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“You’re here for your own protection.”
“Bullshit,” she seethed. “I am not here to be protected. I am a prisoner.”
“You may enjoy a great deal of freedom, Zaryana.”
“Don’t call me that, and as long as I’m here, I am not free.”
“This is tiresome. You’re home. Make the best of it.”
“This is not my home. If it were, would your henchmen be permitted free access?”
“What are you referring to?”
“Topor…” she began, not sure what else to say.
“Speak, girl,” Petrov shouted at her.
“He doesn’t knock.”
Petrov scrunched his eyes together as though he was trying to figure out what she meant.
“I have not allowed him such privilege.”
“Then make him stop.” God, she hated the sound of her own voice. The words that were coming out of her mouth were Zaryana’s, not Raketa’s. Raketa would never participate in a conversation of any kind with Makar Petrov. She turned her back to him.
“I could send you to United Russia. Let them deal with you.”
Raketa was stunned. Was he serious? “I’ll be dead before I set foot on Russian soil.”
Petrov shrugged. “The choice is yours.”
“What choice?”
“Do as I say, or I’ll let UR come and get you.”
“What do you want?”
“Avarie and Aine.”
Raketa turned back around and stared at him, waiting for him to continue, refusing to ask what the hell that meant.
“I want my daughters brought here.”
“No chance in hell,” Raketa answered, inwardly pained by his use of the word.
“Very well, then.”
He called out for Topor to return her to her apartment.
Still not knowing whether Petrov would allow his henchman to punish her, or even kill her if she pushed him too far, she let him lead her back down the corridor without wrenching her arm out of his grasp.
As he dragged her back to her room, Raketa heard the faint cry of another woman. She glanced at Topor, who showed no sign of hearing the same thing she had.
When the cry turned into words she could understand, Raketa dug her heels in.
“Devochka moya,” came the wail from a different corridor.
“Hurry up!” barked Topor, digging his fingers further into her flesh.
