34. Chapter 34

34

Clara

S omeone’s gone full Martha Stewart on my closet while we were at Katerina’s. Every fancy-ass Chanel piece is lined up like soldiers. Kayla’s work—had to be. Woman probably irons Leonid’s underwear.

I pull a towel tighter around myself, water dripping from my hair as I stand in front of the closet. The shower was quick, barely enough to scrub away the mess of vodka, sweat, and regret clinging to me, but now I’m here, staring at rows of silk, lace, and buttons that scream discomfort.

I flick through the hangers, my fingers pausing on a black cashmere sweater before moving on. Today’s underwear—red lace—itches against my hip, a choice I instantly regret. Why didn’t I grab something sensible during that Chanel spree?

Oh, right—because I was too busy grabbing red-bottom heels and leather jackets, acting like a petty diva. One second, I’m playing dress-up, the next, we’re peeling out of the parking lot like something out of an action movie. Now, all I’ve got is skimpy, lacy, and nowhere near comfy. Perfect for a fancy hostage situation, not so much for surviving Leonid’s unpredictable moods.

I sign, grabbing a white silk dress. Simple. Basic. Unlike the clusterfuck that was last night. Unlike the three hours it took me to get from Katerina’s to here, trying to ignore the way Leonid wouldn’t even look at me. He shoved the helmet at me without a word, kept his visor down the whole ride, like last night hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t whispered “ beautiful” against my skin hours before.

Instead, he was distant. Silent. And I’d spent the entire ride with the taste of vodka and remorse in my mouth, trying to forget the way his hands felt on me.

I yank the dress off the hanger, shaking my head.

Christ, Clara. What happened to “I’m going to kill him”? Instead, you were begging him to—

“Mommy! Mommy! Holy cow, there’s a Charizard in your room!”

Elijah crashes in like a tiny tornado, iPad practically glued to his face. Kid’s acting like I didn’t disappear last night, too busy with his shiny new toy. His hair’s still wet—someone gave him a bath and dressed him in a Pokémon T-shirt and tiny Burberry joggers.

“Look what Dmitry showed me!” He shoves the iPad in my face, bouncing like he’s mainlined sugar. “Pokémon GO! They’re everywhere , Mommy! I got three Pikachus already!”

I drape the dress over my arm, dropping to one knee. “That’s really cool, baby.” I stand, running my fingers through his damp curls.

Turning to the full-length mirror, I wince. That fancy-ass massage shower with its eighteen different settings might’ve worked out the kinks in my muscles, but it did jack shit for my dignity. My skin’s still flushed, marked up like a goddamn road map of last night’s mistakes.

Here I am, a shitty-ass mother and a shittier revenge-seeker, still tasting vodka, still feeling the goddamn throbbing ghost of Leonid’s delicious cock and the throbbing vein in that perfect “V” spot. But hey, at least my kid’s living his best life hunting digital monsters in our… what? Prison? Sanctuary?

“Mommy! Mommy! Did you see that?” Elijah’s fingers mash the iPad screen like he’s cracking a secret code. He bounces on his toes, eyes glued to the screen. “I caught it! I caught it!”

“That’s awesome, buddy,” I say, forcing a smile as I drape the white silk dress over the bed. The fabric gleams under the light, sleek and understated, its fitted waist giving way to a subtle flare at the hem. Not exactly my style, but it’s the least complicated thing in this ridiculous closet.

Elijah doesn’t even glance up, too busy muttering about Charizards and Pikachus. “Dmitry says I’m so good, I can beat anyone!”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” I drop the towel from my body and tug the dress over my head. The silk feels cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the flush still lingering on my cheeks. Just as I smooth the hem, two sharp knocks sound at the door.

“Come in,” I call, glancing over my shoulder as Kayla steps inside.

She moves with her usual quiet efficiency, her silver-streaked bun neat as ever. Her warm, slightly formal smile softens the edges of her sharp features. “ Se?orita Clara, lunch is ready downstairs. Will you and Elijah be joining us?”

“How’s everything been here?” I ask, hesitating for a beat before adding, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here last night. Was everything… okay with Elijah?”

Kayla’s hands smooth the apron tied around her waist. “Elijah was fine, Se?orita. Dmitry kept him entertained. He’s quite good with children.”

A flicker of guilt tightens my chest, but I nod. “And Dmiry and Maksim… and Leonid.” I press my lips down, speaking his name. “Are they here… now?”

Kayla’s crow’s feet deepen slightly. “ Se?or Leonid and the others had… business.” She smooths her apron yet again—a tell I’m starting to recognize. “They’ll return for dinner.”

Business. Oh, that’s a cute way to describe the kind that involves polished suits, offshore accounts, and people who disappear without a trace.

Kayla’s eyes shift to Elijah, now pacing in circles with the iPad clutched tightly, mumbling something about “catching the next one.” His small sneakers scuff faintly against the rug as he focuses on the screen, brows furrowed in a concentrated frown. Kayla watches him for a moment, her lips pressing together, her expression softening. But only slightly. Then, as if deciding she’s lingered too long, her gaze flicks back to me, sharp again.

She adjusts her apron and begins to turn but halts mid-step when I speak. “Kayla, how long have you been with Leonid?”

She freezes for half a second before turning to face me fully.

Her dark eyes meet mine. “Fifteen years, Se?orita ,” she says, her tone steady but quieter now, as if she’s choosing her words carefully.

“Fifteen years…” I repeat, nodding slowly. “That’s a long time.”

Elijah breaks his pacing routine, walking directly into my legs. The soft thud jolts me. I steady him with a hand on his shoulder, shaking my head at the oblivious look he gives me before returning to his game.

“Careful, buddy,” I murmur, my fingers brushing his curls briefly.

Note to self: screen time is for special occasions only—like surviving mornings like this.

I glance back at Kayla and offer her a small smile. “Thank you… for taking care of him.”

She hesitates for a beat as if unsure how to respond, then her expression softens. “No, Se?orita ,” she replies, her voice warming slightly. “Thank you.”

Something about the way she says it makes me pause. There’s weight behind her words, a meaning I can’t quite place. “Why do you say that?” I ask, tilting my head.

Her hands smooth her apron for the umpteenth time, her fingers twitching like they need something to hold. “ Se?or Leonid,” she starts, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “He looks… happy.”

She presses her lips together, perhaps realizing she’s said too much. Her gaze darts briefly to the door before settling back on me.

Happy? My heart tightens at the word. Why? What’s changed? Questions churn in my mind, but before I can voice them, Elijah pipes up from his spot near the rug.

“Mommy! I caught another one!” He beams at me, holding up the iPad like a trophy. His eyes finally drift to Kayla, lighting up with excitement. “ Tía Kayla!”

Kayla’s face softens instantly. She crouches down, her hands automatically smoothing Elijah’s shirt. “ Si, peque?o . Did you catch the big one?”

“ Tía , did you make those special cookies again? The ones shaped like stars?” Elijah asks, bouncing slightly on his toes.

Her lips curl into a faint smile, the kind that comes from someone who’s worked hard to hide her warmth but can’t help letting it slip. “ Si, peque?o ,” she replies. “With extra chocolate chips.”

I watch them, something twisting uncomfortably in my chest. Two days ago, we were prisoners. Now my son’s running in circles over Pokémon, getting star-shaped cookies, and wearing little designer joggers like we’ve been here all along. The bedroom door’s been unlocked since breakfast. No guards. No threats. No cages. Just an illusion of freedom.

What’s your game, Leonid?

Kayla rises, her attention still half on Elijah as she pulls something from her apron pocket. It’s a photo, the edges creased and worn. She hesitates before holding it out to me. Her eyes shift between the picture and Elijah, who’s already back to rambling about his Pokémon stats.

“He is very much…” she begins, her thumb brushing the photo’s edge. “The way he tilts his head when he concentrates. Just like Se?or Leonid.”

My fingers freeze on the strap of my dress as I take the picture. It’s old—Leonid, much younger, bent over paperwork with the same intense focus Elijah gets when he’s drawing. The resemblance punches me in the gut.

Shit.

“The eyes, too,” she adds quietly.

I glance at Elijah, who’s oblivious, still rambling about Pikachu. My fingers tighten on the edges of the photo as the room feels suddenly too small.

“Do you think so?” the words slip out before I can swallow them back. It’s the only thing I can manage.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.