Because I always do. That’s all I am, a nuisance and a problem.
“Maxim will be back,” Papa says slowly. “When he comes, I don’t want you anywhere near him. Do you understand me? The Novalov family is important, and the business connection we’re building with them might help raise our status in this world.”
“I understand, Papa.”
“Good. Now. Zarita tells me you’ve been derelict in your duties.”
I glance over at her, eyes wide. The lying bitch. I’ve done nothing but slave away for her, cleaning whatever needs cleaning, helping the girls with their problems both physical and emotional, and cooking every meal diligently. I’m the first awake and the last in bed and my knees ache and my back hurts from bending over and scraping out toilets all day.
And she tells my papa I’m not working hard enough?
Zarita only smiles at me. She knows who has the power here. My wet sneaker scrapes across the cheap linoleum floor and I want to charge her like a bull. Instead, I only shake my head.
“I’m working hard, Papa.”
His lips curl. “I’m sure you think so, Siena, but you’ve been spoiled. I told Zarita to make sure she beats that out of you.”
“And I will obey my Don,” Zarita says with a nod.
I want to scream in her face. I hate her, but I also pity her. She’s an old whore, and old whores don’t age well. She lost everything that gave her value a long time ago—her body, her wit, her ability to seduce a man. Now she’s reduced to running this place like a manager and to taking my father’s commands. I know taking power over me and the other girls is all she has in this world, but she doesn’t need to relish it so much.
“Very good,” Papa says, turning away. “You’re dismissed, Siena. Make sure you never see that man Maxim again.”
“Yes, Papa.” I cast one more glare at Zarita, who only smiles back, and I hurry away.
“Siena?”
I pause at the door and look back.
Enzo glares at me.
“There are worse places than this,” he says, head tilted to the side. “Obey your father and your don, or you will become acquainted with them.”
I wait two heartbeats before I shove open the door and leave without acknowledging what he said.
Enzo’s an asshole.
He’s got his own problems. His nose is halfway up Papa’s ass at all times and he feels as though being the responsible older brother is his only duty in the world. Without that, he’s just as worthless as me. I know the immense pressure Papa puts him under, and all the terrible things he’s done in the name of this family, and that must stain him in ways I’ll never understand.
But I’m his sister, and his loathing for me is hard to accept. It breaks me every time he acts as though I’m some kind of lesser dog, only good at barking at cars and pissing on the floor.
I return to the hen house. The girls flutter around as Mira barks at them to keep quiet or she’ll ruin dinner. I kiss her cheek and thank her for helping and she only shrugs. “No problem, girly. Camilla’s still crying for you though.”
“Is she hurt that bad?”
“Nah, not really hurt, just freaked out. I think she needs a shoulder to cry on, and that’s you, girl.”
I hug Mira from behind. “Good thing I already got my feet wet, since I’m about to drown in some tears.”
She laughs and shrugs me off. “Go on,” she says, brandishing a wooden spoon. “But don’t leave me here too long or nobody’s eating tonight.”
I smile and hurry off to the bunk room.
Enzo’s right. There are worse places to live. I don’t love being here, and I don’t love scrubbing dirty sheets and toilets and showers and cleaning blood and puke and cum from floors—but I do like helping the girls and being there for them when I can. I have purpose here, and that gives me meaning.
I can hold on to that and forget about stupid fantasies involving big, handsome Russian mobsters.
That’s for little girls, and I’m not a child anymore, all thanks to him.
Chapter 5
Maxim
The Kremlin’s always cold. It must be some sick joke. No matter how many times I turn the heat up, it magically lowers again. I know it’s not my father—he always says he left Russia so he didn’t have to freeze his fucking balls off all the time—and I have no clue who else it could be.
I run my hand down the metal railing of the spiral staircase that separates the first floor from the second and third. I could take the elevator, but I prefer the slow, twisting climb. The bottom level of the Kremlin is our communal space: the kitchens, the sitting room, the game room, the living room. Massive windows overlook downtown Dallas and the sprawl of the city spreads out like a green and brown wave. Sometimes I stand down there and watch, thinking about how much of this place we own—and how many pockets we’ve lodged our hands inside of.