The world turns into crunching glass, blurry motion, and screaming. So much screaming. I don’t even realize it’s me until the car comes to a rest on its side, my shoulder stuck down against poor crushed Vito. His window is against the pavement, and mine’s up in the air.
It takes me a few seconds, or maybe a few hours, before I figure out what’s going on.
“Shit,” I mutter, hurting all over. There are glass shards in my hand. I pick one out, groaning. “Oh, fuck.”
Silence. So much quiet. Why aren’t more people screaming? We just got into a terrible car accident, and the world nearly ended. But there’s nothing. Just a soft hissing noise.
“Vito?” I reach down for the old man, but he’s not moving. There’s a cut on his forehead, and it’s bleeding profusely into his face. “Oh, god, Vito!” I try to feel for a pulse, but I’m trapped by the seatbelt and having a hard time getting my fingers in the right spot.
Then I hear the voice.
I almost think it can’t be real. I’m concussed. I’m dreaming. That voice can’t be here, right now, in this horrible silence.
But I hear it again.
“Dasha, Dasha, Dasha. Are you still alive, my Dasha?”
No, no, no, this can’t be happening. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. The scar on my face throbs, an ugly wicked pulse. Memory assaults me: the stink of the cage, the reek of my own piss and shit, the thin nasty oatmeal he shoved in through the bars, the stale old water he fed me through a water bottle like a fucking animal. The hot pain of the knife scraping the flesh on my face. The relief when I staggered out of that cage and into the blinding sunlight.
“Dasha, darling, it’s been so long.” The voice is closer now, right outside the car. I struggle to look around, retching with terror. I see a man moving nearby through the splintered windshield. “When I heard it was you, I couldn’t believe it. I really couldn’t imagine. But finally, after all this time—”
The face of my captor from twelve years ago appears in my window, lips stretched back over yellow teeth, his unruly red hair disheveled and wild, blood leaking from his right nostril, his eyes bright and manic just the way I remember them.
“No,” I moan, trying to get away, but I’m stuck. I can’t get away. It takes me way too long to realize I still have my seatbelt on. “No, no, this can’t be real. You’re dead.”
“I’m dead?” he asks, sounding surprised as he reaches his strong arms in through the window. He grabs me, one hand snapping open my belt, the other dragging me by the bicep toward him. “Nope, not dead, at least not yet. Not for a while if I’m lucky.”
“Stop it, get off me.” I thrash and fight, but he’s so strong and I’m still weak from the accident. He pulls me through the window, glass biting at my shoulders, scraping new ugly wounds into my skin.
New scars, new nightmares.
He tosses me onto the ground at his feet and stands there, beaming like he just won the lottery.
“You look amazing, Dasha,” he says, clapping his bloodied palms together.
It’s really him. I can’t believe it, but it’s really him. Older, thinner, his hair graying in a streak across his temple, but it’s definitely him. I’ll never forget those eyes, that crooked mouth, that childish grin.
“How?” I croak, pushing myself away, trying to crawl to safety.
He stomps hard on my ankle.
I scream in pain.
“You really don’t know?” He digs his toe into my foot. I groan, jerking away, and start crawling again. He follows along happily. “Your father made a deal with my father. He didn’t tell you? My god, here I was thinking I had a shitty family, but wow, that’s unbelievable.” He laughs like he’s actually delighted. “My dad was a politician. Lots of clout where it mattered. And your father decided it was better to show mercy and make my father owe him a favor than it was to end my stupid drug-addict life. So instead, I was sent away to this ugly rehab place for three long years.” He stomps on me again and I cry out, but this time I lash out with a piece of glass I grab from the ground. It slices into his shin and he hisses in pain, jerking back.
I use the car to drag myself to my feet as he curses and kicks his foot around.
I’m hurting in a thousand different places and I’m terrified for the baby. I keep thinking about Tigran, about our child. About everything I’ve gone through and how much stronger I’ve gotten.
And now, this bastard’s back in my life.
“How are you here?” I ask, slicing the glass in the air to keep him back.
He’s not smiling anymore. “Your husband started killing members of my family. I just couldn’t have that. I’ve been watching you, Dasha darling, just like the old days. Imagine how excited I was when I realized Tigran Sarkissian married you. My god, the coincidence. It’s too delicious.”
He jerks forward, catches my wrist, and turns it. I gasp in pain, dropping the glass. He draws a gun and jams it to my neck.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, staring into his eyes. “You should be dead, you sick fuck.”
“And now you’re going to be. Sorry, Dasha, but I can’t let the Sarkissians and the Zeitsevs actually make this stupid alliance work. Nothing personal, just like last time.”
I struggle, spitting curses, but he’s twice my size and way stronger.
This can’t be happening. I can’t die, not right now, not after learning about the baby.
We had a future. We had a life. And now mine’s forfeit, and my baby’s going to die with me.
Tigran’s child. The love of my world.
All my heart bled out onto the concrete.
There’s a roar. I think it’s my captor pulling the trigger, but instead it’s a person falling from the top of the car. Vito slams down on top of us, knocking the gun away.
The men start to struggle and curse. I skin my palms catching myself before my head smashes on the street. Vito’s like a wild animal, but he’s old and my captor’s young, and it doesn’t last long. My captor shoves Vito away, the old man gasping in pain, and rips a knife from a sheath at his hip.
He stabs Vito right in the chest, sinking the blade to the hilt with a snarl.
I scream and throw myself forward. I hit my captor in the back, punching and kicking wildly, screaming and crying as blood bubbles out of the wound. Vito coughs, gasping in horrified pain, both hands holding the end of the knife as my captor releases it and stumbles away under my assault.
I hit blindly, rage driving me into a frenzy. There are more voices around us now. Witnesses, people from other cars, from a nearby bodega, all of them watching. I’m dimly aware that they’re on the phone and calling the police. My captor falls backward, snarling at me, but stops when he notices all the attention.
“Lucky bitch,” he barks and turns away. I stand there, hands curled into bloody fists, a defiant scream on my lips, as he turns and runs. Two bystanders try to stop him, but he knocks one over and hits the other before sprinting around a corner.
“Vito.” I run to him and drag the old man into my lap. “Oh, god, Vito.”
“Dasha,” he whispers, eyes fluttering.
I try to stop the bleeding. I leave the knife in because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? You leave the knife in? But there’s too much blood welling up around the blade and he’s got blood on his lips. He coughs a spew of it, a fine pink mist off to the side, and his voice is weak as he reaches up to touch my cheek.
“I was a shit person, Dasha,” he rasps, fear in his eyes. “But saving you was good. Not a bad way to go.”
“You’re not going anywhere. Hold on, okay? Someone called 911. Please, just hold on.”
“Tigran’s on his way. I sent him an SOS. Please, don’t blame yourself. Strength, Dasha, strength.” He coughs again and grimaces. “Strength, Dasha.”
“No, please, Vito—” His eyes slowly close. His breathing is shallow and pained, and pink bubbles foam at the corners of his mouth. “Vito! Wake up, please, you can’t die right now!”
The bubbles stop, and his chest stops rising with them.
“Please, Vito,” I say, sobbing. This old man has been nothing but good to me. He was kind when I first came. He drew me out of my room and helped me gain confidence again. He was the first person I told about the baby. Tears spatter down onto his unmoving face. “Oh, god, please, Vito.”
Then a car screams to a stop nearby. A door slams closed. And someone’s at my side. I struggle when they try to pull me from Vito’s body until I realize it’s Tigran.
“I got you, baby,” he says, pulling me against him, hugging me close with those strong arms. “God, baby, I got you, I got you, I’ll never leave you again.”
My body shakes as I cry against his chest, and I just keep telling him, over and over again.
“I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m so sorry. I’m pregnant.”
