Chapter 32
3011words
I'm a pile of needles. Each time I move, I feel my thoughts prickling me—not hard enough to draw blood, but still enough to remind me of my discomfort. I can't believe Mom is coming here. Settling on the cushion of my vanity, I run my brush through my hair. There are no tangles; I'm brushing it just to stay busy.
Will she like it here? What should I say to her?
What can I even say to her?
Hi, Mom, you remember Asher? Turns out he's a Bratva pakhan who killed a man the night before he showed up to buy our studio.
Oh, and he's my husband now. But don't worry, it's just a temporary thing.
God, she'll never forgive me if she hears any of that.
My phone on the vanity begins to buzz, and I snatch it up, answering without looking. 'Hello?"
'Camila!" Adriana shouts in my ear, and I have to hold the phone away while wincing in pain. 'Oh my God! You're okay!"
'Yeah, of course, I'm okay." I guess she must have worried because we haven't spoken to each other in a while. 'What's up?"
'What's up?" I move the phone again—she's going to burst my eardrum if she doesn't stop shouting. 'Camila! The dance studio got shot up, and I haven't heard one goddamn word from you! I thought you were dead or something!"
Her concern makes me scrunch into a ball. My knees lift, and I put my feet on the cushion. 'No, I'm fine. Nobody was hurt."
'Thank goodness. Your mom must be in shock. Poor Katinka."
'Yes," I agree somberly, 'she's shaken up."
'Is she with you? Wait, back up here. Where are you, Camila? I haven't seen you in weeks. You don't call. You don't text. It's like you just disappeared off the face of this earth after we went to Topher's. I thought something bad had happened, so I went to ask your mom, but she just gave me the cold shoulder. I even thought about calling the cops, but you know they're useless."
Picturing an army of squad cars rolling up to the mansion somehow makes me smile at the ridiculousness of it all. Asher would probably just pay them to leave. And if that failed, I have the awful feeling he'd be amenable to getting rid of them in a less savory way.
'I'm glad you didn't report anything," I tell Adriana. 'I'm fine. I'm just … taking a break from things."
'Like a vacation?"
'I guess you could call it that," I laugh weakly.
'Camila." Adriana softens her tone. 'If you need to talk to me about anything, you know I'm here. We're best friends, even if you've been pretending like I don't exist this whole damn time."
Appreciation washes over me at her words, and for a single dizzying moment, I'm tempted to spill everything—all the way back to what went down that night after the two of us parted ways at Topher's Lounge. I could tell her about seeing Asher murder a man. I could say he bought the dance studio, kidnapped me, trapped me in his mansion, and then blackmailed me into marrying him.
My reflection in the mirror stares back at me. There's a glint on my left hand clutching the phone, and it takes me a heartbeat before I recognize my wedding ring catching the sunlight pouring in through the window.
I almost forgot that the ceremony was something I resisted.
It all feels different now. It's fake on the surface, but when I'm alone with Asher, our feelings don't seem so fake. And when he kissed me on the altar … That didn't feel fake.
What did he say during the toast? The vodka is bitter, but the marriage is sweet.
Somehow, I want to believe that. I really do.
'Everything is fine, Adriana," I finally say. 'I'd tell you if I needed help."
'Okay …" she replies, but from the sound of her voice, I know she's not entirely convinced. 'Don't be a stranger, okay? You know how I'm worried about you."
'I know," I reply. 'Thanks for checking up on me. And if I need anything, I'll ask."
After we hang up, I pick up my brush. Running it over my hair again, I stare at myself, trying to believe that I meant what I said. If I need help from anyone … I will ask for it.
But I don't need help.
Everything is under control.
It has to be.
'Camila Marakov, please, you must stop pacing," Ollie tells me.
'I can't," I reply, continuing to tread back and forth over the carpet until I feel like I'm about to wear a hole through it. 'She'll be here any minute. How do I look?" Before Ollie answers, I keep babbling. 'Oh, what does it matter how I look? What do I even tell her? I haven't seen her in weeks! And we were fighting before it all. She's going to lose her shit when she learns that I'm married to Asher."
Ollie tries to catch my eye, but she fails as I keep walking back and forth, wringing my hands as I stare at everything and nothing.
'You can always wait to tell her," she suggests.
'Absolutely not," I laugh bitterly. 'Mom is going to know the instant she sees me. She's too clever for her own good." Even if I took the ring off, she'd somehow suss it out. Sighing in defeat, I rake my nails through my hair and arch my back until I'm staring at the ceiling. 'Maybe it's for the best to come right out with it before she accuses me of keeping secrets. You know, rip the Band-Aid off."
Turning, I hover by the window and spread the blinds to give me a view of the driveway. Asher went to personally escort my mother to the mansion.
According to Mom, the windows of the studio were completely shattered in the shooting. Shards of glass painted the floor inside, the sidewalk, and even the street.
Once Asher told me that he was bringing her to the mansion, I called her back. Convincing her to come was … not simple. She told me that she didn't want to hide from the world, arguing that there were classes to run. And she didn't want to disappoint her students, who wanted the chance to learn from Astana Bukharova. Who, as Mom claimed, was still more than happy to teach at the studio in spite of the shooting.
Somehow, I had a hard time believing that.
I tried arguing with her that she should at least cancel classes for a few days until the window was fixed. But she argued bitterly with me, claiming that her students would simply find another studio in the meantime.
Somehow, I had a hard time believing that as well.
It finally took me telling her that she was not safe at the studio for the present moment, and making a point that this shooting wasn't a random one, for her to stop coming up with excuses. For a brief moment, I nearly told her about Yannick over the phone.
But I didn't. I wasn't ready to tell her about that. I didn't want to burden her with the knowledge that there's a psycho who's somehow even more violent than Asher out there, haunting us in the shadows.
Only when I assured her that this would be a temporary thing did she reluctantly agree to have Asher come pick her up. But even then, she reiterated that she would not abuse his hospitality forever, and that she would leave as soon as she decided she no longer needed his help.
I had to keep myself from laughing when I heard that.
Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.
'Camila Marakov!" Ollie's voice interrupts my thoughts. 'Please be gentle with the blinds. Layla will be furious."
That's when I notice I'm plucking at the window blinds, and I immediately swipe my hand away. 'Sorry," I apologize as I open the blinds wide. 'I'm just anxious."
Reuniting should be heartwarming. Instead, all I feel is a sense of foreboding illness gripping my heart in a vise.
'Look!" Ollie points.
I push my nose to the windowpane and see the gates opening inward. Asher's black Escalade rolls through.
'She's here," I say, my voice cracking.
Ollie heads for the front doors. 'Let's be ready to welcome her."
'Wait!" I cry out.
She stops short at the panic in my voice. 'Camila Marakov … it will be okay." Her eyes warm with kindness. 'She's your mother. She'll be happy to see you. You cannot hide from her forever."
Wiping my sweaty palms over my ribbed, pale lavender sweater a few times, I let out a shuddering breath. 'You're right. I can't. Okay. I think I'm ready."
Together we make our way to the front door. That's when I notice the pair of guards standing on opposite sides of the room. They're staring out the windows, but they turn to look at us as we approach. I've started to recognize the men after enough time spent around them.
The one on the left with the crew-cut and beefy body is Mikhail. He rarely speaks to me, though his smiles are kinder than the rest. The other has short blond hair and a minuscule mole under his right eye; he's also tall enough that he hunches unconsciously when he's inside, though the mansion's ceilings are more than high enough. I know him as Iosif, the man who stood behind Asher during our wedding and lowered the crown on his head.
'What are you doing?" I ask warily.
'Our job," Iosif responds, 'Camila Marakov."
'Don't scare her," I warn them. 'That's an order."
Mikhail lifts his eyebrows like I said something odd. Iosif turns his back on me, clearly not interested in what I have to say. They survey the approaching car through the windows. If they think my mother is dangerous, then they're out of their minds. I pause, then bite back a giggle. Actually, she might be more dangerous than Asher. She won't hold back if they offend her.
The front door swings open, and Asher fills the space. He blocks any view of what's behind him as his eyes dart to me. I can't read his face. He's keeping on a neutral mask that sends my nerves haywire.
Oh God, what did Mom say to him?
And as soon as that thought enters my mind, another one follows in its wake.
What did he say to her?
Wordless, he moves to one side and reveals my mother, clutching her hands around a paisley- patterned overnight bag. It's oddly shaped, packed to the brim with who knows what. She's wearing the thick gray puffer jacket that she's owned for years, and I feel a familiar sadness overtake me at the sight. She never buys anything new until her clothing falls apart. Just the habit of a lifetime of living on the edge of financial ruin.
'Mamochka!" I blurt and rush into her arms. Whatever weirdness has been lingering between us since this mess began no longer matters. I'm just relieved that she's here—safe and in one piece.
She hugs me tightly, her chin tucking into its familiar place by my forehead. 'Malyshka," she whispers. 'It's so good to see you."
Heat bubbles behind my shut eyes. Don't cry. Don't cry. With a final, extra-tight hug, I release her and step back. 'How was the ride?"
She shoots a look at Asher. 'Quiet." Her voice drops for my ears alone. 'He is not much of a talker. He wouldn't tell me why you were here ahead of my arrival, or how he has access to so much protection." She narrows her eyes and purses her lips disapprovingly on the last word.
Her eyes dart from Mikhail to Iosif.
Catching the uneasy air, Asher clears his throat. 'Why don't you show your mother around? I believe Layla has prepared a room upstairs near yours for her to stay in." He nods to my mother. 'If you need anything, just ask me or any of my staff. They're all here at your service."
Ollie, prompted by his words, steps forward and dips at the waist in a bow. Mom doesn't look impressed by this. If anything, she becomes more annoyed. Hastily I guide her toward the stairs and grab her bag handle to hide my ring from sight.
'Let's get your stuff put away, Mom."
'Oh, I can carry that for her!" Ollie shouts and takes the bag from my hand.
And in the process, the sun's glint bounces off my ring.
My legs stop working as the rest of me turns to stone. Mom backs away from me with distress on her face.
Oh no …
She stares at me with increasing scrutiny before her eyes become fixated on the ring on my finger.
'Camila," she gasps. 'Tell me I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing."
Ice-cold terror engulfs me. It's a miracle my teeth don't start chattering.
'Mom …" I start. 'It's a long story."
Pulling her shoulders back, she hoists her bag upward with a grunt. Her eyebrows dip low as she turns to glare at Asher. He holds her stare boldly. I wish he'd fumble, apologize, or do something other than look like he's daring her to attack him.
Ollie, in contrast, seems ready to faint. She mouths, I am so sorry at me.
'Show me to my room," Mom says bluntly. 'We are going to have a very long talk."
Cringing down to my toes, I sheepishly follow her up the stairs, staring at nothing but my shoes with each step. If I don't, I'll lose focus and slip. I can hardly feel my limbs, and it's as if I'm a marionette being tugged along by the strings. One step in front of the other, I tell myself. It's the only thing I can do.
I'm supposed to be leading her, but it feels like she's the one in charge now. At the top of the stairs, she stops moving. Gazing left, then right, she waits patiently for me to show her where we have to go next. Her eyes meet mine, and I quickly look away again before I succumb to her questioning gaze. It's good she isn't asking me to make casual chatter. My mouth is dry as sand, and I have the feeling that if I try to talk, all I'll be able to manage are a few choking sounds.
I motion in the direction we need to go. When we pass my room, I'm tempted in a childish way to duck inside, lock the door, and hide.
It wouldn't be the first time I rolled myself into a ball beneath my bed, away from her stern gaze, which seems to see through everything I try to hide from her.
But I can't. I have to come clean to her. I owe her that much.
I hold open the door to her room. Once she's in, she places her bag on the huge king bed. The blanket is painted with elaborate swirls of gold on the rich crimson fabric.
'Shut the door," she says, refusing to look at me.
Sweat clings under my arms as I do as she says. 'Mom … before you lay into me, let me explain."
'You're married," she says, opening her bag, lifting out items. 'Pravda?"
Here we go.
'Da," I reply. 'Pravda."
She unrolls some shirts, stroking the arms flat. 'When did it happen?"
'Three days ago."
'I see."
Torquing the ring on my finger until my skin is raw, I hang my head. 'Mom, please don't be mad. It's a long story."
The shirt she was folding falls from her hands and onto the bed. 'I'm not mad, Camila."
'I—" Wait … what? 'You're not?"
'No." She turns just enough so I can see her face. The fine lines by her mouth are screwed up like she's trying to keep any sounds from escaping. Her eyebrows couldn't be more furrowed unless I plucked them off and rearranged them. 'Let's forget about it for now. There are other things that are more important which we should be discussing."
'Okay," I say warily. She doesn't look mad ... but it's obvious she's not happy. The longer I muse on it, the more I begin to realize what my mother is actually feeling. She's sad.
God, that's a million times worse than her being pissed at me.
Is she sad because Dad wasn't here to see me get married? Is she sad that she didn't see it? Guilt washes over me again. If you only knew, Mom … This isn't even real.
Ah! An annoying little voice pipes up in my head. But some parts were real.
Sitting on the bed, she pats the space beside her. Obediently, I join her. When I'm situated, she takes a deep breath and speaks.
'Camila, what is really going on?"
'What do you mean?"
Her frown grows wider. 'You vanish from my life. You convince Asher to alter the deal so that he purchases the studio but allows it to remain as it is. Astana Bukharova herself walks into my lobby, in the flesh, explaining she'll be teaching classes … And then, for no discernible reason, the building is riddled with bullets." She leans closer. 'Don't take me for a fool, malyshka. You are hiding something."
Pushing my fingertips into my eyelids, I groan softly. 'Asher didn't tell you anything? Not even on the drive over?"
'The man was as silent as a statue."
Why did he leave this task to me? Ugh! Dropping my hands into my lap, I twist my ring again. It hurts, but I keep at it. I need something to focus on to get my words out. 'I don't want to scare you, but … You should know that someone has been stalking us."
