Chapter 62
1988words
I wonder how many different ways I can rearrange the potatoes on my plate without actually putting any in my mouth. So far, I've created a snowman, a three-legged dog, and a pretty decent interpretation of the Eiffel Tower. They're still warm, which seems impossible. Because I swear I've been sitting here forever.
My mother sits to my left—she hasn't eaten either, but she's on her second glass of wine. Yannick watches us from across the table. His appetite is just fine. The food on his plate is half gone, and he stabs a chunk of steak, dragging it through the bloody juices before bringing it to his mouth.
My stomach gives a heave as his lips smack.
From the nearby room, Roman cries out excitedly. The noise of him clacking his toys together has been the only thing keeping the dinner from being entirely silent. He joined us for all of five minutes before he finished his meal and asked to be excused.
I've never seen a kid shovel down a meal as fast as Roman did. Yannick watched the boy fondly, like he was proud of this gluttonous show, before giving Roman permission to leave the table.
If I could be excused by simply clearing my plate, maybe I'd force the food down.
But I don't want to leave my mom alone with this monster.
Yannick glances over in the direction of his son. A faint smile crosses his lips before he looks directly at me.
'Is something wrong with your food?"
I set my fork down harder than I have to. 'I don't have an appetite."
'Ah." He shrugs. 'I can have something else whipped up for you if you like."
'What I'd like," I say calmly, 'is to not be sitting at the same table as a murderer."
My mother releases a tiny, pressurized bit of air from her lips. It's the only sound she makes. I don't look at her—my attention is fixed on Yannick—but I imagine her face is pure anxiety. Meanwhile, his is nothing but relaxed arrogance. He doesn't react or say anything. Hell, he doesn't even blink in response, as if my words are meaningless.
Lifting his glass, he takes a sip before replacing it on the table.
'Roman!" he calls.
There's some shuffling in the other room, and then the young boy runs into view. 'Yes, Papa?"
'Go play in the basement," he says with a kind expression on his face. 'I brought a new video game back for you. It's down there next to the PlayStation."
'You did?" Roman's face lights up with glee. 'Thank you!" His laughter can be heard long after he's left the room. Once it fades entirely, Yannick stares in my direction.
The kind expression still remains, but there's something unmistakably sharp in his gaze. For a foolish moment, I'm afraid that if I stare too long, he might cut me with his eyes.
Stay strong. I swallow uncomfortably. Don't show him any weakness.
'You called me a murderer, moya dorogaya doch," he muses softly. 'Why?"
I recoil at what he calls me—my dear daughter—and fight the urge to scream back that I don't belong to him. But I don't. I remain fixed in my spot, unable to answer at the moment.
Mom rocks in her chair, fidgeting from the growing tension. Her glass is empty. Gripping the bottle, she refills it, a few drops splattering from how violently her hand trembles.
Reaching over with a napkin, I clean the mess up for her. She gives me an appreciative, if weak, smile. It's enough to give me the strength to answer.
'What's to explain?" I ask as casually as I can. 'Is that not what you are?"
'I suppose." His lips curl up slightly, and his tone remains disturbingly mild. 'But this sounds less like a general accusation," he folds his fingers on the table, 'and more like a specific instance you have in mind."
I spare another glance at my mother. She's looking down at her food like it's the most interesting thing she's ever seen. This could be a trap, I tell myself. He might be baiting me, trying to get info. But this shouldn't be a secret ... He knows what he did, and I know he knows that Asher has told me.
Pulling my shoulders back, I sit up and speak with confidence. 'You killed Asher's wife, Kristina. His pregnant wife."
Mom ducks her head lower.
Yannick's eyebrows crawl like worms, wrenching together like he's in pain. All the cold, calculating air around him has evaporated. In its place comes something more fragile, something … vulnerable. He looks away, and for a second, he seems almost sympathetic.
I don't like it one bit.
'Moya dorogaya doch," he whispers. 'There is so much that Asher hasn't told you. So much that he's left out."
'He told me enough," I retort quickly.
'Enough for you to hate me," Yannick whispers. 'Enough to make him the hero of the story."
As much as I want to throw it back in his face, my own curiosity stops me from doing so. I lean closer. 'What do you mean?"
'You'll learn more in due time."
'When?" I urge, my curiosity growing by the second.
'Once we're safe." His eyes crinkle from his sad smile. 'From Asher."
I'm taken aback by this. He's swiveled the conversation in a direction I never predicted. He's playing games with me; that's all this is. Asher is not a danger to me, only to him. But a tiny part of my mind is frazzled by the implication of Yannick's words. Asher told me that Yannick murdered Kristina. Mila confirmed the grisly details of what that monster did before killing her. Yet the look of pain that crossed Yannick's face is real.
And that's enough to make me believe that Asher left something out.
I still believe that Asher is the good guy in this sordid story. But I'd be lying if I said there isn't a part of me that wants to know what happened on the other side. What could he mean when he said that Asher told me enough to make him the hero of this story?
'Since you're not hungry," he says, wiping his hands on a napkin, 'you're free to go. Why don't you go entertain Roman? Get to know your little brother."
The words hit me like a slap to the face. It's like he delights in reminding me that I'm not Stepan's daughter but his. He's speaking in the same way that Asher does: it sounds like a suggestion, but it's an order.
I fight the urge to wrap my arms protectively around my stomach.
I know better than to defy an order right now.
Slowly, I push my chair back. My mother starts to copy me, but that's when Yannick holds up a hand to stop her.
'No. Katyusha," he says, 'you stay. It's been years since I've seen you up close. And there are years of intimate conversations I missed having with you. We have so much to talk about. So much missing time to get to know each other once again." His grin tilts higher, at an angle, and he runs his tongue across his worm-like lips as he rapes her with his eyes. 'Just like old times."
Mom shoots a terrified look my way, begging me for a way to save her from this. But both she and I know that it's an impossibility. Her lips press together into a bloodless line. Wordlessly, we communicate our shared fear. I fight the urge to grab her hand and drag her from the room. I start to reach for her hand, but she sits down heavily in her chair, settling the matter.
Yannick rises from his seat and walks over until he stands behind her. His thick fingers gently caress her face before he grips her chin roughly and forces her mouth open.
'Oh," he tuts as he seizes a handful of her hair. 'You have aged like fine wine, Katyusha. And I intend to drink you dry."
She closes her eyes, trembling, as a single tear rolls down her cheek.
She knows what's going to happen ... And she knows we can't fight it.
'Run along, now, Camila," Yannick whispers as he yanks her forcibly to her feet. 'Unless you want to stay and reenact the shame of that cuck who imagined himself your father."
I look at my mother, and through her tears, she forms a single word silently on her lips. Go.
Furious at how powerless we are, I turn away, rushing through the door to the basement where Roman is. I shut the door quickly behind me, wanting to shield myself from the hell that my mother is about to suffer. Anger courses through me, and I wish desperately that I had something—anything—that I could use to hurt Yannick.
'Camila!" Roman shouts excitedly when he sees me. He's sitting on the floor in front of a TV as big as a picture window. In his small hands is a PS5 controller. 'Are you here to play with me?"
Settling on my knees next to him, I return his eager smile with the best one I can manage, even as my heart shatters. My insides are still twisting, my brain still focused on what that monster is about to do to my mother. Roman has no clue what is going on above us.
And for his sake, I want to keep it that way.
'Sure," I say. 'What kind of game is it?"
'It's a racing game! You can design your own cars, give them custom paint jobs, and even buy extra parts to make them faster when you race with other people. This is the one I made." He scrolls through the menus on the screen, displaying a very detailed racecar that has all the usual details that would appeal to a boy of ten.
'Wow, that looks really cool," I say, occasionally looking up at the ceiling. Am I imagining it, or did I just hear something scraping across the floor? 'Your dad lets you have whatever you want, huh?"
'Our dad, Camila." Roman grins even wider as he inadvertently cuts me with his words. 'And yeah, he always gets me the best things. It's awesome." He passes me a controller. 'Here, you can pick the track we race on."
'Thanks." He's much sweeter than I expected him to be. I guess he didn't take on his dad's awful personality. Grateful for a distraction, I sit down next to him, tapping my controller to view the different levels. 'This is my first time, so I'm not as good as you. Please go easy on me."
'Dad is really busy these days." Roman's smile fades for a second, but I catch it nonetheless. 'He tries to play when he can, but it's hard for him to make the time."
'Oh," I say gently. 'It's a bummer you have to play by yourself."
'No, I play with others," he corrects me.
'You do?" Glancing up at the ceiling again, I frown as I picture the gun-toting guards hunching over the video game. 'Who?"
'Papa has lots of girlfriends. They're really nice." He taps some buttons, focusing on the screen intently. 'None of them stay around very long, so they never get good enough to beat me. I think it's because we move a bunch and they forget where we live. That's why they don't come around anymore. Pick a level, Camila, any level!"
Girlfriends ... lots of them... My heart jerks sideways. The only women I think someone like Yannick knows are prostitutes. I remember Mila, her chained fox tattoo, and suddenly I taste acid on my tongue.
Yannick's been bringing the women who are forced to work for him around Roman.
His son doesn't know the truth.
