Chapter Fifty - KATYA
A man appears after I’ve sat in this interrogation room for hours. One of the lady cops gave me some clothes to change into, seeing as how mine were covered in Lucio Gori Senior’s blood. A t-shirt that says, of all things, Harvard. And a pair of sweats, too many sizes too big to count.
So I guess there’s that.
I guess they’ll be keeping mine for the murder trial.
The man is large, wearing a trench coat, and he smells like the outside. He plops an old briefcase on the metal table as he takes a seat, and then flicks the little lock thingies and it pops open. He says nothing as he shuffles through it, then slaps a folder down on the table, and closes his case. “Katya Kalashova,” he says with a Russian accent.
I just stare at him. If I’m going down for murder, I’m not gonna make this easy on them.
“My name is Alexi Ivanov.” He opens the folder, removes a single piece of paper, slides it forward with a push of his finger, and then leans back in his chair. “This is your statement. Please sign.”
Curiosity has gotten the better of me. “My what?”
“Statement,” he says again. “You would like to go home? Hmmm? Then sign here.” He pulls a pen out of his jacket and places it on top of the paper.
I can’t help myself, I reach for the paper and begin to read. When I get to the end I look at him again. “What is this?”
He frowns at me. “Do I have a stutter?”
“No. I’m just confused.”
“If you sign paper, you go home. Now sign.” He taps his massive finger on the table three times. “Your car will pick you up after processing.”
I read the statement again. “Am I—”
“No,” Ivanov says before I can finish. “Just. Sign.”
“But it says—”
“I know what it says. I wrote it.”
I look around nervously. “You can’t say things like that. And you can’t come in here with a pre-written police statement and tell me to sign it. This is the United States. It’s not legal.”
“Katya Kalashova, who do you think you’re dealing with here?”
“I don’t know.”
He looks down his nose at me. “Think harder, Katya.”
I know the obvious answer. But I don’t believe it. “What will you want in return for getting me out of here?” I ask, looking up at the cameras, still nervous about making a deal with the Bratva inside a fucking police station.
“You will learn once you sign.”
“What if I don’t sign?”
“Then I will stand up, walk around behind you, and I will make you sign.” He smiles.
We have a staring contest for about ten seconds. “Oh.”
Then he softens, just a little, and says, “It is good, Katya. Better than you could have hoped for. I promise. Sign the paper and you will see.”
I take a deep breath and sign.
Alexi Ivanov gets up, puts his folder back inside his briefcase, closes it up, and then picks up my pre-written signed statement that says Lucio Gori Senior abducted me as I was walking down the street this morning, took me back to the Antimony House—which was purchased in his name one week prior—and proceeded to try to rape me using the scalpel as a threat. That’s when I wrestled it away from him and cut his throat.
Apparently my mind draws a blank after that, but the cops showed up shortly after, so I guess there’s other statements to fill in that blank.
“It has a been a pleasure,” Ivanov says. “Be patient. These policemen are slow.”
And then he walks over to the door, raps his knuckles on it four times, and leaves me there to wonder just what the fuck is happening.
I don’t know how long I wait after that—maybe hours. Maybe it’s the next day. But a uniformed woman finally appears and tells me it’s time to go.
I sign more papers. They hand me a plastic bag with my phone and keys, and give me back my coat.
I slip it on as I walk through the doors that lead to an outer hallway, and then head straight for the front door and stand at the top of the steps, trying to figure out what just happened.
A man gets out of a long black car, walks around to the passenger side, and opens the door.
I point to myself. “Me?”
He nods.
“Well, this is it,” I mumble, walking slowly down the steps towards the car. I’m gonna find out what they’ll expect of me now. I just hope it’s not too bad. I just hope they don’t sell me to another asshole crime boss. I just hope—
I slide into the back seat and sink into the soft leather.
I have no idea who the man across from me is.
“Katya,” he says, extending a gloved hand. He has the same Russian accent as the lawyer from inside. I give his hand a girly shake and pull away. “My name is not important but I have been watching you for many, many years.”
“Oh. Great. Another mobster spying on me.”
He smiles but I don’t have anything to smile about.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re not going anywhere. We are having a chat.” He says the word ‘chat’ like it makes him happy. “I have something to tell you, something to show you, and then I need an answer before we can move forward.”
I sigh. Heavily. Resigned to my new fate. “OK.”
“Your sister is bad.” He frowns, like this makes him sad. “She has sold you out even though you have given up everything to save her. Katya… she cannot be saved.”
What? “Why are you telling me this? Where is she?”
“We will get to that shortly. I am going to tell you this first so that you do not make more mistakes.”
“I didn’t make mistakes,” I say, my voice rising because I’m suddenly defensive. “I was thrown into this life. It’s not my fault—”
“No,” he says. “It’s not. But you have choices, Katya. And you have made some bad ones. So I’m telling you to give up on this sister.”
“No,” I say, so fucking angry. “I don’t even know you. And I sure as hell don’t trust you, even if you did just lie to the fucking police to get me out of there. I’m not taking your word for anything. Where is she?”
The strange Russian sighs. “OK,” he says. “We do it your way.” He picks up a tablet from the seat next to him and opens the lock cover. “This is your Lily four days ago. Who is that?” he says, like he’s talking to a small child and asking them to name the farm animal in a picture book. “Oh, that is Lucio. Do you know how much money she is taking from him?”
I lean in to look closer. She is taking money. “Why is she taking money from him?” I say it to myself, but the Russian answers anyway.
“She works for him. Has for a very long time.”
“In what way?” I ask, hoping he won’t say she’s his girlfriend or something. Because I just can’t deal with any more….
“His spy, Katya. She spies on you. Back when I first sent you here, she was spying—”
“You sent me?” I laugh. “You didn’t send me anywhere. I don’t even know who you are!”
“—on you. That’s why I had Lucio call you back to Brooklyn. Why let her spy,” he says, “when I can spy too, hmm?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know who you are, but if you’re Russian, then you’re scum. Just like Lucio Gori and his stupid, pathetic monster of a son.”
“You think that because you know only what they told you. You know nothing of the truth, Katya Kalashova. But I’m going to set you straight now.”
“I think you probably had my parents killed.” I have lost all the energy I had left. I sink back into the soft leather seat of the car and let the heat waft over me like a blanket. “I’m tired,” I say. “I just want to go wherever we’re going now. You can keep your story.”
He’s silent after that. And when I open my eyes he’s frowning again. “We didn’t sell you to the Italians. I think you need to at least understand that. Yes.” He nods. “I did kill your parents. Because your father was Bratva and he let them make their mark on your throat. He sold you, Katya. Not me. I killed him to let everyone know, from that day forward, our children would not be sold.”
I have so many things I could say to that, but I decide to shut my mouth. I don’t care how nice this guy is, I know what he is. And I will not fall for it.
“Do you believe me?” he says.
I shrug. “Sure. Why not.”
“But you do not think I am good guy.”
“Not even close.”
“Well.” He chuckles a little. “You have very good instincts, then, Katya. I am not good guy. Not on most days. But today I be good guy for one last time. For you, Katya. To make it even between us. I give you choice right now.”
He holds out the tablet so I can see it.
“Who is this?” he asks, thumbing to another picture.
It’s Mrs. Conrad talking to Lily. Lily is wearing the white dress, the last thing I saw her in. They are chatting and smiling and drinking.
“That was last night,” the Russian says. “They were celebrating Lily’s initiation. They are not celebrating now.”
I look up at him. “What have you done with her?”
“Me?” He laughs. “She’s not with me. She’s with them.”
There is no mistaking who ‘them’ is once he really starts showing me the pictures. Lily is with Mrs. Conrad in places I had no idea she was visiting. Places like Greece, and Paris, and London, and Stockholm.
“How did she afford that?” I ask, genuinely bewildered.
“She used the money you sent her school for tuition.”
I sit up straight. “Then how did she go to school?”
“They have been taking care of your sister for a very, very long time, Katya. I’m sorry to tell you this, but I lost interest in her many, many years ago. She is a rat. She is a liar. She cannot be trusted. And right now she is about to lie her way back into your life. They are plotting, Katya. The Silver Society, the Antimony Association—call them whatever you want. They are hiding out here,” he says. And then he tabs the screen again and it’s a live night-vision feed of a house on the side of a mountain.
“Where is that?” I ask, pointing to the tablet.
“Not far enough away to be safe from me.”
His threat sends a chill down my spine.
“You are right about me too, Katya. I am not good. I am just as bad. But today I am on your side.” He smiles. “They are liars too,” he says. “But they hide in plain sight. They run for political offices, and get law degrees, and run cities, and states, and sometimes, every now and then, one of their husbands makes it to the White House. But don’t be fooled, child. They are just like me.”
I stare at him. I know everything he’s telling me is true. The part about Lily, the part about my parents, the part about the Silver Society and the Antimony girls. “They recruited Lily when she was little,” I say. It’s not a question.
“While Lucio Gori Senior was cutting your throat, your baby sister was having tea with Mrs. Conrad.”
“She was seven,” I say.
“She was seven,” he whispers back. “This is an old feud, Katya. One that has nothing at all to do with you. It is between Mariel Hawthorne—who left the Silver Society when she figured out what they were thirty-five years ago—and the Conrads, who never got over the fact that she did not marry who they told her to. That she got pregnant with that movie star’s child. That she would so thoroughly dismiss them and live to tell about it.”
“The attack on the Misters?” I say. “That was about… Paxton?”
“Paxton,” he says. “And the others too,” he says, shrugging with his hands. “No matter how innocent they think their families are, there are always skeletons coming back to life.”
I just sit and think about that for a little bit.
The Russian slaps his knees with both hands. “And now we are back to the choice.”
“What choice?” I ask, feeling numb all over.
“Your sister. Do you want her to live, Katya? We have agents ready to raid that mountain house. But you have to know, she is one of them. Now and forever. Her loyalty is to them. You barely qualify as an afterthought. She invited you to the Antimony House because Gori was there yesterday. He was supposed to take you then.” These words come out as a whisper. Like it’s a secret he really doesn’t want to tell.
I want to throw up.
“We can raid the house, but they will get away. Maybe not tonight. And they will not get away without bruises. But they will get away.”
“So what do you want from me?” I ask.
“Thumbs up she lives,” he says. “But there is another, better solution.”
“Thumbs down,” I say, looking at my feet. “You want me to decide if these people go free and live to ruin more lives. Or if they die tonight.”
“If you want to have that choice, I give it to you. Do you want to save your sister, Katya?”
“I want to go home,” I say.
“Of course,” he says, leaning forward to knock on the window behind me.
The car begins to move and I sink lower in my seat. I feel lower than ever. Like I just lost. There is no success in my life. Not one ounce of it exists. There is nothing but lies, and failure, and—
“Do you know why I like Oliver?” the Russian says.
“Oliver?” I ask. “What about Oliver?”
“I hired him. That day out on the bench, he was told to save you from your grand money-making ideas. I know it’s not rational, Katya. But I have always liked you. And he had that marketplace. God, such a stupid boy.” The Russian laughs. “But he was easy to find, and in the perfect place. So I guess that’s good, right?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I say, sitting up taller. “Oliver worked for you?”
“He was quite infatuated with you that summer. Which wasn’t good, since you had to leave and I wouldn’t need him anymore. He even bought a piece of your art.”
“What?” I say. “Is my whole world falling down right now?”
“I had to yell at him like a son that time. I told him he could keep it, but he was to never contact you again. You would be back, I said. One day. But until then, he should hide that photograph and put you out of his mind.”
“Oliver,” I say, suddenly so very, very sad. “I thought he was one of the good guys.”
“Yeah.” The Russian sighs. “Your instincts are impressive.”
“What are you talking about?” I snap, suddenly angry. “If he works for you, then he’s bad.”
“They set him up too. Not his fault. He’s not one of them. I would advise second chance, Katya Kalashova. Or better yet, never speak of it.”
The car stops and I hold my breath as the driver gets out and walks around the back of the car, and opens the door.
“This is it?” I ask.
“The end,” the Russian says. “Get out, Katya.” I start to slide over but he grabs my wrist. “Oh, you almost got away.” But then he lets go of my wrist and taps a finger on his tablet. To the live drone feed over the house on the mountain.
Jesus fuck. Make this day go away.
“I need your choice. Thumbs up or thumbs down. You know what my choice will be.”
I scoot over the rest of the way and get out of the car. There are motorcycles everywhere. And people dressed up like zombies. It’s probably close to morning and today is the day the Zombie Run rides through Downtown Fort Collins.
I lean in the car and look him in the eye. “Well, I’m gonna leave it up to you then. I think you have a better understanding of the situation. Goodbye, Mr. Russian.”
He smiles, almost as if he’s proud of me. “Goodbye, Miss Kalashova. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I step back from the curb and watch the driver close the door and walk back around the car. I can see the light from the tablet inside the car, even though the very dark tinted windows. I think he taps the screen, but what that means, I have no idea.
So I just turn… and come face to face with Oliver Shrike sitting on the bus stop bench across the street from his house.
“Hey,” he says with a long breath of air. He looks tired, and cold, and ready for something good to happen. Kinda like me. “Would you like to stay for breakfast? Start this whole thing over again?”
I have a whole life’s worth of things to say to him right now. Everything is inside me. Stacking up into a tall, tall tower of sadness, and shame, and regret. I want to scream at him for lying. I want to hug him hard for being here on this stupid fucking bench just when I need him most.
I want to send him away and hold him close at the same time.
And everything plays out in my head. Every possible ending to this day. Or is this the beginning of a new morning? I hear all the words come streaming from my mouth, and then I feel myself suck them right back in and swallow them down.
Maybe I will hold these words in forever? Or maybe I will spit them out next week, or next month, or next year?
All I know is that right now is not the time to say things I can’t take back tomorrow.
Because maybe he’s not a good guy. But he’s definitely better than most.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’d like that.” My voice is strong and steady, and for once in my life, it’s not afraid. When Oliver takes my hand and walks me across the street to the gated fortress he built while I was gone, I don’t look over my shoulder.
And when we go inside, he doesn’t even bother to arm the security system.
He knows, I realize. He knows the Russian gave me that choice. And he knows what’s gonna happen next. So he cooks me comfort food for breakfast. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. And we watch it all happen live on the news.
“I think it’s over,” I say, hours later when everything is still happening and the reporters are still exhilarated watching the mansion burn down after the massive explosion.
“Maybe,” Oliver says through a yawn. “But something tells me there’s one more loose end to tie up.”
We don’t wait for it. Oliver takes me upstairs, undresses me slowly, and then writes one more thing on my body. Right over the top of the silver-white scar on my throat.
I think I found what I’m looking for.
Gimme more… gimme more… gimme more…