35. Katya

I undress for bed but keep my necklace on. I’d rather have Yuri here to make me feel safe but that won’t happen so the necklace it is.

I shut the lights and sit on the huge windowsill ledge looking outside. I don’t know how much time passes as I sit quietly, thinking, rubbing my stomach. The bedroom door creaks open, wider and wider, a dark figure creeps towards my empty bed.

I watch it creeping closer, making a dull wheezing sound, a cry but not quite until it reaches my empty bed and fumbles around with the pillow until it realizes the bed is empty. “Kat?” Viktor cries.

“Dad?” I ask in the dark. “What is it?” I slide off the ledge and flip the light on to see Viktor clutching a knife, standing over my empty bed with a crazed look on his face.

“Kat,” he cries, the knife falls limp in his wrist.

“What are you doing with that knife?” I ask incredulously but I can feel his answer even if it hasn’t become words or a thought yet in my head.

“Ah Katya! Dmitry and now you? Why even have children if they plot to overthrow you?” With quick, rodent motions he swiveled his head at me, then the bed then the room and window then at the knife in his hand.

“Dmitry?Overthrow?Petya killed Dmitry.”

“On my orders. Dmitry was trying to take me out, so I acted first. And now you… here … and a baby to usurp me.”

“I was payment for that debt?” It made sense. Did I somehow know this the whole time but refuse to see? I had been so wrapped up in my grief and anger I never really looked at it.

He took a step towards me, closing off all escape routes, though the knife still hung limply in his hand.

“Katya. Why else come back here … I tried to finish you off at the graveyard, but you escaped me then, but not this time …” he said through tears taking another step towards me.

I held the Russian cross necklace in my hands, ready to open the knife if he got any closer. I couldn’t hesitate this time like with Petya.

These last few months have aged me quite a bit, in experience and understanding and maturity but it had ravaged my father. His hair was mangy, his clothes hung on him like a wire hanger, and there were food stains visible all over the jacket, pants, shirt and tie. His eyes were pink and puffy and adrenaline soaked.

Looking at him, I almost felt pity but then I remembered what he just admitted to. Dmitry and now me and my unborn child. It was him or us.

“Dad, I never wanted the Bratva, you know that,” I tell him, not meaning it.

“You lie.”

As he steps closer, I don’t hesitate. I don’t want to hear his explanations. I don’t care about his reasons. He killed Dmitry and sent Petya after me. I should have let Yuri kill him months ago. Years ago.

Now Yuri wasn’t here to do it. I fell off the ledge and step towards him, taking the blade from the cross and hold his wrist with the knife down and stab my blade in his throat and step back. The blood spurts all over me, and he holds his hands up to his neck to stanch the bleeding.

He can’t.

I watch as the life spills out of him, carmine-colored an. he light dies in his cold black eyes.

I did this.

I chose this.

I calm myself; the adrenaline is making me twitch, making me breathe heavily. I wait and calm down as much as possible.

“Nikita!” I scream and hear his footsteps, urgent.

“Yes, Katya?” he asks as he enters then trails off as he sees the bloody scene and Viktor, lying dead in his own blood at my feet.

“Clean this up for me.”

He looks from me to the body and hesitates, I can see the questions on his face and the turmoil but his phone rings before he decides.

“Don’t answer that. Clean this mess up as I told you.”