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She may not have held much love for her son-in-law, but she loves me.
I should have known he was gone long before now.
But would knowing have changed anything?
I stare at the gravesite in silence. If I’d known he was dead, I could have stayed away from the city. Andrei wouldn’t have found me, and I would have been free to do whatever I wanted with my life. Truly free.
Sighing, I press my fingertips to the back of my eyelids. My grandmother must not have known, or she would have brought us back sooner. Maybe we could have stopped hiding in fear that he’d find us.
Maybe Andrei wouldn’t be so bitter.
An ache blooms deep inside my chest as I think about my ex-fiancee. If there’s one thing I regret, it’s whatever turned the man I once loved into something cruel. Was it me? Is it my fault he’s like this?
With a grimace, I open my eyes. What happened while I was gone can’t be my fault. I wasn’t even here.
I’m sure Andrei blames me anyway.
I focus on my surroundings to dull the ache inside my heart. The area around my father’s grave is barren, with dying grasses and dark earth peeking through the blades. No one is buried near him, and I glance around the Baranova family cemetery to count the stones.
We’re some of the founding members of the city. Ancient, unmarked graves sprinkle the landscape in mismatched rows. Beyond that, once documentation became more legitimate, you begin to see names and dates carved into the stones. Organization and structure begin when you reach the 1700s, although the number of graves decreases with each century.
The family cemetery stretches on for at least half a mile in all directions.
My father’s grave is in the center of it all, like he claims power over his ancestors, even in death.
“What happened to you?” My words are little more than whispers, but in the end, it doesn’t matter.
The dead can’t listen.
I came here for nothing. Drawing a breath, I let reality sink in. I gave up my freedom, and for what? The chance to talk to a corpse?
My eyes burn, and I rub them with the back of my hands. Stupid Valentina. Getting carried away again. Caught up in a fool’s errand.
“You wouldn’t have answered me, even if you were here,” I find myself saying. “You never talked to me, anyway.”
Memories of my life pierce my skin like shards of glass, each one sharper than the last. My father was known for his cruelty, and that cruelty extended even to his daughter. Cold, clipped words. A pat on the shoulder when I kept silent and smiled prettily. Gifts that reminded me I was meant to be a doll, kept on the shelf to be admired, but never anything more than that.
I’m not sure how my mother could stand living next to someone as unaffected as he.
It’s probably why she left . . . and why she died.
I swallow the lump in my throat, but my eyes won’t stop burning.
I never got to say goodbye to my mother. One moment, she was combing my hair and telling me how beautiful and strong I was. The next, she was gone. Vanished in the middle of the night, like she never existed at all.
Sick, my father said once. Then he never mentioned her again.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to my mother, but I chose not to say goodbye to my father when I left.
My fists clench at my sides.
“What secrets are you keeping?” My knees hit the earth, and I stare at the grass covering his grave, picturing him lying below the surface like he’s sleeping in silk. Dressed in a suit, like always. Out of reach, like always.
His secrets buried with him.
My mother’s secrets too.
Maeve Baranova-Tolkotsky knew her place within the Bratva. She kept her nose out of trouble, taught her daughter to stay silent, and played the role of the perfect wife.
