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“We never saw anyone,” Viktor explains. “By the time Mishka found her, she’d managed to escape—I don’t know how—and they were gone. That’s all we’ve gotten out of her…”
The front door closes behind us, and I peer out from my father’s embrace. My mother’s cool fingers comb my hair behind my ear as she stands close. I can see Viktor and Mishka watching me from the corner of my eye, and finally, my heart starts to calm. Here, in the safe familiarity of my own home, it feels like the horror is actually over.
“You don’t know who took her, then?” my father asks, the low fury in his tone vibrating through my body.
Viktor shakes his head. “It was Mishka who got us on the right path, though. I guess the guys we had a run-in with last night at Plastique said something about the boys we brought in for questioning…” His eyes shift to me, and I know he must mean the men hanging in the basement whom I wasn’t supposed to have seen.
I’m curious about the run-in Viktor mentioned. That must be how Mishka got his black eye. I hadn’t realized he intended to go to Plastique. When he left without coming to see me, I assumed he thought it was too late, even though he said he would. But he went clubbing with my brother? I try not to let that piece of information bother me. Somehow, it still does.
“Thank you for bringing my daughter home safely to me,” Papachka says, his gratitude apparent.
“Of course, Gospodin,” Mishka answers respectfully.
“Solntse,” my father says gently, grasping my shoulders to hold me far enough away that he can look at me. “Did you recognize the men who took you?”
Dropping my gaze, I shake my head no as the scarred face of my tormentor flashes in my mind’s eye with vivid clarity.
“Did they hurt you?”
Again, I shake my head, and my father’s thick finger hooks beneath my chin to force my eyes up.
“Alina, any information you can give might help us figure out who this is targeting our family. Can you tell us anything at all?” His tone is gentle, but his eyes are steely, willing me to be strong, to fight through my anxiety and exhaustion to give them something to work with.
Nervously licking my lips, I swallow hard and ignore the sting of fresh tears that threaten to choke me. “The man in charge…” My voice comes out as a croak, breaking on the last word, and I clear my throat painfully as my cheeks flame with embarrassment. “He threatened to send me back to you piece by piece as part of some message.”
My statement ends in a whisper, and the silence that follows sits heavily in the room.
“What message, did he say?” my father presses.
I shake my head. “He just truly seemed to hate you. He wanted to use me to hurt you. He said he would have preferred to take Viktor too.” I glance toward my brother, who frowns deeply.
“Can you describe this man?”
“He had burn scars on his face… and spoke like someone who suffered from throat cancer.”
Viktor and Mishka exchange a glance, and from somewhere behind me, one of my father’s men speaks.
“That must be the man Kryuger the butcher was talking about,” he says.
Viktor nods, his scowl deepening. “That means we aren’t finished with the men who ambushed us.”
I shudder at the possibility that the same men who nearly killed my family are still after us. And we don’t even know why. I dare a glance up at my father, and for the first time, I wonder what he could possibly have done to make someone hate him so passionately as the man who threatened to cut me up. Is he capable of lighting a man on fire? Why would he?
The shaking starts again, uncontrollably, and my father’s arms pull me close.
“Natasha, why don’t you take Alina up to her room and get her settled, yeah?” he suggests. “I think she’s endured enough for one day.”
“Of course,” my mom says, her arms taking the place of my father’s.
“We’ll have the doctor come by to look you over in a little while,” he assures me, his hand stroking my hair one more time before he relinquishes me to her custody.
My heart starts to pound for a completely different reason now, and I glance up at my father anxiously. If a doctor gives me an exam, they could easily discover I’m pregnant, and they would more than likely tell my parents. “I’m okay, really,” I insist. “Just tired and thirsty, but I don’t need a doctor, Papachka.”
“Alina, you were in a car accident last night, or have you forgotten? Your face is bruised. Your wrists are chafed. This is not up for debate,” my father scolds, his booming voice taking on that soft, protective tenor he gets when he’s worried for my safety.
And though my heart swells from his paternal care, my stomach sits like a ball of lead inside me. I nod and drop my gaze. Even if the idea of my parents finding out terrifies me, an exam is probably for the best to ensure the baby is okay. All I can do is hope the doctor won’t mention that I’m pregnant.
“Come on, Alina. Let’s get you cleaned up,” my mom offers.
