Page 114 of Cruel Demands

The glass remains untouched. I tell myself Taylor is useful. Smart. Bilingual. Already inside the office. Familiar with the records, capable of identifying patterns others miss. Her foreignness gives her access to spaces where my men would attract attention. Her position beside Viktoriya could be expanded. Controlled. Protected.

The decision arrives before I can stop it. It is not that I cannot kill her. No, the truth is more dangerous.

I cannot let her go.

I carry the vodka into the piano room and sit down at the bench, wondering whether Rachmaninoff can shake loose an answer where alcohol has failed. I begin with the Prelude in C-sharp minor and let the weight of it fill the room.

My mother wanders in when I’m on my second song, leaning heavily on her cane, a cup of tea in her hand. She sits next to me and sets the mug beside my drink, listening to the rest.

“Rachmaninoff,” she says solemnly when I’m done, a smile across the grooves of her face. “You must have something heavy on your mind, my son.”

“Nothing I cannot cure with alcohol and piano, as always.”

She studies my face. “There are guards outside the east guest room.”

“It is nothing. Extra security after all that.” I wave my hand.

“You will tell me next time men with guns are in my house,” she says briskly. The possessive irritates me. It is my house.

Before I can respond, footsteps sound in the corridor. My mother’s head turns. Taylor stops when she sees us. She is cleaner, so she must have showered, but she has chosen not to change into the clothing I left her. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

Her voice is controlled. Too controlled. My mother stands. Taylor straightens as if preparing for another threat.

“Do not be sorry, Taylor. This is my mother,” I say, not wanting to tip off my mother that anything is amiss.

“Nikita Koroleva,” she says, offering her hand.

Taylor looks at me. The surprise on her face would be amusing under any other circumstances. Then she takes my mother’s hand with two hands. It is a charming handshake that I know my mother will approve of. “Taylor Hayes.”

“You are American,” she says.

“Yes.”

“She works at my office on a student visa,” I explain.

“And more than that, clearly.” My mother chuckles. “If she is here⁠—”

“No, not more than that. She got into some trouble tonight and needed somewhere to sleep. Taylor, I will show you the bathroom,” I interject.

Taylor shakes her head. “No, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She eyes the piano. “I can find it.”

“There is one attached to your room.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“Because you did not look.”

“Because I was busy wondering whether the windows opened.”

My mother watches the interaction with a stoic expression that tells me she is going to give me an earful as soon as Taylor walks away.

“Okay. They do not. Goodnight, Taylor. What do the Americans say?” I say in English, “Sleep tight. Do not let the bed bugs bite.”

Taylor’s green eyes pierce mine with so much venom that I look away first. She disappears around the corner. A door closes a moment later.

My mother turns to me. “You brought a frightened girl into my home with marks around her wrists.”

“I wish you would not say my home.”