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By the eighth day, this picturesque safehouse starts to feel like what it really is—a prison.
I’ve explored every inch of my room, filing through Catherina’s boxes out of sheer boredom. I know it’s rude to go through another person’s things, but at this point, I’m not going to apologize. If she didn’t want me to go through her stuff, she shouldn’t have shoved me in her musty storage room.
There’s nothing particularly fascinating about any of the boxes. Most of them house old books—all Russian, so I can’t even read them—and stuffy old fur coats. The rare pictures I find every now and then are my most prized finds. They’re images of a life long gone by, the pictures quality grainy and feathered around the edges. They give me a glimpse of what life was like in Russia, a peek into the world Mikhail spent his first eight years in.
I only find five childhood pictures of him, but I can easily pick out my favorite. It’s wintertime in Russia. Mikhail is probably no older than six, bundled up in all manner of scarves and a fluffy coat and mittens. There’s snow in his hair, and it looks as if his lashes are frozen with bits of ice, the tip of his nose beet red from he cold. But hissmile…
He smiles so wide and joyfully I smile, too. There’s so much life in his face, a spark behind his eyes. It makes me wonder how much he knew back then about what his father and mother did for a living, about the Bratva… Did he know the kind of cruelty his uncle was capable of? Did he have dreams of one day joining the Bratva like his father before him, or was he a normal boy who aspired to be an astronaut, cowboy, superhero, et cetera?
My phone buzzes. I practically hurl myself across the room to check the message.
How are you holding up?
I huff in frustration. How am I holding up? Seriously, Mikhail? My thumbs fly over my screen, a snappy response already at the ready.
I’m going to yank my hair out at this rate.
Is my mother not being a gracious host?
Sometimes I don’t think she remembers I’m even here. Please tell me you have an update. I’m dying over here.
Nothing yet. Will keep you posted.
I grind my teeth so hard my molars squeak. He’s been ‘keeping me posted’ for days now. My patience is already paper thin. I’m worried sick about Charlotte. Most mornings, I’m so wrought with anxiety I end up losing the contents of my stomach before I’ve even had the chance to eat breakfast. I’m sick of not being able to do anything. All this inaction is going to be the death of me.
Will you at least visit?
Do you miss me that much?
Three sharp knocks sound at my door. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse.
“Aurora, I must speak with you,” Catherina says flatly. She sounds like she’d much rather be anywhere but outside my door.
With a heavy sigh, I get up from the edge of my bed, tossing my phone onto one of the pillows. The second I open the door, I’m immediately greeted by the strong scent of her floral perfume. I can detect a hint of roses, but it’s layered with something so spicy it burns the inside of my nose. I try my best not to make a face, though Catherina won’t care much, either way.
“Walk with me,” she says. Something tells me it’s not so much a request as it is an order.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To the gardens. I won’t have you rotting away in here. Misha will never let me hear the end of it.”
I sense she might have an ulterior motive behind the invitation, but I am in desperate need of fresh air and the opportunity to stretch my legs.
Catherina walks surprisingly fast for such a short woman. She stomps when she walks, almost marching the two of us out into the backyard. I’ve passed by it a number of times since I’ve been here when I need to get to the kitchen for a bite to eat, but I’ve never dared leave the safety of the villa’s walls. Call me paranoid, but if Konstantin has been watching me, I’d rather stay indoors where he can’t find me behind the treated privacy glass.
The garden is full of colorful blooms, the tulips in particular smelling wonderfully sweet. I want to explore more of the area, but Catherina hooks her arm around mine, keeping me close. We pace around the gardens slowly. The breeze is light and the sun is warm. What a shame Mikhail’s mother was born completely of ice.
“How long have you and Mikhail been an item?” she asks me. She has a very direct way of speaking.
For a moment, I consider lying. It’s none of her business. But then again, I have a sneaking suspicion she’d be more than happy to yank the truth out of me with a pair of pliers.
“Not long,” I admit.
She gives me the side-eye. “He’s quite handsome, is he not?”
I gulp. “Yes, very handsome.”
“And wealthy.”
