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I ponder on his statement as I’m unsure what he means. “And what was that?”
His breathing is shallow, but when his fingers tighten around the steering wheel, I know my question has stirred something in him. “I never loved Zoey.”
“Oh,” I reply, swallowing deeply.
“She was a…satisfying companion but not a game changer.”
“How can you speak about people that way?” I question, shaking my head in disgust.
“I’m honest, Willow. Unlike most, I speak my mind. I don’t have time for pretenses.” He shrugs as though that is a valid response.
“You dispose of women,” I argue, cutting through his holier than thou crap. “When you grow bored, you trade them in for an upgrade. Something faster. Fancier. Less complicated.”
“Is that what you call yourself? Less complicated?” he questions with an amused grin. “If that were the case, I would have disposed of you the moment we met.”
Turning in my seat to glare at him, I state, “I make no apologies. My husband, who actually only married me to trick me, sold me to you. Like a cow at market. I think that warrants my behavior, don’t you?”
“Your husband is a weak waste of space. Don’t punish us all for his cowardly actions.”
“That’s rich!You’rethe reason for his cowardly actions.” I turn back around and slouch in my seat with a huff. How dare he try to see himself as anything but a monster.
He gives me time to stew, but as usual, he has to have the last word. “You may think that, but I never forced his hand. He knew the stakes when he agreed to play that game of poker.”
“I’m not a bargaining chip,” I spit, refusing to let this go. “Accepting payment was your choice. No one forcedyourhand.”
Alek opens his mouth but closes it soon after. He focuses on driving instead of engaging in an argument I will never back down from, which surprises me. He could punish me for my insolence, but he doesn’t.
I don’t care what he says; nothing will ever excuse what he did. Yes, Drew is also the villain in this story, but Alek could have said no. Yet he saw this as an opportunity to accumulate another pretty thing for his collection.
When we pull into an older part of town, I realize that the business will be taking place at the orphanage. I thought it would be over lunch in a restaurant, but it appears Alek likes to keep me guessing.
He parks the car in front of a large white building. Although longstanding, it radiates sincerity and strength. Tall brick walls wrap around the premises, allowing privacy and safety for the children inside.
I now understand why Alek drove here without any backup. This place is hardly dangerous. But not only that, it also isn’t the appropriate place for his men in black. It would scare the children, and they have had enough fear in their lives.
We walk toward the steel gate, where Alek presses the intercom. Someone speaks to him in Russian, laughing at something he says in a low, flirty voice. The gate then opens.
I can’t stop my eye roll. How can someone be so smooth? He’s a murderer, liar, not to mention a drug lord, yet he has all these people fawning over him. It’s sickening. His charisma knows no bounds.
Children of all ages laugh and scream as they play ball games and tag behind a silver fence. When they see us, the commotion stops, and they run toward their prison bars, looping their tiny fingers through the wire. It brings tears to my eyes as they watch us in hope. Is today their day?
Alek waves to them kindly, saying something in Russian. The nuns shoo the children away from the fence, encouraging them to continue with their games.
The place reeks of sadness but also hope. A perfect oxymoron.
I follow Alek as he walks toward the ramp leading to the double white doors. An older lady with kind green eyes in a full habit waits for us, smiling broadly. When we are feet away, she speaks in Russian.
“English, if you don’t mind, Mother Superior. This is Willow. She has yet to learn our language.”
Mother Superior nods with a smile. “Of course. It is nice to meet you,” she says in broken English, but I appreciate her effort.
“You too, Mother Superior. Thank you for having me.”
“Any friend of Aleksei is a friend of mine. Please, won’t you come inside.” She gestures we’re to enter. Alek signals for me to go first, so I do.
The interior matches the exterior. Although old, it’s not impoverished or dirty. It’s bright and filled with colorful pictures painted by the children. Mother Superior leads us down the hallway where I look into the windowed doors of the children’s rooms.
Painted in pretty pastels and filled with toys and well-made beds, it appears each room holds four children. As we advance farther, I see the nurseries, which hold about twenty or so newborn babies. Nuns rock the crying children or feed them a bottle. They are so tiny. So helpless.
