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I pop an eye open, and it lands on the small suitcase in the hallway. “You’re finally home.”
“Yeah,” he grunts, rubbing the scar on his forehead.
“Until when?”
“Until the fridge is empty, and they cut the lights off again.”
“So, about a week?”
His smile doesn’t reach his bloodshot eyes. He looks tired, even more so than usual. His blond hair is lank, his alabaster skin erring on the side of sickly. Despite the jet lag and the stress carved into his face, there’s no denying how handsome he is. When he was fifteen, he suddenly shot up and filled out, and all the girls at the group home would go googly-eyed over him. Even the nuns would squeeze his broad shoulders and tell him he’ll be a Hollywood actor someday. But they knew as much as we did that pustosh’ kids didn’t grow up to be anything but fighters or whores.
Even after the fall.
“Come,” he says, standing up and holding out my towel. He stares at a water bubble on the ceiling as I rise unsteadily to my feet, take the towel, and wrap it around myself. He holds my hand and helps me out of the tub before disappearing into the main room. I slip into the box I call my bedroom, tug out a pair of sweats from the broken chest of drawers, and fling them on, not caring that my battered and bruised body is still damp. Dragging a brush through my hair, I pad into the main room, where Mak is sprawled out on the sofa, staring into space.
I sink next to him, tapping his thigh gently with the back of my brush. “Where did you go this time?”
“St. Petersburg to Pretoria, Pretoria to London, then London back to New York,” he says wearily. He rubs at the scruff along his jawline. “These long-haul flights will be the death of me.”
A lump forms in my throat. I avert my gaze to the small television propped up on a stack of books in the corner and dig around in the cracks of the sofa for the remote. The screen comes to life, flooding the dingy apartment with obnoxious canned laughter. Another rerun of Friends. As Ross screams at Rachel—something about a break—I can feel Mak’s glare boring into the side of my face.
“What is it?”
I let out a hiss of air through my nostrils. “It won’t be the flights that will be the death of you. It’ll be your goddamn employers.”
The sofa dips as he pulls away from me, a scowl creasing his forehead. “Don’t start, Romy. It’s been a long day.”
We watch the sitcom for a few minutes, the tension heavy between us. Everything I want to yell at him bubbles up like bile in my bruised throat until I can’t hold it in any longer.
“You’ve been smuggling for the Saint Petersburg Bratva since you were eighteen,” I snap, anger releasing into my veins. “It’s been ten fucking years. If they haven’t promoted you from six to patsan yet, then they never will.”
Mak jumps up, muttering something in Russian under his breath. He storms over to the fridge, grabs a beer, and pops the top with his teeth. After a long swig, he leans his palms against the breakfast bar, chest heaving. “Tell me, Romy,” he growls, low and dangerous. “What other choice do I have?”
I twist away from him, staring at the moldy wall on the other side of the room so he doesn’t see the hot tears brimming in my eyes.
He’s right. Just like every newborn dumped off at the St. Nicholas Orphanage, he never had a choice in which path his life would take. We were the illegitimate children. The bastards of the Bratva. Kids born because the pakhan right down to the brodyaga couldn’t keep their dick in their pants or within their marriage. The home got its nickname pustosh’—trashcan—because that’s exactly what it was. A disgusting, dirty hole where you threw unwanted kids away and left them to rot. As a boy, there was only one way you make it out of the pustosh’ alive. Learn to fight and hope that one of the Vultures recruited you as a six, an errand boy, once you turn eighteen.
But after the fall of the Bratnovs, Mak had to look further afield for work.
I press my tongue against my teeth. Mak is the only person in the world who can make me feel any emotion. “You’re better than that,” I croak, nibbling on my thumbnail. I wince at the sound of his fist slamming against the countertop.
“And you’re better than being a whore,” he snarls. “What happened to you, Romy? What happened to the little girl determined to change her fate? I spent years training you. All of those fights in the courtyard, all for what? You still grew up to sell your pussy for money.” I hear the glug, glug, glug of his beer. “And don’t think I haven’t seen those bruises,” he says, quieter now. “I hope you at least charge extra for the men who like it rough—”
“Enough!” I scream, ripping around to face him. I dig my fingernails into my palm to keep from lunging at him and clawing his fucking eyes out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And he doesn’t. I hate lying to Mak more than anything. But one glance at the angry scar across his forehead reminds me to keep my mouth shut.
His head dips below his shoulder blades, and he lets out a loud sigh. “I’m sorry, Romy. I’m being an asshole.”
The rage fizzles in my chest. “Me too,” I say softly. “I just hate seeing you so run down.”
He steps out from behind the counter, arms outstretched. I cross the room and rest my head against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent as he wraps himself around me. He rests his chin on my head and says, “But you’re okay, right? Honestly, those bruises look nasty.” His stomach tightens. “Just tell me who he is, and I’ll—”
“No,” I say firmly, squeezing my eyes shut. “Forget about it. I’m fine.”
I have no issue keeping secrets from him. He’s the last person in the world I’d want to hurt, so it’s for the best. He doesn’t need to know I earned every scratch, bruise, and bite mark decorating my body. That they are a result of my own sins, not a client’s sick fantasy.
He also doesn’t need to know about the Devil that helped me.
