I wake with the start and sit up in bed, panting heavily. The lamp in the corner is on, and I find the bed next to me empty. I reach for the phone on the nightstand and check the time. Half past four.
“Roman?” I call out. Nothing but silence answers me.
A sick kind of dread settles in my stomach. I jump out of the bed and run, hoping to find Roman in the kitchen. He isn’t there, and I stand in the middle of the room. Did he have some kind of business emergency? But then, my eyes fall on his phone lying on the corner of the dining room table. There is no way he’d leave his phone behind.
I pad down the long hallway on bare feet, and open the door to the gym. The lights are out, so I head downstairs to check Roman’s office. He is not there, and the whole house is silent. I close his office door, and head toward the main kitchen when my eyes come to the door that leads into the basement. I’ve never seen anyone going inside, but something urges me to reach for the handle.
The light above the stairs is on, and I hear Roman’s voice in the distance below, mixed with some strange sounds of scraping wood. The door must have been soundproofed because I didn’t hear anything from the outside. Slowly, I descend the stairs and find myself in a bare room with metal shelves lining the walls. The sounds are louder here. Roman’s voice is coming from the direction of the door on the other side that’s been left slightly ajar, but I can’t decipher what is being said because it’s in Russian.
I don’t want to see what’s happening behind that door, because deep down I know what I’ll find inside. But my feet keep leading me forward. I put my palm on the wooden surface and push.
Brian is sitting on a chair in the middle of the tiled floor, his feet and wrists tied to it. On the floor next to his feet, several severed fingers lay scattered in a huge puddle of blood. Roman is standing in front of him, leaning on one crutch with his left hand, and his right is holding a knife that’s lodged into Brian’s stomach to the hilt. He barks something at him, and starts rotating the knife. I stare in horror at the blood pouring from the wound.
A strange, choked sound leaves my lips, and I clutch the doorway next to me as my vision starts to blur. Roman turns abruptly, his eyes going wide. He takes a step toward me, and I start retreating, staring at his blood-covered hands. When Roman takes another step in my direction, I turn and run. I don’t remember leaving the basement or going up the great stairwell. When I reach the suite, I stumble through my room to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I take a few shaking breaths, then lunge for the toilet and vomit.
I’m still clutching the sides of the toilet when I hear the knock on the door.
“Leave,” I choke out.
“Nina, I—”
“LEAVE!” I scream and then vomit again.
* * *
I’m sitting on the floor, next to the toilet, when footsteps approach and Varya’s voice calls for me from the other side of the door. It’s been an hour or so since I vomited the last time, so I stand up slowly and hunch over the sink. After splashing some cold water onto my face, I unlock the door.
“Dear child,” Varya says and reaches for me, but I take a step back.
“I need you to call me a taxi. Please.”
“Don’t leave. It’ll destroy him, Nina. Please, let him explain.”
“Taxi,” I rasp. “Or I’m going on foot.”
Varya looks at me sadly and nods. I see one tear escape and roll down her cheek before she reaches for her phone.
There is a knock at the door, but I remain seated in the recliner facing the window and watch the yellow car idling in the driveway.
“Pakhan.”
“Yes, Dimitri?”
“There is a taxi waiting out front. Varya said that Nina Petrova is leaving.”
“She is.”
“Should I stop her?”
I think about it, then shake my head. “No. Send two men to follow her discreetly. Have them call me when she reaches her destination.”
“Do you want them to stay there, or come back here?”
“They will stay. I want two men on her constantly. Arrange the shifts. Tell them to make sure they are out of sight.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all for now.”
A few minutes later, Nina hurries down the steps and gets into the cab. She’s wearing jeans and her old hoodie, carrying a small suitcase. I watch her, waiting for her to turn around and come back inside. She doesn’t. The cab leaves.
I grab the crystal bottle of whiskey, pour myself three fingers, and then hurl the bottle across the room, where it shatters against the wall.