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“My mother was murdered.” Something flashes through both of their faces. “She was killed in our home in Italy.”
Nikolai’s jaw becomes tight, and as I look over to Mikhail, I see him shaking his head.
Tears immediately rise to my eyes.
“I miss her.” I whisper, my voice barely audible now. “I miss her more than anything. I miss my family too.”
Tears threaten to spill down my face, but I blink them away.
After all that has happened, both over the last few days, and even today, I know that I can’t cry in front of them.
I won’t.
The room becomes silent for a moment, and I know that they’re both processing what I’ve said.
Even if they’re Russian, and I’m Italian, we’re both from a similar background.
Bratva.
Mafia.
Organisations where men rule. Organisations where women and children are to be unharmed.
I know what they’re thinking about—I’m thinking about it too.
If women are to be unharmed, then how is it that my mother was murdered?
I look back at my own situation, a sinking feeling appearing in my stomach.
If women are to be unharmed, then how is it that they’ve taken me, and they’re keeping me captive?
My fingers begin to tremble against the bed.
Nikolai reaches down, taking my hand in his, tugging me up so that I’m now standing.
Mikhail steps closer too, throwing the duvet over, as they both help me into bed.
Their hands are all over me, keeping me safe, as I lie down in bed.
I allow myself to drift into the past, my memories feeling a little faint now, like they’re just dreams I can barely reach.
But there are some moments I’ll never forget.
The warmth of my family’s love.
The way they would hold me when everything else fell apart.
I think back to the memory of Papa holding me so tightly, his strong arms wrapped around me as he kept me close.
It was the day that Mama passed.
His face—so fierce, and so determined too—peered down at me, tears in his eyes as his hand brushed all over me, making sure that I was safe.
My rock. My protector.
When Papa would hold me, nothing could hurt me. He was always soft with me, so loving in a way that I knew most made men weren’t with their daughters.
And Dario, my brother.