by yourself, can you? You need us.”
My palms sweat, and my heart pounds underneath my silk camisole, but I refuse to blink. “There are so many ways to lose. And only one to win. That way involves all three of us, working together. So, why don’t we cease this infighting and discuss our next move?”
My father nods to Ivan, who takes his position at the door. He sits down in his chair, crosses his legs, and raises his glass to me. “Well done, Yulia. I thought my family was void of politics. Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong.”
I place my hand on Dimitri’s arm. He is tense, ready for battle. He doesn’t acknowledge me. He returns to his chair with his jaw set tightly. I sit back on the sofa as though we’re having a rational family discussion, not passing threats to each other.
My father nods. “You have my attention. Don’t waste it.”
“Kostya is planning to export a large shipment of hydrogen cyanide gas to a group on an international watch list on June thirtieth. I agreed to align the date of our wedding with the shipment as a distraction. The Organizatszaya accepted this concession as a trade for the lost revenue in the orphanage.” The vein in my father’s temple ticks. He doesn’t like
being at a disadvantage when it comes to information. “They mean to curb your authority, but I also suspect that their plan involves assassinating Dimitri and me.”
My father’s lips are tight. “They negotiated with you?”
“Yes, they indicated they would like to keep a backchannel of communication open.”
“Where will it happen?” Dima asks.
“I didn’t get a location,” I answer.
“Then your information is useless.” My father is lashing out, finally understanding the precariousness of his position.
“I found it highly instructive,” I snap at him. “Particularly the bit about my mother’s murder.”
Dima interrupts, attempting to calm the waters and encourage this dialogue. “Kostya will be at the Monte Carlo event in Moscow. I will force the location from him.”
“You aren’t supposed to know about it.” I stand pacing the room. “It will have to be me.”
“No.” Dima shakes his head. “He has threatened you multiple times. It won’t do anyone any good if you end up dead.”
“I agree with Yulia.” My father looks toward a painting of Joseph Stalin on his wall. “Dimitri, you can ensure her safety, but she must be the one to approach Kostya.”
Dima’s knuckles flash white as he grips the side of his chair.
“I’m curious, Yulia. How would you propose we proceed once you’ve acquired the location?” He continues to gaze at Stalin.
“That’s the best part of the whole plan,” I say. Both Dima and my father look at me. I rub my hand against the back of my neck. “Kostya is a liability. Even Andrei Stepanovich thinks so. Once we know the location, we can arrange an accident on delivery day. Kostya’s death will make him the poster child for the dangers of hydrogen cyanide, and we will have one less enemy. The three of us will be at the wedding. We won’t be suspects.”
The plan falls into my head too quickly. Is it that easy to suggest murder? Andrei Stepanovich’s voice echoes through my mind. You’ve traded lives you know for lives you don’t.
Trading Dima’s sanity, Zhenya’s safety, and the lives of all of Kostya’s intended victims for Kostya’s single life is such a comfortable exchange. One victim, many beneficiaries, including my father. Isn’t this the kind of thinking he praised Dima for? Is this the beginning of my fall?
“Dimitri, book another trip on the Skytram.” My father smiles proudly at me, and it pulls at an old desire. I longed for this look of pride as a girl, but now that I know who he is, it makes me doubt myself even more.
“I hate the Skytram.” I face him squarely. “We’ll take the train.
My father rises so we’re eye to eye. “Very well.” His cold eyes send a shiver down my back. He steps closer and wraps his hand around my throat, pressing tightly. Dima stands. Ivan moves toward us, and my father holds up his other hand, telling them both to stay back. “Don’t forget who is in control here, Yulia. No more privacy blocks, and don’t think I don’t know all of your little tricks to avoid surveillance. If you betray me, Zhenya will pay the price.”
I grasp at his hands, trying to get air into my lungs. He continues. “Alive and compliant, you’re an asset. Anything less, and you’re just another liability.” He releases me, and I gasp for air.
He turns to Dima. “Your privacy clearance is revoked. Go on your tour and make peace. I’ll announce your June thirtieth wedding date. Be back by the twenty-seventh.“
Dima walks me to my room in silence and then says, “I’ll pick you up at 18:00. Don’t say anything to Zhenya. Your father means it when he says he’s watching.” He leaves, and I’m overwhelmed in my isolation. My father was right about one thing. I’ve lost everyone in my minuscule world, and it will destroy me.
Chapter 25: Moscow, Новая Россия
Dima scrutinizes me under the chandelier in our suite in Moscow. “Are you ready?” he asks.
How could I possibly be ready for this? With only my wit and my charm, I’m about to attempt to get information from a man who has threatened my life on multiple occasions. I’m not even sure Kostya understands wit and charm.
I tried on ten dresses before Dima approved this one as seductive enough. It was hard to find something that could cover my bruises and still show enough to draw attention. My dress is a metallic white with long sleeves that conceal my bruised shoulder, ribs, and hip. The neckline dips so low it nearly touches my navel. And the slit reveals every inch of my leg, right until the bruising begins again. Zhenya tsked every time she saw my bruises. I refused to leave her behind with my father, and Dima didn’t object to bringing her along.
I had hoped working together might thaw the iciness between us. But his determination to keep me at arm’s length only increases.
“I think I’m as ready as I can be.” I’m dressed like a diamond attempting to attract dung.
“May I?” Dimitri motions toward my chest, and I nod. He reaches into my dress, where we sewed a tiny microphone into the lining. His hand skims my breast, and I’m overwhelmed with longing for him.
“Dima,” I place my hand over his, and he stiffens. “Tell me how to fix us.”
“You selling your body for secrets to a man who wants you dead is my worst nightmare. So if this is you trying to fix things, it’s better to leave them broken.”
He steps away then adds, “Say something. Your mic should be live.”
It’s hard to speak through the lump in my throat. “Testing.” My voice breaks.
“Again,” he demands
“Testing,” I say louder.
“Good.” He nods. “If at any time the feed ends, I will be there within minutes. If you need help, use the code. Tell me the code, so I know you’ve got it.”
I’ve already told him the code a hundred times. “To live with wolves, you have to howl like a wolf.” I step closer to him and place my hand on his tuxedo jacket. He looks so handsome except for the worry written across his face. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Thinking you’ll be fine in the arms of Kostya Dragovich only makes this worse,” he snarls and then turns toward the door.
We walk to the elevator in silence. When the doors open to the ballroom floor, I can already hear the jazz music floating through the halls. Security is everywhere. The propaganda media are lined up, taking pictures. Dima and I pose for several together before I step aside to pose by myself. Dima waits, stoic.
Dima does not get in line with the other dignitaries and powerful people. He walks to the front and speaks directly to the head of security, who lets us straight into the event.
“Over there,” Dima whispers to me and nods his head. I see Kostya for the first time. Dima doesn’t spend any time glancing in his direction. But I struggle not to focus on him. He’s brought a date. Mariana Evgeny is on his arm, wearing a lacy, flapper-style dress that is completely see-through. Thankfully she had just enough class to pair it with white lacy panties and a bralette. Still, she looks only slightly higher in class than the prostitutes in the room.
“I’ll take care of Mariana,” Dima says in a low, cold voice, and my heart clenches.
We shake hands and smile with countless strangers as we make our way toward Kostya and Mariana. It’s a slow dance, like a huntress circling her prey. We appear uninterested and yet move ever closer until finally their path aligns with ours.
“Kostya.” Dima offers his hand.
“Mariana.” I kiss her on the cheek. “I haven’t seen a dress like that before. How original.” I nod to Kostya and move on to the next couple.
Dima leans in to give Mariana a kiss on the cheek and whispers something in her ear. I can’t help but notice how he runs his hand down her side. Her cheeks color, and it looks like he’ll have no trouble removing that obstacle. I tame the jealous monster inside me. There’s no time to indulge her right now, but I know I’ll feed her tonight with that image seared in my mind.
Dima and I dance a couple of times, but it doesn’t matter how many times I lean my head on hi
s shoulder or stroke his cheek. He’s cold and hard, and I Cabot face the reality that I’ve lost him. I refuse to let myself be sad. It’s an expense I can’t afford.
“It’s time,” Dimitri announces at the end of “The Man I Love.” Everyone claps for the singer and the band. Dimitri slinks away to the bar where Mariana is getting a drink.
Kostya is enthralled at the craps table. I sit down at a high-top table, watching the game unfold.
Dimitri slides his hand across Mariana’s back and whispers in her ear. They smile as they talk. He nods toward Kostya, who hasn’t caught on yet, and she runs her fingers up and down his lapel.
“Can I get you anything, Gospozha?” A waitress interrupts my spying. I’m momentarily distracted, but when I glance toward Dima, Mariana smiles viciously in my direction.
“Yes, two whiskey sours, please.” The waitress takes my order, and I glance toward Dima, but he’s no longer at the bar. I catch him holding Mariana’s hand and sneaking out a side door. It burns more than the whiskey will. I look at Kostya, who has finally noticed his date. He glares murderously. I need to intercept him before he goes after the two of them.
“Dyevushka,” I call out to the waitress. “Bring it to me at the craps table.”
I walk toward the table and sit down next to Kostya, blocking his view of the utility door.
“You can do better than her, Kostya. Let Dimitri entertain her while we talk.” I smile at him. It takes a moment for his scowl to register the surprise of seeing me.
“Yulia.” He nods, scanning me as though I’m a dangerous creature. Perhaps I am tonight.
The waitress brings over my order. I take one glass, pass the other to him, and then raise mine.
“Zdarovye,” I say, before take a big swig. The whiskey burns like fire. My eyes water as I attempt to stifle my coughs. He smirks in amusement.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” He looks in the direction of the door again. “Retribution?”
“That,” I nod toward the door, “is what I call divine coincidence.” I lean seductively toward him and whisper in his ear. “You and I have business, and I could only have hoped for such an easy opportunity”