by A. Zavarelli
Her gaze moves from the pages to me. The expression on her face never changes. She is always flat, despondent. Just as I knew she would be. It is the very reason I told myself she would be perfect. But looking at her now, I need more from her. I need to see a spark in her eyes. Something that tells me there is still a sign of life inside of her.
“I need you to come with me,” I tell her.
She doesn’t argue. Her thoughts and actions have not been her own for so long, it is an automatic response on her part when she rises and moves towards me. I could be leading her to her death, and still she would not argue. In fact, she would probably celebrate. It is the thing she believes she wants.
Magda has dressed her in a white lace gown. She looks pure, even though we both know she is not. She also looks like a haunted angel. Still too thin and sporting dark rings beneath her eyes. But she is beautiful, nonetheless. Her blonde hair is long and falls into her eyes, like a shield against the world. She doesn’t want others to see her. She can’t even stand to look at herself. A fact evident by the still covered mirror in her bathroom.
These are all things I knew and expected in my mind, but I’m not certain I can accept them as I once thought I could. I want to shake her out of it. Demand that she feel something. But I know it is not yet time for that.
So instead, I reach forward and smooth the errant strands of hair back behind her ears, leaving her face fully exposed. A flicker of unease moves through her eyes, and I can tell she wants to pull it back into place. I do not allow it, my fingers gripping her chin and moving her gaze up to me.
“Do you question if I will send you back to Arman when this is over?” I ask her.
She blinks, but doesn’t reply. I can see the answers in her eyes. She would die before she allowed that to happen. It is what she believes I will do, and anything I say or do to prove otherwise is a wasted effort. Talia has been betrayed by everyone who was ever supposed to love her. Words mean nothing to her. I suspect even actions themselves, she will always second guess. Always seeking out the true motives beneath them.
The truth is, she will never trust me. Nor I, her. It is the way we are programmed. Duped by too many in the harsh school of life. She is my equal in this regard. The perfect partner. Emotionless. Someone who can stand beside me for the benefit of tradition without the complications. I need to remember that when I look at her.
“You are at a precipice,” I explain to her. “Wolves nipping at your heels. I think you already know this, yes?”
She bites her lip and gives me a tiny nod.
“And then there is this wolf in front of you. One whom you already know wants something else from you. It is this simple.”
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she waits for me to explain. To carry on as she considers every word carefully.
“You could go back to Boston…”
She flinches involuntarily at the very mention of it. As I knew she would.
“Which I cannot in good conscience allow you to do,” I finish. “Knowing what you would do there.”
Her gray eyes search mine, wordlessly. So many questions, but she does not voice them. That would show me that I have power over her. She already knows I do, but admitting it is something else. This is the spark that makes me believe all is not lost in her. There is still fight, even if she cannot accept it herself.
“I will not be sending you back to Arman,” I tell her. “Because you will be staying right here with me. As my wife.”
The only response from her is a vacant expression. I want more. I need more. My chest is tight, but I forge on.
“With me, you will be safe. I will provide you anything you could ever want. Clothing, shoes, jewelry… you will have the best of everything. And you will be protected. As my wife, nobody will ever touch you again.”
She accepts her fate without a fight. It should not disappoint me, but it does. Her only question is an honest one.
“What do you get in return?”
“In return, I will have fulfilled my duty and maintained tradition for appearances. You will stand by my side when I have guests, and at all other times, you will be free to do as you wish. Within the boundaries of the house.”
There is no reply from her. The words mean nothing to her. It would be easier if she told me she didn’t want this. But she doesn’t. So I take her by the arm and lead her down the hall.
The door to my office is open, and everyone is waiting. Magda’s eyes move over Talia, searching for some sign of protest. For a sign of distress. Anything. But there is nothing to be found there.
I meet the officiant’s gaze and nod. “We are ready to begin.”
Since he is on the Vory payroll, there is no need for vows or any other long drawn out procedures. He simply nods to the desk where the certificate waits. I help Talia into her seat and then take mine beside her. Then I hand her a pen and show her where to sign.
She glances at the tip, probably considering if she can do any real damage to herself with it. And then she presses it to the paper. Her fingers tremble after the first swoop, and I close my hand over hers to guide her. We sign her name together, and then she looks up at me. There are more questions in her eyes, but she doesn’t voice them. How do I know her name? What else do I know about her?
I feel as though she needs something from me in this moment. So I praise her in the only way I can think of.
“Good girl.”
I clear my throat and take the pen into my own hand, signing my space on the paper. When it’s all said and done, the officiant pronounces us husband and wife.
Alexei and Talia Nikolaev.
Franco and Magda watch as I slip the black gold wedding band onto my finger and then repeat the action on hers. Her band is also black gold, featuring a large ruby and a selection of black diamonds on the side. I could not imagine my wife wearing a simple ring like so many others. I could not imagine Talia blending in when she was born to be noticed.
She is beautiful, this wife of mine. With her dove gray eyes and pale skin. She will be the one every other Vor notices at parties. The woman that every other Vor covets. But she is mine now.
Still, it will not be official for me until she bears a permanent claim on her hand. One that she can never remove and nobody can ever question. I am anxious to mark her, but first, we must have at least several photos. Viktor will undoubtedly want them. As will anybody else who questions the legitimacy of my marriage.
My Vory brothers will want her. Even at the risk of death, they will want her. It is up to me to let them know that she is mine. That no secrets will live between us, and that she will never betray me. Even if I cannot believe it myself, they must believe it. Talia must believe it too. That death is the only result of such an action.
I have been weak once. But I cannot ever show that same weakness again.
So I request Franco to take exactly ten photos of us. Which he does. The ten photos which I have already strategically allocated places for around my home. Places that all of the other Vory will see them when they visit. The reminder that if they touch her, they will die.
Talia poses with me without any fight. There is no smile on her face, and no emotion either. But when I tilt her chin up to look at me, she does not turn away. I hold her in my arms and then kiss her cheek. Even after the last flash has gone off, we cannot bring ourselves to look away.
I ask the others to leave, and they do. And then it’s just Talia and I, facing each other. My gaze moves to her lips, and my own mouth is telling lies before I can even question it.
“It is bad luck not to kiss your bride.”
“I don’t like to kiss,” she replies.
But she doesn’t move away, even when I lean into her space, feathering my fingers over her jaw. My breath fans across her lips, and she shivers.
“You will kiss your husband,” I tell her.
And then my lips are on hers. At first, it is cold. There is nothing from her. But when I tangle my hand in her hair and demand mor
Her eyes move over my face, seeking out answers that I don’t have. I need to tell her my secret. She needs to be aware. It’s on my tongue, but I can’t force the words out. I don’t want her to know that part of me just yet. I don’t want her to think me weak when she needs my strength. When I promised to protect her, there needs to be no doubt in her mind that I am able.
So instead, I remove the tattoo kit from my drawer and set it on my desk while she watches.
“You would like some pain?” I ask her.
She nods.
Again my fingers move over her face, hard against her silky skin. “Then I will give it to you.”
She sits through the process of the tattoo on her hand without so much as a twitch. This girl is accustomed to pain. She likes the pain. It is probably the only thing that feels good to her anymore.
I enjoy giving it to her this way. Marking her as my own. Seeing my star and my name carved into her flesh stirs a sense of pride in me when I wipe away the last of the blood and bandage it.
“Now, everyone will know that you are the wife of a Vor,” I tell her. “And if they touch you, they will die.”
She does not question it. She just watches me, quietly. Thoughtfully. Waiting to see what I will do next. So pliable.
“This star you wear has meaning in our world, Solnyshko. You do not yet trust me. You may never trust me. But that star gives you power. Protection. And so I want you to do something for me.”
I take her other hand in mine, so small and delicate and cold, and brush her fingers over the bandage.
“When you feel anxious or uncertain, I want you to touch that star. Always. Remind yourself, Solnyshko, of the one thing you can be sure of more than anything else. That you are safe if only for having that on your skin. You do not require any other armor when you wear my star.”
Her eyes meet mine, and there is doubt in them. Uncertainty. Even still, her fingers are moving over the bandage as she battles her thoughts. And I know in this moment, this is a step towards progress. That she can be reprogrammed. That I have given her something to believe in, no matter how small.
I am hard, from touching her. From being so close to her. And what I really want to do next is pull her legs apart and bury myself inside of her. To fuck her and fill her and claim her in that way. I do not think she would protest.
“You would let me fuck you,” I say aloud. “Right now, if I wanted to.”
“Whatever you want,” is her reply.
I gather the material of her dress and slide it up the skin of her thighs. So creamy and soft beneath my palms. But there is no response from her, even though I am on fire for her. She knows I am using her. She does not see me when I look at her, but another faceless man.
And that is not how I will fuck my wife for the first time. I let the material fall back to her ankles and retreat, holding out only my hand for her.
“Come,” I tell her. “Time for you to sleep.”
10
Talia
I’m staring at the pages of a book when Magda comes in with lunch. When I take one look at what’s on the menu, I frown. Fish, again. With another heaping of sour cream. Always with the sour cream and fish.
“I’m not hungry,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “You must eat every meal. At least a little bit.”
“I don’t like fish.”
“Mr. Nikolaev insists you eat it until you are feeling better.”
I don’t reply, so she sets down the tray and moves towards the door. There’s a part of me that wants to keep my distance. But Magda has been kind to me. She has seen me at my worst, and when she looks at me, there is no judgment in her eyes.
“Magda?”
My soft voice stops her, and she turns in surprise. “Yes?”
I want to tell her something. But I don’t know what.
“Why are the windows bulletproof?” is the thing that comes out of my mouth.
Magda glances at the window. “How could you tell?”
I tap on the glass. “Because Arman had the same.”
What I don’t tell her is that I discovered this when I tried to throw myself out of one of them unsuccessfully.
“Mr. Nikolaev will not take any chances with your safety,” she says. “It is for all of our protection. This house is more secure than any other place you could ever imagine.”
To demonstrate, she pulls back the heavy door to my room that is never fully shut. “Do you see these strips?” she points out. “They are magnetic. Reinforced steel. This room is for your protection, Talia, although you do not need it. Mr. Nikolaev would never allow anyone to get this close to you.”
I nod and she smiles. There’s hope in her eyes, which is a dangerous thing. I can’t allow her to think she will fix me. I have disappointed anyone who ever looked at me that way before.
I reach for my tray and focus on the food. Magda leaves, and only once she is out of earshot do I tell her thank you.
11
Talia
Another two weeks pass with the monotony of the same pattern. Wake, eat, sleep, repeat. My body has returned to a healthier state, but my mind is the same as it always has been. Diseased. Toxic.
I’m growing restless. Alexei has not come to see me since he made me his wife. Sometimes, I venture outside of my room. Not very far. Only the level I’m on so far. The house is large, and inside it looks like a castle. Stone floors and walls and rich colors and furnishings. There are three bedrooms on the second floor as well as Alexei’s office. And when I pass him, or even linger just outside the doorway, he doesn’t seem to notice me. I’m like an apparition in this house. Moving around unseen.
But I notice him. I’m starting to notice more about him the longer I am here. The blue of his gaze when he settles his eyes on me. The line of his jaw. The scent that seems to linger around the house even when he isn’t in the room. The ever present reminder of him.
I am curious.
He is mafia. But he never leaves his house. There are computer screens that take up an entire wall in his office. I don’t know what he does. Something with computers. He is smart. I can tell by the way he examines the numbers and makes notes. Often, he and Franco can be found playing chess in his office too.
Magda takes care of all of us. She cooks and cleans and keeps the household running. Franco does as Alexei bids I gather as he leaves the house more frequently. They all have their jobs. Their reasons for being. All except me.
I pretend to read. And contemplate my own plans. Sometimes, the urge isn’t there anymore. To hurt myself. To free myself. And that worries me.
I need to bring it back. I can’t get too comfortable. This is not reality.
So when I step out of the shower, I do something I haven’t done before. I move to the mirror above the sink. The one still covered with a towel.
With a trembling hand, I reach up and pull it down. And staring back at me, is the stark cold reminder of my true reality. I don’t recognize that woman. She is gaunt, with protruding bones and pale skin. Covered in scars and fading bruises.
I touch my cheeks, and so does she. And I hate her. I hate her so much I wish she would just disappear. I ball my hand into a fist and slam it into her reflection. The glass shatters, and blood drips from my knuckles when I stumble back a step. But it isn’t enough. It’s not enough for the rage that’s bubbling up inside.
So I lean down and scoop up one of the fragments and drag it over my arm seven times. Before I can count eight, Alexei is in the doorway, his expression horrified and angry.
His eyes flicker down to the shard of glass now aimed at my wrist.
“Don’t,” I warn him as he takes a step.
He ignores me. I dig the tip into my skin, but I am weak. Because he pries it from me easily and tosses it to the floor. When I look up at him, my lip trembles. The veil of numbness is gone now, and my knees are about to buckle. He senses it and grabs me just before I fall.
I’m pulled against his chest, smearing my blood all over his shirt. He holds me tighter, and his hand comes up to smooth over my hair. His touch is gentle and kind even though his eyes were angrier than I’d ever seen them. And it’s all that it takes to send me over the edge.
I cry. I cry hard, clinging to his chest for support. In the tiny part of my rational mind, a voice is whispering to me. Don’t get too close. Don’t let him see you like this.
But the emotions are too strong. He holds me and whispers in my ear. It’s in Russian, so I have no idea what he’s saying. His voice is soothing. And it scares me. Magda comes into the room and gasps at the sight before her, and I am grateful for the interruption.
“Talia,” she says. “Come, come. I will tend to your wounds.”
“I will take care of it, Magda,” Alexei informs her.
She glances at him, and something passes between them.
“Are you sure?” she asks carefully.
He nods, and she seems hesitant, but she goes. And I wish it was her staying instead of him. It’s dangerous to be alone with this man who right now feels like a source of comfort. Like he could be the remedy for the chaos inside of my head. My calm in the storm.
He told me himself that this marriage is for the sake of tradition without any of the complications. This is a complication. The wife he married is damaged and broken. Unrepairable.
How could he not know that?
He leads me over to the same chair that Magda sat me in when I arrived. I focus on the tiny rivers of red on my arm. Alexei returns and cleans the wounds thoroughly and harshly. He wants to punish me, I think. When I peek up at him from beneath my hair, I notice the anger has returned to his eyes.
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