Page 16 of Bratva Sacrifice

It’s not a long walk down the street before Alexei stops before a massive black SUV. It’s a Range Rover, a model that runs at least two hundred thousand dollars. “This is my car,” he says as he fishes a set of keys out of his pocket.

I’ve been taking public transportation for over two weeks, now. It never occurred to me we’d be taking a car. His car. His two hundred thousand dollar car.

He opens the door for me, like a gentleman. I shouldn’t be so nervous, I don’t think. I’ve taken Ubers before without incident. This is just a little more…personal.

Still, I hesitate. “Where are we going?” I ask.

That vaguely cocky grin cuts across one cheek. “Your choice, Katya. Where do you want to go?”

Discreetly, I press my hand over the fabric side of my purse and feel the outline of my phone within. Remind myself that Darren’s just a text or phone call away. “I don’t know,” I say. “Actually, I just moved here recently. I haven’t had the time”—or the money—“to explore much, yet.”

His brows lift in interest. “I’m new to Minneapolis, also,” he says. “Perhaps we explore together then?” He’s still standing by the open door, waiting for me to get in. He doesn’t care that passersby have to skirt the massive door to get by. He’s just waiting, patiently. Like he knows I’m a bundle of nerves.

At least he doesn’t know I’m on my first date.

I draw in a deep breath and climb into the car. The leather seat is warm and soft; the interior is pure luxury. It’s scrupulously clean and smells like it’s just been detailed. Probably it has been. If he’s got the money to own a car like this, he’s got the money to keep it in its best condition.

Alexei shuts the door after me and walks around to the driver’s side.

“Sorry,” I mumble as he climbs in. “I usually just take public transportation. A car like this”—and a man like him—“is a little daunting.”

“You don’t apologize for this, Katya,” he says simply, and I relax a fraction in my seat, oddly relieved.

If I had to measure how much of my life I've spent apologizing for silly things, for stupid ones, even for things that weren’t actually my fault—it would add up to a lot. Most of it in these last several years, since after my mom died. Because the only way to get even a shred of approval was to make myself smaller. To take up less space. To speak only when spoken to. To agree without question, and to sacrifice my comfort for someone else’s.

Alexei starts the car, and the console lights up. The shiny infotainment system activates. His hand clasps my knee. “Seatbelt,” he says.

Oh. Right. I fumble for it and buckle myself in.

Alexei waits, one hand on the steering wheel, one on my knee. I can feel the heat of his palm through my faded jeans. “We have time before dinner,” he says casually. “Unless you are hungry now?”

“No, not really,” I say. I took my lunch an hour ago, and the sandwich that was my daily on-shift concession is still heavy in my stomach. But it’s only a little after three, and there’s hours left before dinner. “Do you…want to be out that long?” With me?

“Is Saturday,” he says. “I have time for dinner. Do you?”

After work, I have nothing but time. There’s nothing waiting for me but my little motel room. Even though I hate being there any longer than I have to be, since the walls are so thin I can hear everything that happens in the adjacent rooms, I don’t really have anywhere else to go. “I have time,” I tell him.

“Then you tell me, Katya,” he says, squeezing my knee. “What do we do until dinner?”

I wrack my brain for an answer. I haven’t been here long enough to hear about more than a few local hotspots, and somehow I can’t imagine him walking around the Mall of America of his own accord. “Do you like the outdoors?” I ask. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see Minnehaha Falls.”

Alexei chuckles, and his hand releases my knee so he can access the navigation application on the infotainment system. “You type,” he says. “I don’t know how to spell this.”

I punch in the name, and the navigation system pulls up the route. I’m a little surprised that it’s only a fifteen minute drive. It feels like something you should have to drive much further to reach. Instead, it’s only a few minutes down the highway, nestled between Minneapolis and Saint Paul, just a bit to the south. The spidery lines branching out from it suggest there’s a number of walking trails.

As the GPS chirps out instructions, Alexei pulls the Range Rover smoothly out into traffic, and I watch the little arrow that represents the car on the screen follow the indicated path.

“Tell me about yourself, Katya,” Alexei says as he takes the first turn, directing the car toward the highway. “How long have you lived here?”

“Not long. About two weeks? I, um—” I’m not sure how much I can tell him. How much I should tell him. I press the toes of my shoes into the floor mat of the car. “I’m taking a gap year, kind of.”

“Gap year?” he repeats, with a quizzical intonation. “I don’t know this.”

“Kind of like a vacation,” I say. “Sometimes people take a year off to travel after they finish school, or between different kinds of school—maybe just after high school, or before pursuing an advanced degree.”

“But you are working.”

“I can’t afford to travel much,” I blurt out, and I’m cognizant of the fact that I’ve said this while playing passenger princess in a car that it would take me ten years to afford on my wage. “I’ll use my degree eventually,” I say, and I hope fervently that it’s true. “I’m just taking a bit of time for myself first.”