Page 21 of The Mad Don
Another cramp comes. I go white. I feel it.
“You —”
I don’t finish the sentence because the room is tilting, and I am on the floor. The clearest thing available to me is somewhere above where I hear him say. “I think she may have added a touch too much.”
I hear him walk over to me, and he crouches. His hand finds my jaw and turns my face up. He looks at me. “You had the nerve to kill my man.” He is very close. “I had a good mind to send you back to Kirill without your tongue.”
He leans in. I feel his tongue come out of his mouth and trace my lower lip. His tongue is warm, and his breath smells like whiskey. Despite the pain in my stomach, it felt good. His mouth. He pulls back and looks at me. “But that would be a shame.”
I hear him stand.
“Let her have her moment. She’ll get it out of her body in a minute,” he says to a person I can’t make out.
The dark is coming in. I try to hold onto the room, and I lose it piece by piece.
And in the dark, from somewhere very far back comes the voice.
Christov’s voice. “Sis, sis, ya khochu ostatsya s toboy—”I want to stay with you, don’t leave me —
I reach for it, and there’s nothing to hold onto.
I go under as I feel myself throw up.
* * *
I wake up gasping. The ceiling is unfamiliar. I lie there for seconds. This is not the bunk room. I sit up.
My bag is on the floor by the wall.
I pull up a chair and sit on the edge of the bed, taking inventory. I don’t know how long I have been out for or what happened, but I am thirsty in the way that goes all the way down. My stomach is tender, replaced with a hollow aftermath.
I stand. The door, I expect it to be locked. I reach for the handle, expecting resistance, but it opens.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, looking at the corridor. Then I go looking for a kitchen.
The house is quiet at this hour. I walk through it carefully, reading the layout. When I get to the kitchen, I find the tap and turn it on. I cup water in both hands and drink, and it is the best thing I have ever tasted, and I drink again and again until the hollow feeling retreats.
There is a sound behind me.
I turn. It’s one of his men. I recognize him from the warehouse meeting, the one who let us in. He looks at me with blank professionalism.
“The Don wants you,” he says.
I look down at my bare feet, but I follow. What’s the use of asking anything?
Outside, the night air hits me. I realize I was out for most of the day. I am barefoot on stone when the light comes on, and I stop.
There are men tied to posts driven into the ground at intervals across the yard, arms behind them, mouths stuffed with cloth. Some of them I recognize from the meal hall.
“Miss Yana.” His voice comes. “So glad you could join us.”
I look at the men. I look at the posts. I feel my stomach contract.
What is he doing?
He comes to stand beside me, and he is close enough that I can feel his warmth against my arm in the cold air. He looks at the men in the yard with an expression of mild disappointment.
“It came to my attention,” he says conversationally, “that you were being harassed.” He turns to look at me and lowers his voice, almost gentle. “We don’t accept that here, Miss Yana. We see women as people.”
