In which Inessa attempts to redeem herself.
Lucya…
I spend the next three days sitting in my chair, staring out the window, ignoring questions about flowers and last-minute dress fittings. Mother supplies me with candied ginger and bland bits of toast and eggs, trying to find something I can keep down.
Resting my hand on my flat stomach, I try to picture the tiny life growing there. Will they have their father’s eyes? His strength and courage? I want to teach them how wonderful their father was, how he built rooftop skating rinks to make me happy, and held me like I was something precious.
Ignoring the knock on the door, I close my eyes when I hear Inessa’s voice.
“I’m here to… to apologize,” she says, cautiously moving closer. “I just hope you don’t throw another book at me, though I deserve it.” Kneeling in front of me, she tries to catch my eye. “I’m horrible, pukhlyy- I mean, Lucya. I was so focused on what I thought I’d lost, I never bothered to see what you were going through.
‘Of course, you don’t want to marry Dmitri. To be honest, neither did I. I just thought I would be safe – that we would all be safe if I was married to the Pakhan. I’m so sorry about Alexi. I’m glad that you were happy, even if it was for such a short time. I’m glad you had that.”
Her voice breaks and I look down in surprise. Inessa is crying for someone else’s pain? For mine?
“I’m so sorry,” she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved a man, but I think I know how it must feel to lose someone you love. A bit, anyway.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to cry. My eyes are swollen and sore and my throat aches from sobbing. I’m a mess. “I know you’ve lost so much too. I’m sorry you worked so hard on this wedding just for that bastard to destroy everything.”
Inessa chuckles through her tears. “Eh. Screw him. Look…” She pulls up a chair. “I know this whole thing is horrible, but let’s do something for you. Let’s go out to dinner. Let’s dress up and…” she eyes me meaningfully, “brush your hair.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It looks like an abandoned opossum den,” she says flatly.
“Harsh truths, sister,” I say.
She gives me a shrug.
“Look, I appreciate your kindness, but I don’t want to go anywhere. I can’t… pretend,” I say. But she’s looking at me pleadingly and it’s been so long since I felt like we had a real interaction. Not since the beginning days in Boston, when all we had was each other.
So, I put on a nice dress and take a shot at my hair. It’s thick and gleefully rats up with the slightest provocation, and I’m working with four days of bedhead. I get halfway through wrestling my hair into submission when I make the mistake of looking at the mirror.
The woman looking back at me, wearing the expensive dress, has hollow eyes that don’t reflect anything. They’re pools of misery, perfect for drowning in. I’m still staring with my brush in hand when Inessa bustles in, radiating expensive perfume and determination.
“You’re not ready!” she says, “The car’s waiting. Here, sit down.”
“Inessa, I-”
“Nope!” She holding my hairbrush like a club. “We’re going to go out and show St. Petersburg that the Dubrovina women aren’t weak. We’ll show them that we’re sisters and can’t be broken apart by the Turgenevs.”
She brushes and lectures and I don’t have time to think of a defense before she’s done and propels me out the door. Two men slide into the front seat, I know they’re our family’s soldiers. There’s another car following us with an additional four Turgenev thugs.
“Ignore them.” She catches me looking behind us. “They’re not ruining this night for us, okay?”
“Where are we going?” I’m regretting this already, my feet hurt in these high heels and my skin feels scrubbed raw. I wish I was back home in my room, drinking ginger tea and dreaming of Alexi.
“A new restaurant,” she says, fussing with my hair. “It’s very popular, but I got a private room in the back for us.”
“Thank you,” I’m warmed by her consideration. “I don’t want to be around a lot of people. I don’t know how long I can fake it.”
“You might actually enjoy yourself a little bit,” she points out. “Just enough to take your mind off things for a while.”
My heart sinks when we pull up to the “restaurant.” It’s a nightclub, complete with spotlights flashing through the sky and a long line of people waiting to get in.
“Don’t worry about them,” she flaps her hand dismissively, “we have our way in.” One of the Turgenev guards speaks to the bouncer, who immediately holds the door open for us. “Ah, I’ll miss that part,” she says, linking arms with me as we walk down a side hallway, “all the VIP treatment, no waiting in line like a prostolyudin, a commoner.”
Watching her uneasily, I see Inessa coming alive. Her eyes are sparkling and she’s nodding regally to other clubgoers as we pass them. Their speculative looks and whispers are making me nauseous again. She walks with a strut, showing off her tiny waist and curvy hips.
“Are we almost to the private room?” I ask wearily.
“Yes!” She throws open the door and her iron grip on my arm is the only thing holding me in place. The room is decorated with dick-shaped balloons and streamers, and all of her friends are there, the other Bratva princesses who used to mock me, calling me “plumpy” and the Snow Monster.
“You told me that we were having dinner, just you and me,” I say between gritted teeth. “Jesus Christ, Inessa! I’m going home.”
“Oh, no you’re not!” she sang brightly, hauling me into the room. “I have the car keys, so to speak. Come on, everyone’s here to celebrate.”
I sit in the corner, pulling off the plastic tiara every time she puts it back on my head. Everyone’s already halfway to shitfaced, so I can drink water from a champagne flute without anyone noticing.
Inessa’s friends are praising her. “You’re so sweet and generous,” Mila says. She’s from the Agapov Bratva, the spoiled daughter of the Pakhan. “After everything she’s done to you, you’re still trying to make her happy!”
A cold pit opens in my stomach. This isn’t a sister’s dinner. This is purely presentational, designed to make it look like Inessa is the noble victim.
“I want to go home,” I stand abruptly. “I’ll call and get one of the drivers to come for me.”
“Too late!” Inessa trills, her grin is almost manic. “Our special guest is here!”
The door opens and a male stripper dressed in a business suit and shirt open to his navel undulates in. He’s got a solid build, muscles carefully sculpted in a way that tells you he earned them with endless gym time and steroids. He purses his lips at me, highlighting his cheekbones and trying to look sexy.
“Okay, that’s it-”
She pulls me out of the chair. “Oh no. Nikander here is going to make you a very happy woman.” Pulling me quickly to the other side of the room, she opens another door I hadn’t seen. She pushes me a few steps into the room and when I turn to leave, Nikander the stripper is blocking me. Inessa claps her hands, and the other girls join in, looking a little confused.
“This is just for Lucya,” she explains with an unhinged smile. “She’s been wanting a one-on-one session.”
Everyone looks a little shocked. Bratva princesses don’t get strippers. They definitely don’t get strippers the night before their wedding day.
Inessa pulls the door shut. It’s a much smaller room, just a couch and a table holding an ice bucket with champagne and two glasses, arranged like I’m really going to have a celebratory drink with this guy. There’s speakers, turned on high and I wince as a relentless techno beat blasts through the room, galvanizing Nikander to start writhing in front of me, dramatically ripping off his shirt and jacket, then his pants, leaving him in a purple G-string. He backs me into a chair and pushes me to sit.
I don’t see how this night could get worse, but I am wrong.
“Look, just-” I turn my face when he tries to push his crotch at me. “I’ll make sure you’re paid but I’m leaving, Nikander, isn’t it? This isn’t happening.”
“You can call me Nikky,” he says huskily, trying to grab one of my hands. He’s got an alarmingly strong grip.
I’ve worked in a nightclub for too long to not know when things are going south. “I’m not calling you anything,” I snap. “You’re getting your money, but I am not interested. Move back, please. I’m getting up.”
“Oh, no you’re not,” he chuckles, his tone darkening. “I know what you like.” To my disgust, he holds up pink fuzzy handcuffs. “Let me make this easy. You can’t say no.” He licks his lips. “So just relax and enjoy it.”
“Listen to me! This is not happening, you’re making a mistake.” He’s trying to grab my wrists and I get my foot between us, shoving him away. “I don’t want this. This isn’t a game. You do not want to piss off the Turgenev Bratva. Did they tell you I’m marrying Dmitri Turgenev tomorrow? Can you imagine what he’s going to do to you?” I feel nauseous with shame using Dmitri as a shield, but it’s all I’ve got.
Nikander is listening to me with a puzzled frown. “Less chatting, baby. Give me your wrists, you’re going to have to lay back and enjoy-” Thrashing and shrieking at the top of my lungs, I roll off the chair while he grabs at my ankles. He chuckles, “You really do like it rough, yeah?”
I want to kill him. I want to stab him in the face. My shoulder hits the table, knocking over the bucket holding the champagne and showering us in ice. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, I can feel the chilly booze run down my arm as I slam it down on his shoulder. His eyes narrow, “You’re going to regret that.”
He’s army-crawling up my body, trying to hold me down by sheer bulk so he can tie me up. I’ve still got a grip on the champagne bottle; this is my last chance. The thought of this bastard hurting me, worse, maybe hurting the baby makes me scream with fury. I swing the bottle up behind him, nailing him hard in the back of the head.
“Shhhiiiit!” he screams, rolling away, clutching his skull. “You crazy bitch!”
“Believe me, I could have hit you a lot harder!” I get to my feet, unsteady in my high heels. I’m shaking with fury. Fear. Grief. I don’t know. “When a woman says no, she means it, asshole!”
He looks genuinely confused, “But she said-”
The door slams open and Inessa charges in, eyeing the fallen stripper and broken glass. “What the hell is going on? I heard screaming.”
“The screaming was from him,” I say viciously, shoving past her. “I’m going home.”
Inessa looks over her shoulder. Her friends are still in the other room, looking confused and drunk. I can tell by their frowns that even these idiots are beginning to question what’s going on. She steps to the side and lets our Dubrovina guards take me home. They have to stop twice to let me stumble out of the car and throw up in the street. I know they think I’m drunk, and that’s fine.
“Where have you been?” Mat’ confronts me at the front door. “I’ve been worried sick!”
Laughing bitterly, I push my hair back. It came loose from the fancy updo when I had to beat the shit out of the stripper. “Inessa told me that she was taking me out for dinner. Just us sisters.”
My mother’s brows draw together. She already knows this is a terrible idea and she wasn’t even there. “Why would she? Never mind. Are you all right?”
“She ambushed me, took me to a nightclub with her precious friends and they thought they were giving me a bachelorette party.”
“Oh, my god sweetheart!” Mat’ is horrified. “Why did you say yes in the first place? Your sister… Inessa is not quite herself right now.”
Laughing bitterly, I start up the stairs. “Because there’s always been this pathetic little part of me that wanted her to love me. And it was so very hard to kill. But tonight took care of that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be loved, my sweet girl,” she says sadly. “I should have been watching her more closely.”
Putting her arm around me, she walks up the stairs, helping me into my room. There’s a dress hanging on a hook by the bathroom and I stop dead.
“Here, come inside,” she gently pulls me through the door, shutting it. “I know, it’s horrible and gauche.”
The monstrosity has a train that runs halfway across the room, the bodice is covered in what I suspect are diamonds and the whole lurid thing must weigh five hundred pounds.
“I can’t- I can’t do this-” I’m shaking my head, trying to back away.
Her little hands grip my arms, hard. “Listen to me,” she whispers. “I’ve sewn two pockets under the skirt. I added slits in the surface of the dress so you can slip your hands into the underskirt and pull out what you need from the hidden pockets.”
“What do I need, Mama?”
It’s easy to forget that my mother was the daughter of one of the most brutal Pakhans in Moscow, she’s so sweet and delicate. But her eyes are hard now. Holding up a white switchblade, she says, “This is porcelain. Just as sharp as a regular blade, and it can’t be picked up on a metal detector.”
All the strength leaves my legs and I sit down abruptly.
“This is a fast-acting poison.” She holds up a vial with a little clear liquid. “It’s odorless and tasteless. You’re not going to have time for subtle. This will incapacitate him within sixty seconds, and kill him within three minutes. You might have better luck with this than the blade.” Mat’s lower lip trembles before she straightens her spine.
“This is going to happen, isn’t it?” I ask bleakly.
“Your baby has to be protected,” she says. “If Dmitri finds out…”
“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him first.” I take the vial and the knife from her, hiding them in one of the bags going with me to the church tomorrow. “If they do something to me…” My head is swimming. I know what happens to traitors. “You’ll take care of my baby, right? They’ll let me live long enough for that. To give birth to a Turgenev.”
Tears are streaming down her face, but I’m not sure if she knows that.
“Of course.” She sits back on the bed, putting a pillow on her lap and patting it gently.
‘I remember this,’ I say, ‘when I was a little girl, you would put my head on your lap and stroke my hair while we listened to music.’
She chuckles softly, ‘All my favorites; Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, the Cure.’
Curling up by her side, I feel her hand stroke my hair and we stare at the horrible wedding dress in silence.
