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She deliberately ignores my snide comments. “The pakhan is the leader of the Bratva. Arsen has held the position for ten years. Below him are his brigadiers, his most trusted men.” She lifts a hand, ticking off her fingers as she talks. “Then there are the soldiers, the boeviki.”
“The guys who helped him capture me,” I mutter. “Was he one of the boeviki?”
“Yes. They are loyal to Arsen in every sense of the word. In the Bratva, you obey the pakhan, or your life is forfeit.”
“That’s crazy. What if he gives them an order they don’t want to follow?”
“They are sworn by oath to obey. Want has nothing to do with it.”
“Seems like a good way to get a bunch of people to backstab you.” I say it jokingly, but the way her face darkens makes me wonder if I hit close to home. “Is there a way to tell who is or isn’t in the Bratva?”
“Tattoos. Every man of the Bratva has some.”
The image of Arsen’s inked knuckles flits through my memory. “What do they mean?”
“Different things. Some signify their past deeds, terrible or great things they’ve done, and their ranks. It is a simple yet elegant system. A man need only show his tattoos to prove who he is and the weight of his words.”
An awful idea occurs to me, one so intense the French toast I ate curdles in my belly. “Am I going to be tattooed?”
Placing her hands flat on the table, Ulyana shakes her head emphatically. “The only time women are inked if they’re the sole heirs.”
Tracing my nails over my inner wrist, I picture color staining my flesh the way it marks Arsen. Ulyana meant her words to be a comfort. I know that. But I can’t forget the small detail that continues to nibble away at the back of my head … I’m being forced to marry a killer.
“An heir,” I wonder out loud. “So if Arsen has a child, he or she will have to be tattooed? That’s so cruel.”
“No,” she chides me. “We’re not needling newborns. Besides, what if a sibling arrives? Then they’re not the only child anymore. The Bratva is always changing … growing. No tattoo is freely given. They must be earned.”
I’m listening, but my mind has begun to wander. Discussing Arsen as a father is wild. It leads me on a merging path back to thinking about my own parents. Mom ... are you okay? Why haven’t you messaged me again? Or tried to call? I can do backflips to justify her being angry enough to give me the silent treatment, but in the end, it isn’t enough to quell my worries.
I have to know if she’s okay.
But I don’t like the solution I come up with to do that.
14
ARSEN
I’m sipping from a cup of coffee in the small library on the first floor. I don’t trust anyone not to spill on the old books. Their yellowed pages pack decades of stories that can’t be replaced. I’m the only person in the mansion who cares about these things. Thus, I’m the only one with the luxury of enjoying a good drink among the shelves.
Setting the mug down on the table, I flip the textured paper over, starting to read the next line, when a series of loud footsteps alerts me. Lifting my eyes, I watch Galina marching toward me. She’s moving with purpose, her head low, arms pumping. There’s a gracefulness in her steps, and my eyes are drawn to her long legs.
“I want to see your phone,” she says firmly as she stops in front of me.
My eyebrows arch up at her bossy tone. “I see Ulyana’s lessons are rubbing off on you.”
Galina’s pretty mouth turns down at the corners. Her voice comes out gentler—as if she’s trying to show remorse, which is very unlike her.
“Sorry,” she says. “I just want to look at the dance studio and see how it’s going. I can’t leave and see it with my own eyes. Your surveillance is all I have.”
I’m taken aback by her sheepish attitude. “It’s not very interesting; you won’t see more than an empty lobby.”
“That’s all right.”
Handing her my phone, I study her face while she peers at the screen. Her features soften the moment she looks upon the live video of the studio. Galina’s smile grows in a wistful way that sends a light jolt through my heart. I lean slightly closer to glimpse what she sees.
Her mother is at the front desk, reading something. The edge of Galina’s thumb traces the length of my phone like she’s stroking a kitten.
She’s so invested in what happens to that place.
