Chapter 37
1840words
Mila snorts. The light bounces wildly off the walls. I glance up to see her covering her mouth with one arm, shaking enough that the phone is no longer being aimed.
'Camila Marakov," her voice turns light and teasing. 'Are you jealous?"
'I didn't say that!" But my argument is weak. I look away in shame. 'But yes. I am. I mean … You're the perfect woman for him. And you've been working for him since his previous wife died, so I just thought that …"
I can't bear to finish the sentence.
Mila points the light directly in my face and I gasp at the brightness, shielding myself.
'Don't be an idiot," she says. 'I never thought about him like that. Besides, Asher is too much of a professional. He doesn't shit where he eats." Moving the light from my eyes, she shrugs. 'Nobody with brains would date an assassin anyway. Don't you dare tell him I implied he has brains, by the way. I have ways of making you hurt without him ever seeing. Ponimayete?"
I know it's not a real threat. Mila has a prickly outer shell, but inside, it's obvious her heart is massive. Why else would she be helping me when she gets nothing from the risk? Relieved to learn that there was never anything between her and Asher, I find myself wondering about something else.
'How did you become an assassin, anyway? I don't imagine there's an assassin school or anything like that."
Even in the shadows, I can spot how her toothy grin fades. She moves her phone up and down, indicating the box at my feet. 'Hurry up and grab what you need so we can get out of here."
She doesn't want to talk about it. Taking the hint, I crouch down, shuffling papers. I've collected a stack of promising documents when Mila lets out an aggravated sigh.
I notice she's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, phone still aimed perfectly at my box. Her attention is fixed on the ceiling.
'Mila?"
'Do you really want to know?" Her voice is soft, and she continues staring at the ceiling.
My heart tells me that I shouldn't pry, but my curiosity wins out.
'I do."
Mila looks at me for a moment before turning her gaze back toward the ceiling away, chewing her lip as if she's searching for the right words. My attention is now focused entirely on her, the stack of documents temporarily forgotten.
'The Grachev Bratva under Yannick," she begins slowly, 'used to deal in prostitution. And more than once, one of the women got pregnant." Her voice grows smaller, and when she resumes talking, it shivers. 'Yannick saw the kids born from those women as assets. The boys would go on to become his boeviki, and the girls … Well, we had other uses."
We? Did she just say we? My eyes widen as I hold my breath.
She straightens up, advancing on me with purpose. I start to stand, but she's faster. She kneels in front of me, ripping open her jacket and shirt to expose the skin on her right shoulder. Pressed into it is a tattoo of a fox sitting on its haunches. Its black body is surrounded by thick, detailed chains. One look, and I can tell that the tattoo has been there for a long time.
My heart is pounding now. 'Layla told me about how the Bratva marks its members. But she said the women only get tattoos if they're the last living heirs."
'Heirs!" That gets a bitter laugh out of her. It's loud enough that I glance around nervously, worrying someone might hear. 'Layla wants to protect your tender heart, Camila Stepanova." She covers the fox up, standing over me again. 'Do you know what that tattoo actually means?"
I shake my head.
'The chains are proof that I'm property. The fox means I have one purpose, and one alone. To make a living for the Bratva on my back until the day I die."
Property? My heart leaps to my throat. Did she just say property?
'That's terrible!"
Her lips form a smile. In the dark, it looks more like a snarl.
'Not everyone agrees," she replies. 'Luckily, Asher did. That's what started this whole feud between him and Yannick in the first place." She's speaking in a hush that barely passes her gritted teeth. 'Do you have any idea the kind of hell that is?"
'No," I admit. 'Didn't your mother try and stop it?"
'She had the same tattoo." Mila spins around, and the hurt in her voice is unmistakable. 'She must have. But I wouldn't know. She left this earth long before I ever realized that I even had a mother."
'I'm so sorry," I whisper. Shards of agony poke holes in my heart.
Rising, I reach for her.
Mila steps out of my range. Even now, in the midst of remembering a past that she's keen to forget, she maintains her graceful motions.
'I don't want your sympathy," she snaps. 'I'm not a fragile little girl hoping for someone to come along and sweep me away into a happy home with smiles instead of sneers."
Yes, you are. My heart breaks further for her. 'Mila …"
'You say you're jealous of the idea of me and Asher being together." Facing me fully, she allows me to see the bitterness burning in her eyes. 'But I'm actually jealous of you, Camila Marakov."
'Me? Why?"
'You can't even hear it," she says softly. 'Can you?"
She nods around the office. As messy as the floors are, the walls are worse. Newspapers, photos, and clippings cover every surface. Some are articles about the studio. The rest are pictures of me and my parents. One of them shows me standing with both of them, flowers in my arms as big as my tutu from my performance in Coppelia.
'You had something I never did," she whispers. 'Camila Marakov."
And that's when it hits me. I've never heard her patronymic. Because she doesn't have one. Her father was just some nameless man who couldn't have cared less about her mother or her. And her mother …
Mila is an orphan in all but name—one who was forced to endure unimaginable horrors since God knows how young.
'And now you know." Her voice is soft, but I can still hear it breaking. She takes a long, shuddering breath. 'Let's finish up here before we attract someone's attention."
She watches me intently as I place my hand on the photo. The paper crinkles under my touch. Memories wash over me—most of them pleasant. All of them of things I hold dear.
But it's the next photo that takes the wind out of me.
I don't know when Mom taped up a clipping from his obituary. Was it always there and I didn't notice? My nails trace the words printed on the black and white sheet. 'Mila. I need another favor."
The box of documents has to weigh ten pounds. Mila helps me carry it out the back door. She pops a small trunk on her bike and packs the box in. It barely fits.
'Thanks," I tell her.
'Just tell me where to go," she says as we get on her bike.
The trip to my childhood home doesn't take long. I could have walked it, and would have, if I wasn't worried about leaving the motorcycle behind the studio. The building is two stories, but squat enough that you'd wonder how they fit that second floor in there. I know the low ceiling and angled staircase are the secret. There's mail in the black box hooked on the top step. It's a reminder that nobody has been here in days.
I didn't think to bring my keys, but Mom always left a spare one under the crumbled bricks we used to prop open the back gate that swung shut on us when it was windy. Crouching, I retrieve it. There's something comforting in the fact that it's still where it should be.
When the rest of your memories about your past are in flux, anything certain is helpful.
Mila stays outside while I go in. Being in the studio in the dark was unnerving. But this is different. I slipped inside after hours as a teenager more than I want to admit. The floors creak under every shift of my weight. Our home isn't built as well as Asher's. But it's familiar in a way that his home isn't.
I don't turn on the lights, I don't need to—I can see well enough thanks to the streetlamp outside. The orange glow casts funny shadows around my living room. The sink is empty of dishes, probably something Mom took care of before she left with Asher. I bet the idea of leaving anything dirty behind was scandalizing. Looking closer, I notice the laundry basket of folded clothing. I can picture her washing things, organizing what she wanted to pack for the visit.
Visit, I muse silently. She hasn't asked me how long she has to stay at the mansion. She packed enough for five days. Does she still believe that this will be over so quickly?
I thought that too, once.
In my bedroom, I make a beeline for my dresser. I know what I'm looking for. I doubt it's moved since I put it in my sock drawer. There's a desire to snatch up other items while I'm here. My own clothes, shoes, a few books … but I can't. Getting caught with anything from my house would be risky. If Asher asked how I got them, or if not him, nosy Layla, Mila could get in trouble.
With a final, melancholic stare around my bedroom, I shuffle down the stairs. Mila looks up when I appear at the front door.
'Ready to go?" she asks.
'Yeah." I pat my pants pocket. 'I got what I needed."
She scans my face and then looks at the house, taking in every detail. 'So this is where you grew up." Angling her head, she offers a sad smile. 'It's nice."
There's wood rot on the roof. One of the windowpanes is cracked from a hailstorm over a year ago, and we never got around to replacing it. The paint is shoddy—not quite white, and not fully dirty. But I know her compliment is genuine.
I know it in my soul.
As we hoist ourselves into place on her bike, there's silence between us.
Strangely, it isn't uncomfortable. We've come to a sobering understanding of each other.
I set out on this mission to gain info about my family's past.
Thanks to Mila, I've gained more than that.
