“No. It’s about safety.”
“Then you should have kept me safe from the people in this family first.”
That silences him.
I push back from the table, stand to my feet, and turn toward the doorway before either of them can stop me.
“Katerina,” Papa says.
I pause.
“If you go, you go with my men.”
I look back at him. “No.”
His eyes narrow.
I feel the old fear. The instinct to obey. The daughter in me, trained by wealth and danger and his rare affection, wants to lower her gaze.
I do not.
“I’m going to Russia,” I say. “Not for Lev. Not for the Morozovs. Not for your alliance.”
My voice shakes once, then steadies. “I’m going because I wanted to.”
Mama covers her mouth.
Papa says nothing.
So I leave them there and climb the stairs with my heart pounding so hard it hurts.
In my room, the suitcase waits on the bed. I wipe my face, fold the last dress, and place my passport on top.
Tomorrow morning, I’m getting on that plane.
However, I quickly realize my mistake twenty minutes after I leave the dining room. Not because Papa comes upstairs—that would be too easy.
No, I see headlights. I peer out the window, taking it in.
One car outside the front gate. Another across the street. A third idling near the corner beneath the trees.
All are black cars with dark windows. All probably have men inside them who pretend not to look at the house while looking at nothing else.
My father’s men.
My stomach drops.
I stand at my bedroom window with my passport in my hand and understand exactly what I have done.
I told Sergei Markov where I was going.
The suitcase on my bed suddenly looks too big. Too obvious. And way too easy to stop.
I have to fix this.
I open the suitcase and start taking things out. The red dress stays. The heels go. Jewelry goes. Half the clothes go. I shove the passport into my handbag, pull on a sweater, then a long coat, and transfer what I can into a soft overnight bag that does not look like escape.
My hands shake so badly I drop my phone once.
