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I thought it was all about unpaid bills.
What hurts me most of all is wondering how she hid it. But then, I was a teenager. The perfect age to be distracted by boys and adult things, to never look closely at my mother swaddling herself in layers of clothes to hide a round belly.
“Galina, please … look at me,” she begs.
I lift my chin, expecting her to continue apologizing for her past returning to curse us both. The rose brooch on her palm draws a gasp from me.
“You brought this?” I ask, taking my father’s funeral rose with reverence.
“I wasn’t brave enough to grab anything useful when I was packing,” she says sadly. “But I thought you’d want it.”
“I do.” Pressing it to my cheek, I feel my tears pour over it, wetting the glass. “Thank you, mamochka.”
Her eyebrows crinkle curiously. I don’t explain myself; I simply wrap my arm around her shoulders, drawing her onto the couch for a hug. My father’s rose isn’t a gun … It’s not a knife or even a phone. But it’s capable of shielding my heart from a cruel man who seeks to ruin me from the inside out.
Yevgeniy is not a part of my family.
He never will be.
49
ARSEN
I’ve been watching the outside of the house for half an hour. In that time, the sun has begun to set. The long shadows it creates have been the only movement. “Are they really in there?” I whisper to Sergei.
He nods rapidly. His face is swollen from last night. I’ve given him some water, but nothing else. My kindness only goes so far with my enemies. It’s funny, but once upon a time, Sergei and I worked together. I thought of him as a sarcastic, loud joker. But now, he’s nothing more than a pathetic, sniveling mess.
Mila inches closer to me, talking in my ear. “I haven’t spotted anybody coming or going. If they’re in there, I can’t tell.”
“The blinds are shut,” I note.
“They’re keeping a low profile; they wouldn’t risk being seen from the street,” she says.
I rub my chin anxiously. My calves are cramping from how long I’ve held my position. The worst pain, however, is my heart, which aches to see Galina again. Knowing she could be just a few yards away is torture.
“You still think it’s a trap?” I ask.
Mila sighs, then gives Sergei a hard shove. His hands are bound behind his back; he promptly falls onto his face with a grunt. “This mudak is a bad liar. I don’t think he could fake this.”
I nod patiently, but inside, my blood is buzzing. I’m looking for any excuse to go inside. “I haven’t seen a single lookout. Where are the cops?”
Sergei spits out dirt. “Witness protection is about secrecy. The less people who know, the better.”
Mila gives him a hard kick. “Thanks for the obvious. Your spy could have told anyone about this house; we don’t know who’s inside. Arsen, maybe I should go for a closer look first.”
“No. I want to act. Yevgeniy’s men could show up and intervene when we’re trying to get Galina away.” Flexing my fingers on my pistol, I creep from behind the bushes toward the side of the house. I hear Mila mumble something about me being pig-headed, but I see the movement of her gagging Sergei from the corner of my eye before she follows my heels.
The plan is to leave him under the hedges, out of sight. Tied as he is, he can’t escape or warn anyone that we’re here. If Galina is really inside, I won’t harm Sergei. Lock him away where he can’t aid in the war? Certainly.
But … if he’s lying …
He’s a dead man.
I motion with two fingers for Mila to stand on the left side of the door. She does exactly that, slipping one of her knives from her belt, holding it at chest height. Drawing my pistol, I keep it under my jacket. One. Two. Three. A single twist of the knob, a punch forward, and the door swings wide.
Mila rushes in first. I slip behind her into the house. The lights are on; I can see the kitchen from where I stand, as well as the open door of what seems to be a bedroom. The place is tiny.
In a quick movement that would put an Olympic sprinter to shame, Mila enters the bedroom, then another door behind me. I lean over to see inside—it’s a bathroom. “Nobody is here,” she says in a tense voice.
