Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
I try not to dwell on that, on the animosity between them that seems to grow every day, but it’s impossible to ignore. I’ve been home less than a week, and I’ve already caught Mama crying twice. Papa isn’t much better. He’s drinking. And not the kind of drinking he’s always done, where it’s a glass or two of cognac after dinner or a few shots of vodka at a party. No, every day this summer, Papa has been drunk from noon onward—and I can’t help but wonder if it’s my fault.
Yesterday, through the vents in my bedroom, I heard Mama screaming at him, and I caught my name being mentioned. Why, I don’t know, but I suspect it has something to do with what happened to Dan over the winter holidays. I didn’t tell anyone in my family about receiving Dan’s ring, but somehow, my father and my brothers found out. Most likely, Lyudmila, Natasha’s housekeeper, said something to my guards. Or to Pavel.
Apparently, he’s been seeing her for the past year. Mama told me so yesterday.
I don’t want to think about Pavel with Lyudmila, or about anything to do with that winter break. It’s been less than a month since I’ve stopped waking up in a cold sweat from a nightmare where Dan’s corpse emerges from the Moscow River and waddles toward me, hands waving—minus the finger with the ring. Not that I have any reason to think he’s in the river. His body hasn’t been found, though I don’t know if anyone has really looked.
After my father confronted me about the ring and the note, I had no choice but to tell him the full story, including the part about Dan’s advances. Papa was beyond furious. A vase might’ve gone flying at one point. Unfortunately, most of his fury was directed not at me, but at my mom, for hiring Dan and making me take lessons with him. No matter how much I protested that I was the one at fault for not speaking up, Papa wouldn’t listen.
Their fight that day was so awful I’ve blocked it out of my mind. Unfortunately, I can’t block out the soul-crushing knowledge that a man I knew is dead because of me.
Alexei Leonov killed him.
I still don’t understand his motivation. Not for that note, not for any of it. Nor do I understand Papa’s reaction to Alexei’s involvement. All three of my brothers were enraged to learn that Alexei took this upon himself instead of letting our family handle it, but Papa was strangely calm about it. “I’ll talk to him,” was all he said, and that was the last I heard of it.
I wish I could be that chill, but I’m not. Knowing that it was Alexei who made my tutor disappear torments me nearly as much as my guilt over Dan’s death. Yes, Dan was a creep, but he didn’t deserve whatever befell him at Alexei’s hands. And it was Alexei’s hands—that note made it crystal clear.
Why did he send it along with the ring? Even if he thought Dan deserved to be killed for touching me, why did he do it himself instead of simply saying something to my family?
The one and only explanation that comes to mind is so insane that I shut it down as soon as it invades my thoughts. I refuse to even entertain that possibility. It’s true that in our world, men do these sorts of things when other men poach on their territory, be it business or women. But that’s ridiculous.
There’s no way Alexei thinks of me as his territory.
Still, my subconscious must’ve latched on to the idea because my other nightmares—the ones from which I wake up feeling strangely hot and uncomfortable—involve a black-eyed demon coming to claim me, his blood-stained hands embracing me and his wicked mouth smirking as he drags me down into his terrifying underworld.
I have only three days of my summer vacation left when Mama comes into my room. Her pretty face is unusually pale, her eyes red and swollen underneath her makeup. She must’ve had another major row with Papa.
“Alinochka, there’s something your father and I need to speak to you about,” she says, her voice scratchier than usual. “Get dressed and meet us in the library in a half hour, okay?”
I sit up straighter on the couch, my heart lurching into a faster beat. “Why? What’s going on?”
She attempts a smile. “Nothing. We’ll talk to you when you come down, okay? And do wear one of your nicer dresses, please. We have company.”
She leaves, closing the door behind her, and I stare at it blankly before springing to my feet. I have no idea what’s going on, but my stomach feels tight, my chest cold. This isn’t usual. My parents don’t do joint talks with me. If there’s something they want, Mama always talks to me on her own. It must be something big. But what? If she hadn’t mentioned company, I would’ve thought my parents were finally getting a divorce, but they wouldn’t want witnesses to that talk. Unless it’s lawyers? But why would they want me to look nice for that?