Chapter 59
2385words
'These are delicious!" I shovel the third pancake into my mouth. They're silver-dollar size, perfect for two bites, though I'm making one work.
My mother chuckles with delight at how I devour the breakfast she's made. 'Good; you need to eat as much as possible for that baby to be healthy."
'If that's enough of a reason to eat a stack of these every morning, I'm game."
That draws a full-bodied laugh from her. 'Here." She arranges five more little pancakes onto my plate. 'I can make more."
'Oh, no?—"
'Nonsense, malyshka. It won't take long." To prove her point, she sways over to the large blue bowl on the small counter. There's barely enough space for the eggs and a bag of flour, but she makes it work. She's used to having less than this.
Watching her whisk up more batter, I'm reminded of living with Asher. I wish I could stop thinking about that time, but it's futile. That man and his world left an impact on me. As great of a cook as Danil was, nothing beats my mother's home cooking.
The scent of hot butter and crispy batter fills the kitchen. She sings the old Russian song that bears her namesake—Katyusha—under her breath as she works. Here and there I can hear the familiar lyrics, but the line and to the soldier on the frontier, send him Katyusha's love, it makes my heart ache for Asher again.
Drizzling syrup over the food, I get too rambunctious with the bottle. 'Oh, come on," I groan.
'What happened?"
'I got syrup on my arm." Holding up my hand, I see that I've poured the sticky stuff all over my wrist as well. The sight of Asher's prayer beads covered in the mess makes my chest seize up. Quickly, I slip them off—the beads cling to me from the syrup. 'I need to wash these right away."
My mother plucks them from my grip. 'Let me do it." She pauses, studying the prayer beads closer. 'These are made of wood. They need a careful and gentle touch to not permanently damage them." She zeroes in on my frown and gives me a reassuring smile. 'Spokoino, malyshka. Sit and eat."
Unsure if I should, I hover over my chair. But watching how she sets Asher's beads onto a dish towel by the sink before expertly flipping more pancakes before they burn, I know the bracelet is in good hands. Sitting again, I slice a three-layer chunk with my fork. I don't need a knife for these tender morsels. I'm swallowing the mouthful when the doorbell rings.
My mother cranes her neck to look in that direction. 'Is Adriana visiting us?"
I shake my head. 'I don't think so, but she's not the best at keeping to a schedule." Normally she arrives with supplies every three days. Sometimes she pops in just to hang out though, which I appreciate. Witness protection is a lonely business.
Pushing my chair back, I walk to the front door. 'I'll get it. Don't want you to overcook the pancakes." She clicks her tongue disapprovingly in the background at my teasing. Yanking the knob, I see who's outside. He's a tall man; that's what I notice first. He's lean like a swimmer, from what his clothing indicates. The short leather jacket he wears reminds me of Mila's, though it's thicker around the collar, the material stiffer. His shoes are expensive and clean, polished with care.
The gray cap on his head hides most of his hair, though the strands peeking out by his temples are black like coal. I don't recognize him. He smiles kindly, the motion making his blue eyes flash as they crawl over me.
'Good morning."
'Hello," I say cautiously. I peer around him, searching for other people. Instead, I see a car parked on the curb. It's the same shade as cement, the model something expensive I don't know by name. The windows are tinted so I can't tell who, if anyone, is inside.
'Can I help you?"
His head cants to one side so slightly it's as if he barely moves. 'I believe you can."
'Camila?" Mom calls, coming up behind me. 'Who is it?" I turn to respond, but then I freeze.
My mother's face drains of all color.
'You …" she whispers.
Confused, I squint warily at the man who's standing on the doorstep. With a grand smile that goes from ear to ear, he bows his head to us.
'Privyet, Katyusha." His eyes slide to me, and I feel like someone has doused me in ice. 'And my lovely Camila. It's lovely to finally speak face to face."
I don't say anything back to him.
'A shame," he sighs sadly, 'that you don't recognize your own father."
I taste the bile rising from my stomach.
'No, no, no," my mother whispers beside me.
Removing his hat, the man dips his head. It feels like he's mocking us instead of showing respect. 'Well? Aren't you going to let me in?"
I move to slam the door shut—he catches the edge, muscling it open no matter how much effort I use to try and block him. 'Mom!" I yell. 'Call 911!"
'That won't be necessary," he grunts, pushing the door all the way open. I stumble backward, bumping into the couch. Yannick dusts himself off before locking his eyes on me. There's no urgency in his movements. This is a man who lacks doubt … a man who is sure he's already won.
Mom is clenching her hands at her chest. She's bent at the waist like she's trying to make herself smaller so she can vanish into the wall. I hear her whispering something under her breath; I think she's praying.
Ignoring her, I bolt into the kitchen. Whipping my head from side to side, I snatch up the fork I was eating with. I have to protect us! On instinct, I cover my belly with my free hand. ALL of us.
'Stoi, devushka!" Yannick says. He swaggers into the kitchen, looking around with vague interest. Seeing him here, among the remains of the wonderful pancake breakfast I was having minutes ago, is surreal. 'We should be celebrating our reunion, not fighting."
'Fuck you!" I shout, lunging at him with the fork. His fingers wrap around my wrist, throwing me with my own momentum. I let out a scream before landing hard on the floor on my shoulder. The fork bounces across the ground until it ends up near the fridge.
Kneeling beside me, Yannick cups my chin. 'You have my fire in you."
Curling my lip in a snarl, I whip my arm out, slapping him with such impact that my palm stings. 'Get away from me!"
His head is knocked sharply to the left by my hit. Gingerly, he rubs his jaw. His eyes settle on me with the same amusement as before. I don't scare him at all. 'Look over there." He points to one side. Following along, I notice my mother is in the kitchen doorway. She's trembling, hands over her mouth, but she's not watching us.
She's staring at the red beam of light on her chest.
'Mom?" I whimper.
'You see," Yannick says patiently, his tone sickly sweet, 'I didn't come here alone. I wasn't sure what to expect, so I needed to take precautions."
I swallow nervously. Someone is aiming a gun at my mother.
Yannick taps my shoulder to get my attention before indicating the window over the kitchen sink. 'You can't see him, but he can see us. Now listen closely, moya dorogaya doch. I don't want to hurt you. You're useful to me. But as for Katinka … she finished her usefulness years ago." He turns to her. 'But you remain just as beautiful as I remember. Perhaps even more with the passing of time."
The terror in me is all-consuming. I hated Yannick before, or I thought I did. Now I know what the word hate actually means.
'Don't hurt her," I whisper. 'I'll do what you want."
'That's my good girl." Patting my head, he stands to his full height. 'Let's go outside. Our ride is waiting for us."
Remaining on the floor on my hands and knees, my arm wraps around my middle, protective of my baby. Careful, don't let him notice. I eye Yannick with worry. He can't know about the baby. 'Where are you taking us?"
'Less questions, more doing as you're told."
'Let me at least pack some things."
He smirks knowingly. 'I'm not letting you bring your phones. Katyusha?" My mother stiffens when he says her name. 'Go and pack some clothing for you both. Do it quickly, and no tricks."
Mom shuffles out of the room after a brief, apologetic glance at me. She's on the edge of a heart attack. Yannick is right to choose her for that task; I'd definitely try to slip a phone or weapon along for the trip. My mother is acting like a scared child. She won't dare disobey his orders.
Yannick's shiny shoes enter my eye-line.
'Up," he instructs. Carefully, I rise while willing my knees not to shake. Mom might be terrified—I'm scared too—but I have too much pride to show it. He focuses on me with new interest. 'I've watched you for a long time. You've grown so much, my child."
I grimace openly in disgust. 'You're not my father. I don't know you."
His voice is tender, but his eyes are sharp as razors. 'We'll have all the time in the world to change that."
My mother clings to me in the back seat of the car. The small backpack she loaded with clothing is cradled in her lap, bumping me with every shift of the car.
Yannick rides up front in the passenger side while a man with a double chin and ham-sized shoulders drives. I hear Yannick call him Osip, but the driver himself hasn't spoken a word to any of us. He barely looked at me when we got into the car, and now, half an hour later, that hasn't changed.
What's going to happen? I rub my mother's back. She's terrified, unable to lift her eyes from the floor. I think back to how she froze up at the house.
Yannick ... he's the reason.
Glaring at the back of his head, I replay the way everything went down. It didn't matter if Mom did call for help; he had us surrounded. He knew we couldn't escape. How did he find us? Where did we mess up? Jonah and Adriana have been extremely cautious. The burner phones, fake identities, no visitors other than the doctor—the safe house should have been secure!
The car jostles as we roll over a rougher section of road. Peering out the window, I see that we're on gravel. It's a long strip that curves around some trees, hiding the two-story house until we're nearly on top of it. The sky above is packed with gray clouds. Even the weather wants me to know this place is grim.
'Here we are," Yannick says, 'your home away from home."
Before I can open my door, someone else does; he's a thin man with wavy brown hair down to his shoulders and a precisely shaped mustache. 'Out, now," he says in a harsh grumble. When he grabs for me, I slap his hand away.
'I'm coming," I say coldly. Taking my mom by the elbow, I ease her out behind me. Together we stand in the chilly morning air. I'm wearing the same thin tights under a blue shift dress as I was earlier. I hope Mom packed me something warmer in her bag.
The man in front of me twists his lips into a sneer. I'm not cowed; I stand taller, eyeing him calmly.
'It's okay, Fyodor," Yannick chuckles as he exits the car. 'They won't try to run. They're smarter than that."
My hackles rise like a wary cat's. Resisting the urge to respond, I hold my tongue, studying the house instead. The roof is a sharp peak, dark sienna shingles slanting over the top level. The pale yellow paint is faded, the closed curtains behind the many windows hiding the interior. Next to the large front door stands a pair of men openly wielding shotguns. One of them has a leash in his hand—the muscular pit bull on the end watches us with its mouth hanging open. Its fur is the same color as the foreboding sky.
The dog, like it senses my unease, begins to growl from low in its barrel chest.
'Don't worry about Centurion," Yannick assures me. 'He won't bite unless told to."
'Why are we here?" I demand.
'You'll understand soon. Come along now." He motions lazily over his shoulder without looking back. I glance down at my mother, trying to communicate to her with just my eyes that everything will be fine.
She focuses solely on our shoes, shaking like a leaf in a storm. The bag is cradled to her stomach like it's a shield.
Gently, I pull on her until she walks with me as I trail behind Yannick. Osip gets out of the car. He and Fyodor bring up the rear, creating a wall behind us. Both gun-wielding guards nod at Yannick as he approaches. One of them opens the door for him. The pit bull's lips twitch over its fangs as I pass by it. It doesn't budge, but my pulse remains on high alert until we're inside the house and out of its reach.
'I want you to meet somebody," Yannick says. Curling his fingers to tell us to follow, he heads down a hallway in the house. I study the walls as we walk; there are no photos, no art, nothing of substance. This place is bland, worse than a house being shown for sale.
Nobody lives here. I frown thoughtfully. He's just using it as a place to hide. It's working, because if Asher knew where Yannick was, he'd attack him here. I'm reminded of how hard Asher worked to lure Yannick into a trap. He was waiting for a chance to get me alone. Our fake wedding has proved pointless.
We gained nothing.
