Page 56 of Bratva Sacrifice

I’m due for another birth control shot soon. Maybe I’ll ask Alexei to schedule one for me early, just to be safe.

I don’t protest when he drags me back once again as he lays back on the couch and nestles me up against his chest. More affectionate than usual, Alexei pets my hair and peppers kisses against the top of my head. It feels like an apology for hurting my feelings, even if it was unintentional.

This time, at least, Alexei is the sweet one.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Alexei

Why don’t you like Moscow?” Katya asks quietly, her cheek pressed against my chest. She is sweet again, her legs tangled with mine. The softness of her skin beneath my fingers is soothing to my senses. Maybe she quiets the things that are loud in me. Maybe she softens the things that are sharp. Maybe her sweetness, her softness, give me a peace I know I do not deserve.

I run my fingers through the tangle of her blonde hair. “Moscow never liked me,” I tell her. “It is not so easy, koshechka, to grow up in a place that rejects you.” But I think she knows this, too, in her own way. In the way of a daughter whose father never truly claimed her.

“But your family—”

I shake my head slowly. “No family. Not since I was four. Anatoli and I, we grew up together in dyetskii dom. Orphanage.”

“Oh,” she says, and her soft little fingers stroke my chest. “I’m so sorry.”

She feels sympathy for me; for the little boy I once was. “There is no need for this,” I tell her. “Dyetskii dom was better than home.”

“Do you remember your parents?”

I shrug. “My mother, a little. My father—mostly I remember his fists.” I feel her flinch, feel her turn her face into my chest and the kiss she places there, like this can heal the wounds of a little boy who has not existed in decades. “To grow up in orphanage, this was not unusual. After fall of Soviet Union, there was economic collapse. No jobs, no money. People could not afford even necessities. Many children were surrendered at dyetskii dom during this time.”

Another little stroke of her fingers. “Your parents gave you up because they couldn’t feed you?”

“Nyet. By then, the economy was recovering. They only didn’t want me anymore.” I do not care about this any longer, but Katya does. Her soft heart compels sympathy even for her captor. “I was delivered to the orphanage with a broken left arm. I had stolen and eaten a special treat, something my father meant to save for himself. As consequence, he snapped my arm. And my mother—she feared he would kill me. That he would be jailed for this, the death of an unwanted child.”

“Alyosha,” she whispers. There is an ache in her voice. This tender heart that makes her so soft. How could I not want her softness for myself?

“Orphanage was better,” I tell her again. “But not by much. The dyetskii dom that Anatoli and I were in was…difficult. Too many children. Not enough of anything else.” Probably this was a problem in many overpopulated cities. Probably there are children in dyetskii dom who are properly cared for, maybe even loved. “When there is so little,” I tell her, “it becomes necessary to fight for everything you want to keep. Food, clothing. Blankets in winter. Older children bully younger. Bigger children bully smaller.”

“And the staff didn’t intervene?”

“Occasionally,” I say. “If maybe a major injury might result. But staff on government wages, working long hours, watching too many children? Mostly they have only a blind eye for these things. So I learned to fight dirty. And even so young, even with my broken arm, most of the time I won.” I shrug. “Maybe I inherited my father’s rage.”

With the tips of her soft fingers, she traces the lines of my tattoos, and I find this soothing. Comforting. Like the weight of her half-sprawled over me. “How long were you there?” she asks.

“Eleven years. Until I was fifteen. When Anatoli turned eighteen, he was forced to leave. I left with him.”

“On your own?” Katya chokes incredulously. “At fifteen?”

I chuckle. “This also is not unusual,” I tell her. “In Russia, for orphans, often there is no other option. The bratva often recruit from orphanages. Boys for foot soldiers, girls for prostitution. The education of orphans was—not good. Mostly it was religious. There is almost no chance of college for children from dyetskii dom. But in the bratva, even low-ranking members have money enough to eat well, to live well. And you can earn your way to better still. Best, even.” I cradle her hand in mine, draw her soft little fingertips to the inked star on my shoulder. “These stars I have on my shoulders mean I was best. I earned my way. So Anatoli did as well.”

“But you outrank him,” she says. “Even though he’s older?”

I shrug. “I earned this also,” I tell her. “I went to prison for him.” I feel her flinch. Even with this soft American life she has lived, still she knows that a Russian prison sentence is not a pleasant thing to experience.

“What did he do?” she asks.

“He assaulted someone who deserved it. A police officer who preyed upon young girls, using his status to frighten them into silence. When Anatoli discovered this, he beat him nearly to death.”

“Good,” she says, and there’s a viciousness in it that is so startling, it makes me laugh. She is like a butterfly with claws. Delicate but unexpectedly dangerous.

“This officer identified Anatoli,” I tell her. “But it was dark the night Anatoli kicked in his ribs, and he could not be wholly certain. So I confessed to it instead. To keep Anatoli out of prison.”

“Why?”