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The icy windsoutside are almost unbearable. I wrap my long scarf around my neck as many times as I can and angle my head into the fabric to protect my nose.
What the hell did my father mean when he ordered me to go straight home?
He’s always doing this to me, treating me as if I’m destined to do something wrong if he doesn’t give me the most insultingly obvious directions.
My lips move to his words echoing in my head.
Go straight home.
I roll my eyes and keep walking in little shuffling steps to avoid falling on the icy ground. Home is just a few storefronts away from the cafe.
Where the hell does he think I’d go? It’s not like we live in Las Vegas. The street has a line of shuttered businesses and absolutely nothing but a frozen wasteland on the other side of the road. We’re lucky to see even a single car passing by in a day, aside from the Bratva who keep our business going. The only reason there’s a streetlight in front of our building is because my father built it himself.
Ever since the attack on our village all those years ago, he’s been little more than a pawn to the Arkady and his group. They murdered our mother and forced my father to obey their commands in order to spare his life and mine. As soon as I was old enough, I was dispatched to do their dirty work, too.
We’re their hostages - forever.
I arrive at our building, a squat two-flat with an abandoned store on the ground and our living quarters on top. My hands are so cold I can barely work the key into the lock to get inside. After a few shaky attempts I finally do, jiggling the key to unfreeze the lock. The wind helps me open the door inside, then makes a sudden direction change, slamming the door shut as I enter, pushing me inside our dimly lit corridor. I let out a sigh as soon as I’m inside and march up the creaky stairs. We always keep the door to our flat unlocked. No one ever comes here and if they did, they wouldn’t want our ragged possessions.
A green light blinks from my cell phone on the dining table. I rarely take it with me because apart from my father who I’m always with, most people don’t call me. Arkady knows to find me at the cafe.
But someone called today.
I walk up to it, punch in my unlock code, and skim the home screen.
A smile comes across my face when I read the notification.
It’s Ashlyn, my friend from Chicago, asking how I’m doing back home.
I type a response but decide to call instead. She’ll understand. I told her everything about how miserable I was coming back home during our breaks.
The line rings, and she picks up immediately.
“Hey! I sent a message earlier to check in on you,” she says in the happiest voice I’ve heard since returning home. I can’t help but smile at her endless positivity.
“Just got it now. I left my phone at home while I was at work,” I say, doing a poor job of matching her level of enthusiasm.
“How are you holding up?”
The concern in her voice feels almost overwhelmingly kind. Ever since my mother was killed, I’ve had no close women in my life, just my father and his perpetual disappointment in me, and the Bratva we’re beholden to. That’s not a very comforting environment to grow up in.
“...I’m ok,” I finally mutter. With everything going on, I just can’t pull off the pretend-everything-is-perfect act.
“Taty, whatever is going on, you can tell me,” Ashlyn reassures me.
My mind wanders to Viktor, how I’m no longer a virgin, and how I’m a spy for the Bratva who are planning on killing him. It’s too much to share.
“It’s just tough coming back here after having so much fun in Chicago,” I say, trying to avoid going into specifics.
“Boy troubles?” she asks jokingly.
I laugh nervously. She has no idea how right she is. I lower myself into the sagging couch in my father’s living room.
“Yes, but that’s always the case with me. You know how I am,” I say, because she knows exactly how I am: terrible at talking to men.
I admitted to her I was still a virgin, and she’s always been super supportive of it. I haven’t been deliberately waiting to have sex. I just wanted it to be with someone I genuinely liked. But Ashlyn has always been adamant about me waiting for the right man. One who is deserving of me, as she puts it. She’s the only person in my life who views me positively. My father certainly doesn’t.
“Well, I’ve always told you to be careful when you were in Chicago, but I guess that applies back home, too. Men are men, no matter where they’re from,” she says.
