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The man is a murdering rapist.
Ruslan squeals happily when his dad sends him flying higher on the swing.
A murdering rapist who’s a wonderful father. If I took a photo of them right now, you could slap it on a Hallmark card. A perfect family picture ... without me in it.
Ruslan’s maroon scarf floats as it defies gravity with each upward swing. He’s bundled up perfectly against the chilly weather. His slate-blue coat is thick enough that it hides his shape, making him look bigger than he is, but not older.
I’m envious of how warm he must be. My jacket is meant for autumn, not the onslaught of winter. Burying my hands in my pockets, my eyes trek higher, to the gray-and-white mottled clouds on the horizon. We’re the only ones in the park. The rest of the world senses the snow that wants to burst open on top of us.
It hasn’t come yet, but it’s waiting.
Yevgeniy says something to Ruslan before strolling toward me, where I’m sitting on the sidelines on the singular green bench. All my muscles bunch up when he settles beside me, his hands resting on his knees. The bench isn’t big enough to give us enough space. Hell, being on the other side of the country wouldn’t be enough, though I’d take that if it was an option.
“What has he told you?” Yevgeniy says.
He’s speaking like we’re resuming a conversation. In a way, we are, because I know who he’s referring to. “You already know what he told me.”
“You misunderstand me.” His smile grows tense. “I want to know specifically what he told you.”
You don’t get to dictate everything I do. But I’m angry, and this is a chance to show it. “He told me you forced Kristina to beg for her baby’s life before you shot her three times in the stomach.”
His eyes turn toward Ruslan, his voice growing tender. “You must think I enjoyed doing that.”
“Of course you did,” I growl.
Somehow, his voice dips even softer. “That’s where you’re wrong. What happened with Kristina wasn’t something I wanted to do. It was something I had to do.”
Shivering, not just from the cold, I hug my body tight. “Nobody has to kill others; that’s crazy.”
“That’s because you don’t understand what Arsen took from me.” Yevgeniy lets out a dry chuckle void of all humor. “He never told you that the only reason I killed Kristina and his unborn child was because I needed to teach him the true meaning of loss.”
Ruslan’s giggles fill the background. It’s a strange soundtrack for the grim conversation.
The hard line of his neck flexes. It’s as if he’s holding his breath. Finally, he looks directly at me. His breath floats in the air like a wisp of a cloud.
“Because I needed him to understand what he took from me.”
4
GALINA
Yevgeniy is staring at his hands. He links his fingers, twists them, creating every possible position his joints can manage.
“Once upon a time,” he starts, “I had a son. Pyotr.” His eyes close like someone threw salt in them, his lips making a sour frown. “I loved him more than anything or anyone in this world.”
He had another son? The past tense is a megaphone. My blood seems to thicken in my veins.
Fondness enters his eyes, warming them. “Pyotr was always a wild child. That’s natural, of course. He was a prince of the Bratva, and my future heir.” His hands twist, the brittle mood returning tenfold. “Back then, Arsen was my brigadier. I trusted him with everything. With my life and my son’s life.”
My stomach drops out from beneath me. I know where this is going, and I need to stop it. I want to clasp my hands over his mouth or run away while covering my ears. But I can’t move, and Yevgeniy presses on.
“He was supposed to keep my boy safe.” Those hands wring until all the blood flees his knuckles. He locks his eyes on me, the intensity, the pure sadness, stealing the air from my lungs. “And instead, he killed him. Butchered my son in cold blood and left the body to rot. He taught me loss. Honor demanded that I act. A child for a child. That was why I had to do it. That was why Kristina had to watch her child die inside of her.”
I snap my head from side to side. “No. You’re lying to me. That has to be it.” Arsen would never kill someone he was supposed to protect! Not a child!
Yevgeniy sits up straighter. “I don’t lie to my children.”
Ruslan shrieks—we both look up. He’s off the swing, running around the play structure, chasing imaginary friends and foes. He resembles my mother when he smiles. They share the same dimples. But seeing shadows of her on his face only makes me remember the bruises on her body.
