6. Viviana

I hear the door to my room open, but any connection between my brain and my body has been severed. Or, if not severed, then shriveled up and dehydrated like the rest of me.

I know I should sit up and prepare myself for whatever horror Trofim has lined up for me now, but I can't bring myself to care.

Unless it's a glass of water dancing through the door, I don't want to waste the energy.

"Viviana?" A deep voice sing-songs my name.

I'm hallucinating,I think. Or maybe I'm going crazy. Can dehydration make you hear voices? It's the only reason I can think of why I would be hearing my father's voice in my ear.

"Wake up and give your daddy a hug."

My eyes snap open to find my father leaning over me.

I'm still hallucinating, but it's worse than I thought. I'm hearing and seeing things.

When my father would be gone for work, he'd come to my room as soon as he got home. It was the only time he ever seemed excited to see me. He'd wake me up and give me a hug. Then present me with whatever trinket he bought for me on his trips.

I used to think it was sweet. Now, I know he just wanted to make sure I hadn't gone anywhere.

"You've looked better." The hallucination that looks remarkably like my father—wrinkles and gray hairs included—assesses me with a wince. I feel like a rotted carcass left to bake in the sun. I can only imagine what I must look like.

I try to talk and break into a coughing fit. Once I can manage words, they come out in a hoarse whisper. "Go away."

"I thought you'd be excited about visitors at this point. Especially a visit from dear old Dad." He lays a warm, rough hand on my elbow.

I jolt up so fast my chains go taut. I cry out as the sores on my wrists reopen. But the pain is gone the second I look at my father again.

"You're really here," I rasp.

"Did you think you were dreaming?" he asks with a smile. "I guess I should be flattered."

My weak heart is sputtering against my chest. I feel like he could blow me down with one breath, but I'm ready to go. To run. To fight.

"How did you get in here?" I whisper. "How did you know where Trofim was keeping me?"

Is Trofim still alive? Does Mikhail know where I am? Do you have a gun and can I be the one to shoot Trofim between the eyes?

A million questions swirl around in my head, but they all go quiet as my father's face splits into a cruel grin. "Who do you think loaned Trofim this safehouse to hold you? Who do you think told him where to find you in the first place?"

Dread splashes over me like a bucket of ice water. "You betrayed me?" I gasp.

He leans close, his upper lip curled back. "You betrayed me first, Viviana. Don't act like you didn't have this coming."

He's rotten all the way through.

I'm not sure why I didn't realize it sooner. But it took me until this moment to understand that there is no good in him.

When I turned twelve, the chef at whichever exclusive restaurant my father chose to host our celebration delivered a chocolate sphere to the table. It was bigger than my head and I tried to smile and look grateful, but all I could imagine was breaking my front teeth trying to eat a solid ball of chocolate. Then a waiter arrived with hot fudge. He poured the fudge over the chocolate and the sphere began to melt. It fell away in big pieces and revealed, inside, a decadent, four-layer chocolate cake. The best chocolate cake I've ever had.

I fooled myself into thinking my father was like that chocolate cake. I believed that, inside, he was warm and sweet and tender. He just had a hard outer shell. His role in the mafia and the world required him to be tough. But inside, deep down, he loved me. He had to love me, right?

Now, I know all of that was bullshit. It was nothing but the desperate fantasy of a little girl.

"You aren't even going to try to help me?"

"I helped you once before," he hisses. "I arranged a perfectly fine marriage for you—a better match than you ever could have hoped to find on your own. And you spat on it. You complained and argued. Then, at the first chance, you ran away."

"I ran for my freedom."

"And how are you liking it?" He throws his arms wide and gestures around the room. It's so small that he could stretch out and touch opposite walls if he wanted. "How does freedom feel?"

"The only reason I'm here is because of you. Because you ratted out your own daughter!"

Mikhail kicked me out. Trofim kidnapped me. My father turned his back on me.

I have no one. I'm all alone.

"You're here because we all have to face the consequences of our actions one day. This is what you get for failing to kill Trofim the way you promised." He shrugs like there's nothing else he could have done. "You didn't kill Trofim and you ran from me when I wanted to help you."

"You're mad because I didn't kill Trofim, but now, you're helping him?" I ask incredulously. "It makes no sense."

"It makes sense when you understand that Trofim and I have one big thing in common: we couldn't trust our own family. Trofim's own brother overthrew him and his father put up no resistance."

"Because he was a psychopath and needed to be overthrown!"

"And you," he barks, jabbing a finger in my face, "ran off and left me in the lurch for six years. You made me look like a fucking embarrassment who couldn't control his own daughter."

"Controlling your daughter by forcibly kidnapping her isn't less of an embarrassment."

His jaw works back and forth. He's older than I last saw him. His hard edges have softened. "I'd rather you be married to Trofim than dead."

I snort, but it sends me into another round of coughing. My vision starts to go black before I'm able to get it under control. "I'm going to end up dead either way. He's killing me."

And my baby.

Would my father change his mind about anything if I told him I was pregnant? When I was pregnant with Dante, I was able to convince my father that it would work in his favor. I doubt I can manage that again.

He'd probably just tell Trofim about the baby. Then I'd be cut off from any connection to Mikhail at all. At least this way, I can keep a part of him with me.

"He won't kill you if you play along, Viviana. Trofim is going to reclaim his rightful place in the Novikov Bratva and he'll take care of you."

Between the two of us, I'm the emaciated, dried-out husk. And yet, I almost feel bad for my father.

"If you really think Trofim can beat Mikhail, then you have no idea who you're up against."

Disappointment I recognize well settles on his brow. "Just because Mikhail was nice to you doesn't mean he's the better leader. Actually," he adds, "the fact that he was nice to you means he isn't the better leader. Because a good leader never would have picked up his older brother's trash."

I want to be offended, but I don't have the energy. I'm being held hostage by a man who is going to die trying to overthrow a man who didn't want me. Who maybe never wanted me to begin with.

What a fucking mess.

"Mikhail isn't nice to me anymore," I mumble.

"That's even more reason for you to grab the lifeline Trofim is throwing you."

"What lifeline?" I retort. "If you're talking about this cell, you should look around. I'm dying in here."

"Because you're resisting," he growls. "But if you cooperate, he'll take care of you. I made him swear he would."

My poor father. He has the audacity to make deals with dangerous men, but none of the common sense to understand when he's being played.

Trofim is never going to take care of me. He might keep me alive. He might wield me like a shiny trophy he won back from his brother. But he'll never take care of me.

"How is he going to take care of me in this cell?"

"He isn't," he says. "Tomorrow, he's unlocking the door."

I sit up. "He's going to let me out?"

"For a special event." He nods slowly. "Tomorrow, you and Trofim get married."

I could scream and fight. There's enough anger inside of me that I'm sure I could channel some of it towards leaping off this bed and wrapping the chain dangling from my wrist around my father's neck.

But he would fight back. As weak as I am, my father would overpower me.

And what would happen to my baby then?

What would happen to Dante?

Mikhail doesn't know Trofim is alive. He doesn't know his brother is coming for him. If Mikhail still sends Dante to that boarding school, Trofim could track him down. He could hurt him. He will hurt him if I don't play along.

There's no way out. The only choice I have now is whether I fight for myself or fight for my babies.

The decision is easy: I lie back down on the bed and close my eyes.

I listen to my father leave as silently as he arrived and pray that Mikhail will keep Dante close.