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His naive honesty catches me off guard. Sapped of my misplaced anger, I let the controller fall from my hands. Ruslan picks it up, handing it back to me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to drop it.”
“It’s okay. Papa will buy me a new one if this one breaks.”
“He really cares about you, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah!” Ruslan’s grin is as big as the moon. “He’s the best.”
You have no clue what your father is really like, you stupid boy! It’s surprising to me that Yevgeniy has shielded his son from the horrible life he leads. Is it possible for someone so cruel to still be a good father? Or is he just a master at keeping people in the dark?
“Let’s play another round,” I say with a smile. The more I’m left to my own thoughts, the more I might resent my little brother. At least when we play, I can distract myself with the lights on the screen and the rumble of the controller in my hand.
“Okay!” He rocks from side to side on the floor excitedly like a puppy.
As we start a new race, I push aside my grim thoughts. I want to focus on Ruslan and this moment. Maybe it’s because of that, or just because I’m getting used to the game, but I actually manage to keep up with Ruslan on the course. Our cars race side by side. I brake, turning sharply, and fly across the finish line to beat him.
“No way!” he yells. Scowling viciously, Ruslan hurls the controller across the room, where it bounces loudly off the wall, then skids over the floor. The sheer abruptness of his actions, his explosion of rage, leaves me reeling. The little vein on his red face throbs.
In that instant I have no doubt that he’s Yevgeniy’s son.
He is capable of horrible things. I don’t believe evil is genetic, and I’m sure Ruslan’s behavior comes from the harsh world he’s grown up in—absorbed even as Yevgeniy has shielded him from the worst excesses of the Bratva. But in this moment, fear stabs at my heart.
Will this child be destined to grow into a horrific copy of his monstrous father?
A surge of nausea attacks my belly. Clutching my middle, I double over on the floor, groaning. My mouth tingles to warn me, but it’s too late to do anything about it, and I vomit on the floor.
Ruslan gasps. “Galina! Are you okay?” He comes closer, his anger replaced by panic and genuine worry.
No, this is bad. Swallowing down another wave of sickness, I search his face for some sign that he’s figured out what’s wrong with me. He doesn’t know; he’s too young to know. But if he tells … that could be enough of a clue for Yevgeniy to sniff out the truth that I’m pregnant. And if he does …
“I’m okay,” I assure him with a weak smile. Sweat makes my clothing cling to me. I want a bath—I want to get out of here.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” His chin trembles. “It’s because I yelled at you. I scared you and it made you sick.”
I blink. “Ruslan?—”
“Please don’t tell Dad,” he begs me. “Please. I’m so sorry, Galina, I really am. I’ll clean this up, I swear. Just don’t tell Dad, okay?”
He thinks he’s the reason I threw up? How can I be this lucky? Warily, I rest my hand on the little boy’s shoulder.
“Of course not.” I muster a wan smile at him. “This can be our little secret. Between brother and sister. Deal?”
His own fear is what will save me from being discovered. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I feel shame washing over me at the thought that I have to exploit a child’s fear to keep myself safe.
Ruslan’s smile lights up his eyes. “Deal!”
“Okay. I’ll help you clean up this mess.”
Nodding eagerly, he runs toward a closet and pulls out some paper towels. I watch him closely, trying to remind myself that seconds ago, he was a rage-filled creature, and now he’s a sweet boy again. It’s obvious that there are equal parts of my mother in him as there are of his monstrous father.
But the question is, as he gets older, which side will he grow up to embrace?
Later that night, I’m alone in the bedroom I’m supposed to share with my mother. But she’s not there. I haven’t seen her since Yevgeniy yanked her to her feet at the dinner table. I have no idea where they are, but I know that her absence is nothing good. What is he doing to you, Mom? I worry frantically.
I walk silently to the door and press my ear against it, listening for hints of footsteps.
But all I hear is nothing.
