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“That’s hard,” he adds, I guess to be nice.
But I don’t need him to be nice. I want to know what the hell is up with my father.
“Have you been in touch with my dad?” I ask, out of patience.
The guys exchange glances, and Bogdan clears his throat. “This past week, you know, when we were gone?”
My heart thumps in my chest. Please give me some good news. “Yeah?”
“We flew to Miami to meet with your father.”
Holy fuck. You could knock me over with a feather. My heart thumps in my chest. “Wh… why didn’t you tell me? Tell me you were going?”
He looks out over the water toward Ibiza. “You didn’t need to know.”
Anger washes over me, and I press my lips together to hold in a rage so strong it stings like poison in my veins. I want to kill these guys. I really do.
“Did you hurt him?” I ask, trying to steady my voice.
Bogdan turns back to me. “Of course not.”
“H… how is he? Did you tell him about me? He must be worried sick.”
Once again, the guys look at each other. If they hurt my father, so help me…
“Of course we told him we have you. He’s looking into our request. We should know soon whether he will accommodate us, or continue to make foolish decisions.”
“Foolish decisions? If it’s a matter of getting me freed, I know he’ll do anything.”
Silence.
What the fuck?
Hadn’t Dad warned them not to hurt me? Assured them he’d do anything he had to in order to get me back? Apologized for any mistakes he made and promise to honor their agreements going forward?
Or did he tell them to go fuck themselves, like he has so many other people?
And what does that mean for me?
* * *
10
ILYA
“Jesus, that man’s a prick.”
I look around the galley where Bogdan, Fedor, and I sit at the kitchen table, meeting. I’ll miss this place when we move on. Living on a yacht is a sweet deal, one I never dreamed I’d experience during the shitshow that was my childhood. Not enough food to go around, no heat in the winter, a drunk fuck of a father. And that’s just the beginning.
I know a lot of kids in Russia had it worse than me. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to do what I had to in order to climb out of poverty. Yup, I did what I had to. I haven’t always been nice. In fact, I’ve rarely been nice. And I have no regrets.
I can’t say, however, that the shit I went through—these days people call ittrauma—is forgotten. The goddamn mess that is my past clings to me like gum on the bottom of my shoe. I’ve tried a thousand times to scrape it off, but it just won’t go away. Maybe someday I’ll be able to accept it. That it’s here to stay. It impacts every thought I have and everything I do. That’s how shit like this works. You think you’ve left it behind, but no. Never. The gift that keeps on giving.
It keeps me on my toes. I’m always aware that with one wrong move, I could lose everything. That’s what happens to people like me. So I’m always scanning my surroundings, assessing people, waiting to make a move when necessary.
It works well in this business. The moment you make a little money, get fat and happy, forget where you’ve come from, lose sight of the future, is the moment the next asshole in line takes it all from you.
Which brings the guys and me to our discussion of Abby’s father. The man is a fool. Despite repeated warnings, he hasn’t learned to stay in his lane. It’s going to cost him. And he doesn’t seem a bit concerned about his daughter.
