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Chapter
Eighteen
“What she did not realize is the dream was only the start of a long nightmare.”
? Jason Medina
Volk
Tanya Petrova, a delicate and mysterious woman, was a sight to behold.
In the streets, you might mistake her for a young girl, not a forty-four-year-old woman who sold her body for a living. Her blonde hair cascaded like a veil, her skin as pale as moonlight. But behind that delicate exterior was a woman with a very mysterious past.
Rumors swirled about her.
Some said she struck a deal with the devil for eternal youth, others whispered about a vengeful spirit’s curse. Her mismatched eyes—one blue, one brown—fuelled whispers of witchcraft.
Tanya entered prostitution after a tragic turn in her life. Her lame husband was murdered by a neighbor who found out he had impregnated his wife. In a rage, the neighbor shot him, slit his throat, and left his headless body in their yard.
With no other way to survive, Tanya ended up on Igor’s payroll.
But it was Vlad who offered her an escape from the brothel’s grime.
As Dve parked the SUV, I stared at Tanya’s small brick house with its white fences and red roses climbing the walls.
What fucking secrets lay behind those walls?
“I don’t think Vlad’s here. Marina lied to you,” Dve murmured.
I lit a cigarette, its glowing tip dancing in the air. Taking a deep drag, I rolled my shoulders, seeking relief. Cigarettes were my only sanity these days, the only thing that could clear my mind from that infuriating, feisty brunette who wouldn’t leave me alone. Thoughts of Sofiya’s body—her ass, tits, mouth—kept creeping in.
Fuck.
I took another drag, hoping the smoke would calm my racing mind. I wanted her so badly it consumed me day and night, and that pissed me off even more.
I shrugged. “I know she did.”
Dve frowned. “Then why the fuck are we here?”
I grabbed the folded picture from my pocket and handed it to Dve.
Inhaling one last time, I opened the door and tossed my cigarette. The cold air smelled of burning chimney.
It was past midnight, and the world seemed asleep. Or so it appeared.
No lights shone from Tanya’s place, but I knew she was there. Waiting.
“Volk, I don’t get it,” Dve said, handing back the photo.
I took one last look at the picture before pocketing it.
“You think that’s the same house?”
I nodded. “It is.”
I found the picture a couple of nights ago in the study, which is why I invited Marina to dinner. Hidden between two dusty books, The Captain’s Daughter by Pushkin and Le Horla by Maupassant, it fell to the floor when I reached for the first book.
Black and white, it showed a young girl in the arms of a man with his face scratched out. She clutched a small box adorned with a tiny cross.
