by Nicole Fox
“You don’t understand,” I whisper, but I’m already letting out a slow breath. “There had to be something I could have done. I just didn’t try hard enough to find it.”
“I’ve always chosen the harshest, most extreme route.” He takes my hand. He squeezes it, almost too hard, but it sends enough of a shock through me that my anxiety starts to go back into hiding. “If you’d killed your father, I’d fully support that solution, but I don’t think the most extreme route would be the best one for your child. You have to accept that you did what you had to do at that time in your life.”
I want to ask him if he feels the same about Natalie—if he has no regrets about the choices he made that led to her murder. But he’s so compassionate now, I’m afraid mentioning her would only tear him away from me.
He turns off the truck and opens his door. As I stare out my window, preparing myself for a nightmare, he opens my door and offers his hand. I stare at him, trying to remember why I can’t fall for him.
I put my hand in his, putting my weight onto it as I jump down to the road. He keeps his fingers laced in mine as we walk to the house.
Maksim and I sit down on an orange microfiber couch while Larry and Kimberly Neal sit in a matching loveseat. The Neals appear to be in their late forties or early fifties. Larry is wearing khakis and a polo shirt while Kimberly is in a floral blouse. The immature side of my brain—the remaining vestiges of the eighteen-year-old who let her newborn daughter be taken from her arms—is petty about everything about them. Larry Neal doesn’t look physically fit enough to play soccer with my daughter. Kimberly Neal sits up with the posture of someone who is about to be subpoenaed. Neither of them are good enough to raise my little girl. My Lily. I’ve spent so many years thinking of her under the title of “my daughter” that getting used to her actual name is unexpected, but strangely reassuring. She spent so many years as a hypothetical and she’s so close to real now.
“Fostering children must be a fulfilling experience,” Maksim says to them. He appears more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him—almost slouching—but I know it’s only a facsimile of a normal man. His back isn’t completely touching the back of the couch and his arm is stiff between the two of us. “How long have you been doing it?”
“For the last eleven years,” Kimberly says proudly. “It’s been such rewarding work. Hard work, of course, but it’s work that you know will have a lasting effect.”
I glance around us. The house is larger than it looks from the outside.
“Where are the kids right now?” I ask.
“The eldest boy, Marcus, took the other boys to the park. The girls are pretending to be models on the runway in their bedroom.”
Lily is right below me. I’m so close.
“So, Mr. Akimov.” Larry claps his hands together. “You said that you and your wife were interested in adopting a girl, preferably one between the ages of seven to ten.”
“Yes,” Maksim says. “We know the ones above toddler age have a difficult time getting adopted, but we also wanted a daughter who we could still impart our morals and values on.”
“Of course. We completely understand,” Larry says. “Do you have a separate room for the child? It’s required for fostering.”
“Yes. We have several rooms.”
“We live in a mansion,” I cut in. “We have several guest rooms.”
“But that part is irrelevant.” Maksim squeezes my knee, a little too tightly. A warning. “We know attentiveness is the important part. But I do love your house. It’s gorgeous.”
That is a massive overstatement. The house looks like it came out of the seventies. Wallpaper with complex patterns, shag rugs, linoleum floors in the kitchen, and everything is in bright orange or pale green. It makes me question their financial position and their good sense.
“I’m sorry.” I force a smile, but casually peel Maksim’s hand off my knee. “I didn’t mean to come off as rude. Sometimes my mouth gets the best of me.”
“My wife is a bit of a firecracker,” Maksim says. “But I’m also curious about the children. You mentioned that you have seven foster children?”
“Seven?” I coolly look over at Maksim, but he keeps his gaze on the Neals.
“Yes. Three girls and four boys. They’re separated into two rooms.”
“Only two?” I ask.
“Yes,” Kimberly says tightly. “Only two. It’s good for them. They learn to share and they have their foster siblings to confide in.”
“But they don’t have privacy,” I argue.
“They’re children. They don’t require privacy and their safety is more important than their ability to keep secrets.”
I grab Maksim’s hand before he can put it on my knee again. I squeeze it, an indication that I don’t have time for his reprimands.
“How does privacy compromise their safety?” I ask.
“When children are alone, they’re unafraid of being tattled on,” Kimberly says coldly. “It’s something you’d understand if you had children.”
I jolt out of my seat, my anger giving me tunnel vision.
“Cass,” Maksim commands, grabbing my wrist. I shake him off.
“No. I’m not going to let her act like she’s doing something benevolent when she’s just collecting a—”
“Cassie,” he repeats. “The child is here.”
When he says “the child,” I hear the emphasis. I turn toward him. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking to his left, where Lily is standing.
When I first saw her, I didn’t know she was my daughter and by the time I did, I only saw the back of her head. Now that she’s facing me, I can see that she is beautiful in a way that defies reason. Or DNA.
Her biological father was a random hookup. Even through drunk eyes, he wasn’t particularly handsome. He was an average-looking man who said all the right things at a high school party. It meant nothing, but somehow we made a child who is almost strangely stunning—the cute button nose, the flawless complexion with the silky dark hair, and the penetrating dark eyes elevate her to a new level of beautiful.
“Ah, this is Lily,” Kimberly says, indicating for Lily to step forward. I sit back down. “Lily, these are Mr. and Mrs. Akimov.”
“Nice to meet you,” she mumbles.
When my water broke, I started bawling my eyes out. There wasn’t any specific fear dominating my thoughts, but thousands of concerns stampeding in my head—how was I going to support a baby? Would it be more of a disservice to keep my daughter around the Mafia or to cut her off from all my resources? How was I possibly going to raise a baby when I had spent no time around babies? What about SIDS? Colic? Whooping cough? All the sharp objects, significant falls, and electronic devices that could kill a baby?
I drove to the hospital as the contractions ripped through me. On the hospital bed, the pain became worse. I was worried that something was wrong, but the doctor assured me that the pain was normal. He asked me about calling someone to support me.
I told him there was no one.
I gave birth alone. In my exhaustion after the labor, I don’t remember much, but I remember seeing my father. I remember him telling me everything was going to be taken care of.
And, while I was sleeping, my daughter was taken.
Maksim’s arm wraps around my waist, anchoring me to reality and pulling me back to the present moment. His lips brush against my temple, a few words slipping out under his breath.
“You can handle this.”
I cling to his words, pretending that each one is a shot of courage.
“Lily,” Kimberly says. “This nice couple is interested in meeting everyone. Why don’t you take them to meet your siblings? Larry and I need to wait for Sammy to arrive.”
Lily nods, her hair sliding in front of her face. She doesn’t push it away from her eyes. She gives Maksim and me a tiny smile before gesturing for us to follow her. I stand up, slightly unsteady, and I follow her. I feel Maksim shadow us.
We
walk up a set of stairs. They’re wooden and seem slippery for a group of children to be consistently running up and down. Once we’re all at the top, Lily looks over the edge of the handrail. When she looks back at us, her eyes light up.
“You don’t really want to meet the others, right? I gotta show you something. It’s super cool.”
She takes my hand and guides me into a room on the left. It looks like some type of playroom with two couches and an armchair in front of a TV, a plastic table with board games stacked beside it, and a carpet that resembles town roads. There’s a bucket filled with toy cars placed on the far corner of the carpet.
“Look, look.” Lily lets go of my hand, rushing behind the green couch. I follow her. Behind the couch, there are stacks of boxes. She flips open one of the sides. “Look inside.”
I get on my hands and knees. The hole is cut big enough that I can get my shoulders inside. All the boxes are cut and taped together, making a much larger box and the inside is colored with stars and planets.
“That is very cool,” I say. “Did you do this by yourself?”
“Yeah,” she says, a hint of sadness in her voice. “But it’s my own place. Or until one of the other kids sits on it. Hey, do you like the game Serfdom?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, crawling back out of the boxes. “I’ve never played it.”
“Do you have time? Can we play it now?” she asks. I nod. She rushes over to the board games, pulling out one of the more tattered boxes. She and I sit at the table. She gestures to Maksim, who is lingering at the door. “Come on. I’ll teach you both how to play.”
Maksim strides over, sitting down in one of the small plastic chairs. I almost expect the plastic to crack, but it bears his weight.
“So,” she says, unfolding the game board. “We all start as serfs, which are, um, servants or slaves or something like that. And we’re all working to become the lord of the manor. As a serf, we work in the fields. But, see, you roll the dice, and if you land on these blue squares, you pick up a Trials card and if you land on the yellow squares, you picked up a Golden Opportunity card. You face bandits, the Black Death, hand injuries, um, and you can be banished to the mines. Once you reach a certain amount of money, you can buy more power. Whoever gets to level five power first is the winner. Oh! There’s also the renegade choice—if you choose that, you can earn money twice as fast, but you also have to do a renegade challenge every time you roll above a four. That means you have to do whatever the other players tell you to do.”
“Wow,” I say, more astounded by her enthusiasm than the game.
“I have a question,” Maksim says. I turn to him, waiting for his usual venom to come out—to pick apart a game meant for children. He indicates to the empty game board box. “Where is the money?”
“Oh.” Lily waves her hand. “The boys took it. They were making a rapper video and Tommy burned the money. Mrs. Neal was so mad. There are even burn marks under that rug.”
She gestures to the carpet with the roads on it. She takes a pad of paper out of one of the other game’s boxes.
“But we can just write it down. What game piece do you want?” she asks. “I like the sheep, but if one of you wants it, you can play with it.”
Maksim picks up the pickax. “This is more my style.”
I peek over at him. He spins the pickax between his fingers. I’d say I never pictured him playing well with children, but to be fair, I’ve never pictured him with children at all.
“What is this piece?” I ask, picking up a small piece of plastic.
“That’s from a hairbrush.” Her cheeks turn bright red. “I’ve been trying to gather new pieces. Other kids always take things from the games. This one is from the Pumpkin game. That plastic thing is what they use to bet in poker.”
“I’ll stick with the horseshoe,” I say, picking it up and placing it at the beginning of the board.
Maksim dominates the game. While it’s largely based on chance with the roll of the dice, he chooses to be a renegade and he aces each of his challenges. While he can’t do the cartwheel—which Lily nails—he impresses Lily by doing fifty push-ups within a minute, fifty crunches within a minute, and touching his nose with his tongue. By the end of the game, he’s nearly done a full workout while Lily and I take the safe route.
Maksim rolls a six. He lands on a Golden Opportunity space, earning himself $500 for saving the lord’s life. He jots it down.
“Okay, Lily, what’s my next challenge?” Maksim says. But just as she begins to reply, she’s cut off as Maksim’s phone starts to ring. He checks it.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” he says, standing up. “I have to take this. Since you’re my serfs now, you’re both free to work your own land. Good luck.”
He quickly walks out of the room, bringing the phone up to his ear as he mutters something into it.
“Mrs. A., could I get a drink?” Lily asks.
“Sure.”
We stand up. She leads me back downstairs to the kitchen. “Would you like some juice?” she asks, getting herself a glass.
“No, thank you.”
As she pours herself some orange juice, I hear hushed voices near the entrance of the house. I take a few steps back, peeking out into the hallway, my journalist’s curiosity getting the best of me.
A man in a police uniform is talking to Larry.
“I’m hoping he’ll adjust quickly,” the policeman says. “His parents liked to hit the pipe. When they found him, his diapers were completely soiled and he was dehydrated. We’ve seen worse cases, but these two were pissed when I tried to take him. I almost thought I’d have to use this.” He pats his gun in his holster.
An armed police officer. I could tell him everything—who Maksim is and how he’s keeping me under his thumb, how Lily is my daughter, how she was stolen from me. I’ll tell him anything he needs to know as long as he protects Lily and me. I have all my research stored in my phone. Even if he sees me as a crazy woman, he’s not going to turn away possible information on the Bratva. He’d be hailed a hero. It’s an offer anybody would take.
“Do you like pulp?” Lily asks, breaking through my thoughts. “I hate it. It reminds me of gross stuff. Like jellyfish.”
I look back at her. My daughter. My flesh and blood. God, it takes everything I have to not scoop her up and take her out of here. She may be ten, but I can still see her as that tiny baby.
But I can’t run to a police officer now. The last thing I want is to get her involved in a criminal case.
I look back toward the house entrance. The police officer catches my eye. I give him a quick smile before turning back to Lily.
“I don’t like pulp either,” I tell her. “It ruins the juice.”
There’s the thumping noise of feet coming down the stairs before Maksim appears in the hallway. His face is contorted with irritation and his phone is clenched tightly in his hand.
“It’s time to go,” he says coldly. As he moves toward the door, there’s the slightest hesitation in his step as he sees the police officer, but he recovers quickly, moving past the police officer and Larry.
I turn to Lily. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” she asks, taking a sip from her orange juice. The police officer says goodbye to Larry before leaving. I watch him go.
Did I mess up again?
When I didn’t demand that my father tell me what he did with Lily, it was my lack of self-worth that got in my way. Am I letting Maksim walk over me in the same way? Did I miss my one chance at a happy life because I didn’t want to inconvenience a murderous Bratva boss who despises my family?
“I’m sorry that I have to go,” I say. “But I hope I can see you again soon.”
“Will we play Serfdom again?” she asks.
I nod. “Definitely. Maybe I’ll get you a new board with new pieces too.”
She grins before tightly hugging me. “Thank you, Mrs. A.”
I hug her back, but I can’t quite get any words out. W
hen I let her go, I can barely look at her. I know if I look too long, I won’t be able to leave.
I nearly run past Larry and out the door. The police car is pulling away. Maksim is in his truck, his head bowed as he talks on his phone.
I can’t focus on hypotheticals. I need to focus on my plan of exposing Maksim. After he’s in prison, I can work on getting Lily out of this place. After that, we’ll get out of here. We’ll go to some little town or the middle of nowhere—somewhere that Mafias don’t exist. I can give up my career for that.
I can give up my feelings for Maksim, too. He can’t be a good man. He’s using me. He’s using Lily to get to me. He’s killing people. He leads a criminal organization that couldn’t care less about anyone except themselves.
I’ll remember that. And I’ll make him pay for it.
15
Maksim
“Chicken Kiev, sir.” Chef Calderon sets the plate down. The scent of the chicken wafts toward me.
“Thank you, Chef,” I say. “You can leave.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He walks out of the dining room, taking off his apron as he goes. The chicken Kiev is tender enough to cut with a fork and it’s as decadent as ever, but the memory of Cassandra’s grilled cheese makes me taste the melted cheese and the burnt bread. It should disgust me, but it’s a good memory.
Spending time with Cassandra and Lily was better than I thought it would be. Enjoyable, even. It’s unnerving. I’ve spent my life honing my rage as a weapon. But pleasant contentment feels alien and strange.