Page 29

Camilla Volkov

I try not to fiddle with the purse in my lap, but nervous energy skitters along my spine as Dimitri lifts his face from mine, his kiss too chaste for my libido but too raunchy for the children.

As he leaves me alone with his children for the first time, I fight the urge to close my eyes and hide from their judgment and instead fix my hair before looking at them.

Artur’s glare jolts through me.

Dimitri returns with the gifts from the trunk and sets them in my lap before shutting my door and getting behind the wheel.

“Are those for us? Can I have mine first?” Maksim bounces the entire bench with his energy.

“We’d better go in age order,” I decide, not wanting to upset Artur by what he could perceive as an insult.

I pass Artur’s gift up to him before letting Maksim snatch his off my lap and placing Zoya’s on her legs.

Maksim tears his open, gasps in delight, and demands I help put his watch on his wrist.

“Is this a bribe?” Artur snarks.

I glance at his profile, but scoff as I thread the band of Maksim’s watch into the buckle.

“What would I bribe you for? Good behavior? You can’t scare me away, Artur. I married your father,” I say.

Doubt plagues me, and I pour my attention on Maksim to avoid Dimitri’s eyes in the rearview mirror. I’ll lose all face if he seems even the slightest bit upset over my pompous act.

“Well, you will not make me like you with jewelry, so—”

The sound of his display box popping open marks the end of his words. He stares at the knife with longing and excitement.

Noticing Zoya eyeing her present and not wanting to make Artur feel awkward for enjoying the gift, I reach over Maksim and tilt Zoya’s gift bag so she can peek inside, hoping to pique her curiosity.

She scoots higher in her seat and considers for a moment before releasing her stuffed animal and reaching into the bag.

Her cute little fingers grab the tissue paper and pull it out with a deliberation I worry isn’t common in young children.

When I otherwise ignore her, giving her freedom to decide, she perks up and follows Maksim’s lead and pulls the biggest item—a stuffed bunny—out with interest.

She scowls and drops it over the side of her seat beside the window and does the same to the other plushie before grabbing the pastel pink box.

Trying not to take her rejection to heart, I hold my breath and lean back when she looks at Maksim for help.

Still speed talking in Russian, he lends his dexterity to his sister as though he’s done it a million times.

The familiarity between them eases my angst. They have each other.

For a while, I pulled away from my siblings and forgot how much we supported each other as we grew, but Serenity and Giorgio will always be on my side.

These three have the same unbreakable bond.

When Maksim struggles with the band of Zoya’s watch, he grunts and asks if I can do it, so I reach over and finish fastening it.

I sit back and let Maksim’s excitement flow through me as we exit the airport, but when we turn onto the busy city streets, he falls silent. All three children stare out the windows, in awe and overwhelmed at the busy streets and tall buildings.

When we park in front of the townhouse, Maksim bounces in his seat and points to the things he finds interesting. The trees, gates, different styles of buildings, street signs—nothing is safe from his zealous scrutiny.

Dimitri checks the area and waits for the other vehicles in our convoy to park in the most strategic spots, ensuring our safety as we transition from car to home.

And it truly feels like a home with Maksim’s eager chatter. Even though I don’t understand half of what he says, since he swaps between Russian and English, I fill in the gaps using his tone and gestures. Zoya becomes Artur’s shadow again as I offer them a tour of the house.

After showing the boys the room they will share, I direct the nanny to the second room and watch in concern as Zoya shies away when I point out her bed, but Maksim’s shout pulls me back down the hall.

“We have a television in our room?” he squeals when I step inside.

I sag in relief and send Dimitri a glance, begging for help.

He ducks through the doorway and asserts whatever rules he thinks are best before instructing them to wash up for dinner.

When he weaves his fingers through mine and leads me to the door, I catch Artur’s scowl in the painting on the hallway wall.

I inhale and turn the corner, feeling frayed along my edges. Dimitri senses my need for a break and leads me to the master bedroom.

“I will inform Nanny Olga of dinner plans while you rest,” he says.

“What are we—”

“Do not worry, so?lnyshka . I will have food delivered. We will not leave the house again today. Rest,” he insists.

I nod and wander deeper into the room as he shuts the door between us, but worry gnaws at me. After pacing between the vanity in the walk-in closet and the window in the sitting area a few times, I decide to follow my instincts and rush across the house.

The clock ticks in the living room. Dimitri orders food in the kitchen. Maksim and Artur’s voices filter under their door.

I stop outside Zoya’s door and give a soft knock.

A thud sounds from deep inside the room. Alarm spears through me. I push open the door and step inside only to find it empty. As I follow a second thud toward the closed bathroom door, dread churns in my gut.

Underneath my pounding heart, I hear the faintest whimper before a third blow filters into my ears.

I jerk the door wide open. My soul drops into my toes at the sight of Nanny Olga with her grip tight on Zoya’s arm and her hand raised above her head. Disbelief spears through me as she swats Zoya’s clothed backside.

Zoya’s treasured stuffed animal lies at her feet, and the three-year-old stares down at it with wild, pain-filled eyes and her thumb lodged firmly behind her teeth, muffling her sounds of pain.

Rage colors my vision red. My legs carry me across the floor and I strike with every ounce of fury roaring through my blood. Pain streaks up my freshly healed arm, but I don’t give a shit. I haul back and smack the old woman harder.

“Let. Her. Go,” I snarl, infuriated at the sight of Zoya’s delicate arm in the heartless crag’s weathered grip.

The nanny lifts her face and pulls Zoya’s arm higher, forcing her elbow high above her head.

I yank my knife from my belt.

The hag lifts an unimpressed grey brow, and I know I’ll hate the next words out of her mouth before she even speaks.

“Why fuss over so simple a thing? She—”

“Shut up, I don’t care. Get your hand off her right now ,” I snarl.

“Is only spanking,” she tuts.

“Is only stab wound,” I mock, shifting closer, daring her to defy me again.

She tsks in disgust and releases Zoya as though she touched something dirty.

“You do nothing. Too weak,” she goads.

I refrain from jabbing my blade into her hefty midsection only for Zoya’s sake. My daughter is too young for me to expose her to such violence.

“You’re fired. Get out of my house. Now. If you want safe travel back to Russia, you’ll leave without another word, otherwise I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life in the slums of New York City,” I demand.

The first hint of fear flashes over her features.

A red splotch darkens on her cheek. My hand throbs.

She opens her mouth but thinks better of it, closing it without uttering a sound.

When she shifts her gaze down to Zoya, I step in front of my daughter, shielding her with my body, and imagine every horrible way I could make the old bitch see the error of her ways.

She leaves. The moment her heel crosses the threshold, I spin around and drop to my knees, uncaring about the agony shooting through my joints. I scoop the stuffed animal off the floor and tuck it under her arm with the thumb in her mouth. My voice sounds frantic even to me.

“ Mio Dio . I’m sorry, Zoya. Are you hurt? Let me see your arm, please, baby.”

She ducks, buries her face against my chest, and grabs the side of my shirt as though her life depends on it. Her tiny body shakes. Tears, spit, and snot wet my shirt.

I wrap one arm around her and hold her tight as I use the lip of the bathtub for balance.

Agony jabs through my joints from kneeling on the hard floor, but I’d rather die than cut comforting Zoya short.

I murmur words of comfort, praising her for being brave and thanking her for trusting me, but all the while a spike drives deeper into my heart.

It hurts seeing her in pain. I’d rather walk through miles of burning coals barefoot than have her experience an ounce of hardship.

A shadow fills the doorway. My hackles rise, but I meet Dimitri’s eyes and force my protective instincts to the back burner.

“Did the nanny leave?” I ask.

Dimitri nods. His icy expression sends terror down my spine, cooling my rage and clearing a path for logical thought.

I swallow as I replay the last few moments in my head.

“What is wrong?” he asks.

“That bi—” I glance down at Zoya and choose child-appropriate words. “I caught the nanny spanking her.”

The tundra holds more warmth than my husband’s eyes. A chill races down my spine.

“I know I probably overstepped, but—”

“You did not, so?lnyshka .”

I take a shuddering breath and tighten my hug as Zoya tries to burrow under my skin.

“She was your wife’s nanny,” I argue.

“And now I know why Anastasia never hired her for our children.” His blunt response reveals his barely concealed fury. Not at me. At Nanny Olga.

He steps forward, squats beside me, and brushes his fingertips over my temple.

“You protected Zoya. I am proud, so?lnyshka .”

A dam breaks inside me, all the more vicious for my lack of realizing it existed. I drop my cheek to the top of Zoya’s head and sob.

My mother’s cruelty systematically chipped away at my self-worth. Even when at the top of the modeling industry, I always strived to be more perfect.