“That’s fine,” said Pavel absently. “They belong to your cousins, and they would be more than happy to share.”
“Are they going to play with me too?” he asked, spinning the wheels on a metal airplane.
“They aren’t here,” said Pavel. “They’re living with my cousin for the summer. Would you like to visit them? They have a swimming pool and a yard with a brand new swing set and a slide.”
Anton nodded. Temporarily renewed by his short nap, he settled his toys into a small pile. “Come,” snapped Pavel, impatiently turning toward Zoya. “I’ll show you where you will stay.” He carried her suitcase up the wooden stairs in the entrance hall. “This is Yuri’s room,” he said, opening the door to a small bedroom. “He’s only eight, so the space isn’t very big, but you can stay here until I figure out what to do with you. The bathroom is across the hall.”
The neatly made twin bed had a crisp new Star Wars spread with extra pillows, and an array of colorful baseball pennants decorated the wall above his dresser. “We will be fine in here,” she said, praying that he had no intention of joining her in the small bed. “But can I have an extra blanket so I can sleep on the floor next to him?”
Pavel incredulously pointed to the door. “He’ll sleep in the spare room. He’s staying, and you’re not. You understand that, don’t you? I have no desire to take on my brother’s mistress any longer than I’m forced to.”
“But Anton doesn’t do well without me,” she said frantically. Facing a third master in as many days wasn’t her only fear. She needed more time to orient herself and plan their escape. “He’s already been through so much.”
“You aren’t his mother,” dismissed Pavel with a scoff. “He’s a little boy, and he’ll adjust. He isn’t going to be raised by my brother’s whore.”
Exhaustion deflated any sense of reasoning, igniting a relentless anger and frustration with a thunderous roar, and she turned on him. “Why did you even bring me here if you don’t want me? You’re just like your brother, aren’t you? When you’re backed into a corner, you resort to using your power over those who can’t fight back.”
His broad shoulder muscles clenched across the massive forearms, highlighting the swirling tattoos that wound lazily past the sleeves of his t-shirt. When he raised his hand, she stood tall, closing her eyes to prepare for the beating and praying that Anton would stay away, but Pavel just rubbed the bruise on her cheek. “Yes, I suppose I am,” he said quietly. “Go to sleep, and I’ll settle Anton for the night. He needs to accept me sooner or later.”
He walked away, closing the door behind him but there was no lock to imprison her. Slightly stunned, she stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. Unsure when she’d last slept or even what time her body thought it was, she opened the window to allow the breeze to cool the stuffy room. The sun hadn’t set, and a small family walked down the quiet residential street lined with well-maintained flower beds that sparked with color.
Dropping to the bed, she pulled the American coins from her pocket and fingered the rough edges. Her new master was a man in control of his surroundings and every decision he made was likely planned. He’d probably abandoned them at the airport for hours to remind her of the importance of earning his goodwill and keeping her subservient to his demands. A middle of the night escape with Anton would be easy, but taking off without a plan or resources would ensure defeat.
When she could no longer keep her eyes open, she took a red and blue knitted afghan from the small chair and made a nest from the pillows, tucking herself into a corner and adjusting to the finality of never returning to a home that remained hidden in the shadows a half a world away.
Chapter 4
Three days after Zoya had arrived, Pavel sat in the living room with his second cup of coffee and waited for her to waken. For a beautiful Georgian who made a living spreading her legs, she was a cold and distant housemate, disappearing into her room every night shortly after she’d put Anton to bed. The sun had been up for hours, and he kept the windows open to enjoy the early morning salt breezes drifting off the ocean. It was his favorite time of the day, the quiet solitude providing a peaceful respite from his complex business and personal responsibilities.
He’d postponed leaving the house that morning so he could tell her in person about the change in their living arrangements. She wouldn’t take it well, but in her lingering jetlagged state, she’d slept through a drowsy Anton’s surprisingly quiet removal to his cousin’s home, saving them all from unnecessary drama and taking care of at least one of the many problems that came from being Damir Petruskenkov’s brother.
It was almost eight in the morning before she finally wandered downstairs in her bare feet, her curvy frame tucked into another one of her ugly conservative cotton dresses. Rubbing her bleary eyes with the back of her hand, she went to the kitchen and stared out the sliding glass door at the diehard early morning beachcombers wandering along the water’s edge. “Where’s Anton?” she asked, her tone dull and listless. “I can’t find him. And… and his suitcase is gone.”
Pavel set his cup of coffee on the scratched end table and spoke calmly. “My cousin came to get him this morning. She and her husband live on Staten Island, which isn’t far from here, and Anton’s going to spend a few days getting to know her.”
She turned to him, her face contorted with a combination of anger and fear. “You can’t just take him from me like that! Does she even speak Russian?”
“I actually can take him,” he said darkly. “And I’ve warned you to watch your tone unless you’d like to feel my belt across your ass. As long as you are my responsibility, you will do what I say.”
That silenced her. She slammed a few dishes around in the sink until she found an old coffee mug and filled it from the pot on his counter. Almost immediately, she started to pace the room, alternating her angry looks between his face and the floor.
“I don’t understand why you’re behaving like this,” he snapped, standing to deliver his message. “With an illegal marriage certificate and an immigration visa handed to you in a plain manila envelope, did you really expect to walk into this community and gain a place of honor and respect as my wife? Become a mother for my sons? You’re here for one reason and one reason only. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Your wife?” she spat, slamming the cup on the counter. “I have too much pride to call myself your wife. This whole arrangement was Damir’s idea, not mine. Don’t think for a moment that this is something I asked for.” Tilting his chin, he delivered a dark glare that should have left her begging for his forgiveness, but she crossed her arms to stand her ground. “Anton didn’t deserve any of this,” she persisted. “He’s just a frightened little boy whose parents were murdered by your…” She let the sentence trail off, but it wasn’t one that needed to be completed to deliver its full damage.
As his former head of security, Pavel probably understood his brother better than anybody. He didn’t believe that Damir had actively arranged for their sister’s death, but that didn’t mean he was innocent. Since they were children, his brother’s anger had come in waves, consuming their family with a relentless horror one minute and subsiding with true remorse the next. When their father had been alive, the damage had been mitigated by his strong hand and consistent guidance, but after his untimely death, the endless access to power had changed Damir almost as much as the excessive alcohol and a steady supply of coke from his own drug trade.
In a world where dark family secrets were his responsibility to hide, none of this was an acceptable conversation for his brother’s whore and a stronger stand was necessary to guarantee some semblance of peace until he could rid himself of the burden. Women were to be enjoyed on his terms, and a willing prostitute was well suited to fill that need. With Anton in the house, he’d avoided exploring the full-breasted body hidden under her plain clothes, but he’d never planned for her seductive curves to remain permanently out of his reach.
Taking two long stri
des toward her, he forced her to back away until she hit the corner. Closing her eyes, she turned her head to the wall as he ran his hand through her hair, but something was missing in her posture. With an undefinable panic that bordered too close to debilitating terror, she stood stock still, taking deep breaths with her chin pointed toward the floor and her trembling increased. He took her wrist, but she folded inward, holding her ribs as though they needed protection, and her pale expression offered myriad emotions much more complicated than a willing submissive.
He traced the yellowed bruise on her cheek. “Did my brother do this to you?” he asked. She didn’t respond, and he grew irritated. “When I ask a question, your job is to answer it with respect. Did my brother strike you and leave this bruise?”
This time she nodded, refusing to lift her gaze from the floor. Her frightened stand contradicted her temper so strongly that he struggled to understand which persona was really hers, but he removed his hand from her cheek. “Do you have any other bruises that I should know about?” The beautiful blue-gray eyes held his attention for the first time since she’d gotten off the plane, and she nodded again without offering any information. “Get some breakfast,” he said quietly, taking a step away from her. He’d experienced enough deceit and guilt for a lifetime and needed no more reasons to hate himself. “I’ve got some work to do in town today, but I’ll be back before it gets dark.”
“I…” she stuttered. “I don’t understand. I just need to know that he’s safe. Will she care for him? Will… will he go back to Russia? Without me?”
“He’ll be fine,” dismissed Pavel. “He’s not your concern.”
Leaving her standing in the kitchen, he walked to his car. When he got a free moment, he’d call Belsky and ask for clarity, but the man was loyal to Damir. Pavel didn’t expect he’d be any more forthcoming about his new wife’s history or Katya’s death than the first time they’d spoken. Only two things he knew for certain. First, Anton’s eyewitness account was unknown to Damir, or he never would have allowed the boy to leave Russia, and second, whatever led to that car accident had started with Pavel’s interference.
Standing up to her new master had been a poor choice, but anger was always a better option than tears. Losing Anton without the chance to say goodbye had been hard. For the short time he’d been in her life, she’d been needed in a way that she’d never experienced, and it was unlikely that she’d ever again enjoy a child’s unconditional love. She was prepared for Pavel’s retribution, but he’d just rubbed his hand along her cheek and sent her on her way, most likely a result of his guilty conscience.
After he left the house, she made eggs and toast from his well-stocked refrigerator and took her plate to the living room where she turned on the huge television set, randomly pushing arrows and buttons on the remote until she found a black and white program about a small, chubby-faced boy in a sidewalk-lined world of perfect houses and mischievous smiles. She was fascinated by the beautiful American family. The mother wore a stylish dress and pearls that matched her elaborately coiffed hair, and the father donned a suit while delivering smiling lectures to the two boys.
There were several back-to-back episodes of the same series before the station moved to a game show filled with screaming costumed contestants, but the empty house granted her a welcome freedom and forced a return to reality. She began her search for the hidden pockets of money that all Russians stashed someplace, but the cluttered downstairs held nothing except more toys and mismatched dishes in the kitchen cabinets.
She hesitated at the door to his bedroom. Dark gold curtains protected the private space from the sharp rays of the late morning sun. A silver and taupe silk bedspread was crumbled in a messy pile, and the pillows were tossed on the mattress to define where he’d slept. A heavy bath towel was abandoned on the floor, igniting the unwelcome image of his glistening, lean frame coming from a shower. She took a deep breath, quickly shuffling through the shelves in his closet before turning to the tall cabinets built around the king-sized bed. Her reward was a thick roll of green American dollars tucked into a pile of socks. Unsure of the buying power, she removed a few crisp bills from the center, promising herself that she would learn enough English to make a more educated choice in the future.
From a prominent place on his nightstand, she picked up a photo with a thin, smiling woman wearing a bright red head scarf and her arms protectively wrapped around tinier versions of his sons. Standing in front of the sparkling fountains at Peterhof Palace, the small boys clung to her side, all three of their faces a mixture of fear and devotion. Her original conclusion that their mother had either gained her freedom through a divorce or was simply another Russian wife willing to accept her husband’s whore evaporated, leaving the belief that the mother of two had died.
There was no denying that Pavel was a handsome man but trusting him would be her downfall. Other than a few beers in his refrigerator, she’d seen no sign of the drugs or alcohol that had defined Damir’s daily existence. None of that, however, justified the Petruskenkovs’ role in her misery. Her life before they’d bought her had been hard, but it had been hers. Under their control, she had no resources, no rights, and no place to go. All of them deserved her silent hatred and condemnation.
Setting the photo back on the nightstand, she took care to make sure it was in the exact angle and location where she’d found it, dismissing his loss as none of her concern and his sons as nameless strangers. Returning to the small bedroom, she slipped the stolen money into the ripped lining of her old suitcase before moving to the kitchen to more carefully evaluate his small collection of steak knives and begin drafting her next set of plans.
Chapter 5
Without Anton’s schedule to accommodate, it was even easier to avoid her newest master, retreating to her room before Pavel came home that night and not rising until after he’d left the house the next morning. She sat on his back deck with a cup of coffee and a toasted bagel, watching beachgoers settle under brightly colored umbrellas surrounded by heavy coolers. Dazzling sunshine bounced off the blue water and glittering sand, and the embracing warmth felt good after a long, cold spring in St. Petersburg.
She missed Anton with all of her heart, but a person never moved forward if they didn’t dismiss their past. More information was the key if she was going to escape Pavel’s control. Having spent the last few years of her life living in a seaside town, the ocean was more of a draw than the hot pavement on the street side of the house, so she kicked off her sensible shoes to explore the cool ocean breeze that blew her dress in circles.
Drawn by the noise of a growing crowd in bathing suits and skimpy shorts, she followed a worn wooden boardwalk and soon the smells of savory and sweet treats accompanied a row of tattoo stands, food stalls, and souvenir stores. Standing underneath a Russian sign, a short, thin girl with heavy, dark makeup and a streak of pink running through her silky blonde hair shouted down the boardwalk, “Get back here, you sorry son-of-a-bitch, before I beat your ass.”
A lanky teenaged boy with unnaturally black spiked hair raised his middle finger over his shoulder before disappearing down the alley next to a colorful playground. “Fucking asshole,” the girl mumbled, straightening a pile of brightly colored beach balls. “He’s only been here a month, and he’s already learning how to piss people off in America.” She pointed to Zoya and spoke in English, but Zoya took a step away, shaking her head in confusion. “Do you understand Russian, then?” the girl asked sharply. “If you do, can you grab those beach balls before they blow away?”
The gusting wind sent a rainbow-colored ball toward the alley, and Zoya grabbed it to return to its owner. “Thanks,” the girl said cheerfully. “You’re a lot more helpful than my cousin. I don’t know what my father was thinking, bringing him here for the summer. If he was causing problems at home, he’s just going to find trouble here.” After wiping her palms on her frayed jean shorts, she held out her hand. “I’m Galena Aaronson. My father’s always sponsoring
random relatives from Russia, like our house isn’t crowded enough. You must be new or a tourist, because I’ve never seen you before, and my mother says that I know everybody.”
“I’m Zoya Zh—” she said quietly, stumbling over her illegal name. Before she could correct herself, a uniformed police officer turned the corner from the alley, his gun resting heavily in his holster and his sunglasses providing an additional layer of secrecy. Like some sort of magic, the boardwalk crowd grew quiet as he approached, respectfully parting for him, but continuing with their laughter as soon as he’d passed.
“Never trust a New York cop,” the twenty-something-year-old girl muttered. “Especially if you’re Russian. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
Shaken by the police officer’s close presence, she vowed to make her lie believable. “Zoya Petruskenkov,” she responded firmly.
“You’re with Pavel?” Galena wrung her hands before motioning to the store. “I’m really sorry. I hope you aren’t angry? Please, come in and get out of the sun. We have cold drinks, too.”
“Why would I be angry?” she asked as Galena half-pushed her through the door. “You needed help, and I wasn’t doing anything important.”
The air-conditioned breeze enveloped her sweaty skin to leave her comfortably chilled by the contrasting temperatures. Her new companion rushed around the store while Zoya stood next to a full rack of navy and white t-shirts. “Those are the cheapest ones,” Galena dismissed anxiously. “They will fall apart as soon as you put them in the washing machine. Come, look at these over here.”
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