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The dog, like it senses my unease, begins to growl from low in its barrel chest.
“Don’t worry about Centurion,” Yevgeniy assures me. “He won’t bite unless told to.”
“Why are we here?” I demand.
“You’ll understand soon. Come along now.” He motions lazily over his shoulder without looking back. I glance down at my mother, trying to communicate to her with just my eyes that everything will be fine.
She focuses solely on our shoes, shaking like a leaf in a storm. The bag is cradled to her stomach like it’s a shield.
Gently, I pull on her until she walks with me as I trail behind Yevgeniy. Osip gets out of the car. He and Fyodor bring up the rear, creating a wall behind us. Both gun-wielding guards nod at Yevgeniy as he approaches. One of them opens the door for him. The pit bull’s lips twitch over its fangs as I pass by it. It doesn’t budge, but my pulse remains on high alert until we’re inside the house and out of its reach.
“I want you to meet somebody,” Yevgeniy says. Curling his fingers to tell us to follow, he heads down a hallway in the house. I study the walls as we walk; there are no photos, no art, nothing of substance. This place is bland, worse than a house being shown for sale.
Nobody lives here. I frown thoughtfully. He’s just using it as a place to hide. It’s working, because if Arsen knew where Yevgeniy was, he’d attack him here. I’m reminded of how hard Arsen worked to lure Yevgeniy into a trap. He was waiting for a chance to get me alone. Our fake wedding has proved pointless.
We gained nothing.
My hand clutches my ring. No … not entirely.
“Here we are,” Yevgeniy says as we approach a solid white door at the bottom of a set of stairs. The house has two levels visible on the outside; you’d never know there was a basement at a glance. Yevgeniy stares over our heads at Osip and Fyodor. “Fyodor, you stay here. Osip, go check on how the clean-up is going.”
“Ah, pakhan, I don’t want to go back there,” Osip grumbles. “It’s disgusting. All that blood.”
“What blood? What clean-up?” I ask anxiously.
Yevgeniy flicks his eyes at me, then back to the men. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Osip scuffles out of view, leaving Fyodor looking flustered. He takes a stance against the wall, checking his gun with intense interest.
What is Yevgeniy cleaning up? Nothing involving enough blood to upset a man like Osip can be good.
Gripping the curved handle on the door, Yevgeniy twists it downward. The hinges squeak when he opens the door. “Go inside,” he tells us.
I’m barely through when a new voice—high-pitched and young—hits my ears.
“Oh! Visitors!” Inside the large, fully finished basement, is a little boy. He has a mop of thick, dark brown hair. Blue eyes, brighter than my own, watch me with alert interest. He’s slim, his jeans loose at his waist, the neck hole of his red sweater stretched lower on one side so I can see a single collarbone. The dimples in his cheeks are deeper than a thumbprint.
“Ruslan,” Yevgeniy says, “meet Galina and Katya.”
The boy, who I think can’t be older than ten, lights up. “Are you serious?”
“Very,” Yevgeniy chuckles.
Unsure what’s going on, I look from Ruslan to Yevgeniy. Mila’s words echo in my ear from another life: Yevgeniy saw the kids born from those women as assets. The boys would go on to become his boeviki, and the girls …
Is Ruslan one of those boys?
But the boy doesn’t seem scared or hurt. And the more I look around, the more obvious it is that the basement has been decked out with an assortment of games and electronics. If he’s a boevik in training, he’s certainly not treated like one.
My mother releases my arm. She’s watching the child with uncertainty, like he’s a bomb ready to go off. He stares at her too, unable to look away. All at once he sprints forward and throws himself against her, hugging her middle tight.
“Mom! You’re really here!”
The way my heart thumps makes me afraid it’s about to pop.
“Mom?” I whisper.
Ruslan looks up at me without releasing her. “You must be my big sister!”
