Page 12 of Ruthless Sin
Before I let my eyes close, I map the room.
The main door. The high window above the dresser if I can clear the frame. The narrow gap behind the wardrobe if I need to flatten my spine and disappear into the dark. The small window in the bathroom that unlatches onto the sloped porch roof if the perimeter falls.
Four exits. Same as last night. Same as the night before that.
The counting doesn’t stop just because the numbers stay identical. The counting is the only thing keeping my blood cool.
I lie down on top of the linen covers, fully dressed in my layers, my right hand locked around the knife in my pocket. My left thumb tracks the empty, rusted metal chain resting against my collarbone.
The chain Alexei left behind when he ripped the locket from my chest.
Sleep comes late and keeps dropping me back on the floor.
Yob tvoyu mat’. Fuck it.
I am so goddamn tired of being tired.
When the soft thud hits the wood in the morning, I hear her before my eyes are open.
Two knocks. Short. Quiet. Her knuckles are small and light against the paneling.
“Good morning,ma fille.”
The French endearment laid soft over the vowels. She uses this for me.
I stay perfectly still and offer nothing.
The lock clicks, the door opening barely an inch, and the wooden tray slides across the floorboards into the room. The oak slams shut instantly, the deadbolt rolling back into place.
“Coffee, too,ma fille.”
A second ceramic click hits the floor. The cup.
I wait until the slow, small rhythm of her footsteps fades down the grand staircase before I drop onto my hands and knees.
I crawl across the floorboards toward the threshold.
I don’t have to. No one is watching. My body doesn’t care.
The tray holds a thick slice of crusty bread, two soft-boiled eggs, a clean glass of water, a tiny porcelain dish of salted butter, and a ceramic mug.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, lifting the ceramic with both hands.
The scent hits my lungs before the heat touches my lips, and my chest tightens so fast I lose a breath.
Chicory. Dark, bitter, and rich enough to chew.
My father drank his coffee exactly like this every Sunday morning before the Bratva calls started.
Papa, something in me says.
No.
Then Papa again, stubborn and aching.
My fingers tighten around the ceramic until the chipped edge digs into my palm, the sharp sting pulling me back into the room. My father is dead. The coffee is here. I am on a floor in New Orleans.
It has been five years since the transport vans took me from the compound, five years since I sat at the head of my family’s table, and my nose still knows exactly what his coffee smelled like.
