Torn
Our bedroom was the one place in our mansion where I could be alone with my thoughts and unleash my true feelings without being observed and coddled by my family. I had a right to be frightened and every reason to fear for my husband’s life, but when I was around my loved ones, I kept my emotions bottled up. If Pasha saw a tear in my eye, he hugged me and whispered positive affirmations until I confessed my feelings so he could talk me out of my negative thoughts. When Dmitri caught me having a weak moment, he patted me on the shoulder and told me to be strong and that Vladimir wouldn’t want me to be sad.
The same was true with Dad, Boris, and the rest of my family. I felt like I was under constant emotional monitoring. They tiptoed around conversations that involved Vladimir because every time I heard his name, tears welled up in my eyes. The tiniest things sparked memories of him. It could be the faint scent of aftershave, the sight of his house slippers in the mudroom, and every time I heard the rattle and hum of the garage door opening, I turned to see if it was him coming home.
Whenever I had a moment of weakness, my loved ones jumped into action like it was their job to force feed me positive thoughts, convince me not to worry if my husband was alive or dead, and guilt me into relenting my heartache by saying something insensitive like, “Be strong for the baby.”
How much fucking stronger can I be?
Everyone acted like it was a sin to be afraid, and that I was a bad person for fearing for my husband’s life, but I was scared to death that I might never see him again.
My husband is at the mercy of a pack of killers!
I was done with the looks of pity from my family, and I couldn’t take one more pat on the shoulder followed by a stomach-turning pep talk. Instead of giving my family a reason to cheer me up, I held in my negative thoughts and kept them bottled up until I could release my shit storm of emotions in the privacy of our bedroom. Since I didn’t have anyone I could talk to, I held imaginary conversations with Vladimir. He was the only one who didn’t try to coerce me into being happy, or make me feel like a loser when I had dark thoughts.
Vladimir understood the trauma I’d been through. He knew the vile things Maksim had done to me. My fears weren’t imaginary destructive thoughts—everything I experienced was real. My husband was dragged off to Moscow at the hands of violent, cold-blooded murderers. If Vladimir was home, he would listen to my deepest fears and would never judge me when the images circling around in my head became so dark and soul-crushing that I screamed into a pillow to unleash the terror building up inside me.
Feeling dizzy, I sank to the floor and hugged my knees. I panned the pictures of Vladimir’s family members hanging on the bedroom wall—Dead, dead, dead. His mother and father had been murdered by the elder Ovechkins, and both of his older brothers too. The photo I once adored of Vladimir, Pasha, and Yuri as young boys now made me nauseated. Now that Yuri was gone, was Vladimir the next ill-fated member of his family to be murdered? Would the Bratva come after our baby too?
Leveled by the images in my head, I rolled on my back and stared blankly into space. The blades from the ceiling fan whirled above me and cooled my tear-soaked face. Pangs of survivor’s guilt pounded in my chest. I took a series of deep, cleansing breaths and expelled the anxiety before it took hold of my spirit and consumed me. I exorcised my negative energy and made room for a proactive action plan by repeating a positive mantra.
Vladimir is a fighter. He is coming home. Channel your energy and focus on your forever life…
Instead of letting the darkness consume me and freefalling into a self-deprecating tailspin like I had in the past, I got up off the floor and mentally put together a game plan to get my life in order and carve a path to our family’s future. I eyed the Wall of Death and set my sights on its demolition. I collected all the pictures off the wall and piled them up on the bed. I opened the frames and carefully removed the photos. I wanted to preserve the memories of Vladimir’s loved ones, but I didn’t want the black shadow of their deaths hanging over our heads like a committee of vultures.
I held my once favorite photo of Vladimir, Pasha, and Yuri as children growing up in Ekaterinburg. Seeing Yuri’s face brought on a fresh round of dread and sadness. I started to set the photo in the stack with the rest of the ill-fated family members, but stopped, not wanting to include Pasha and Vladimir in the deceased pile. To solve the problem, I held up the photo and tore it, not to destroy it, just to separate Yuri’s image for the memory pile. I carefully made the split down the center and turned the paper, leaving a white outline around his image.
Then, I tore young Vladimir away from the picture and realized it was the only photo I had of him. I lay back on the bed, rested my head on my pillow, and gazed at his photo. Clouds had formed outside and masked the sunshine from entering the bedroom, and the breeze from the ceiling fan cooled my clammy skin. My energy was zapped, and I blinked to stay awake. I kept my focus on twelve-year-old Vladimir’s image and sent affirmations of love and positive energy to him until I succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep.
Vladimir is chained up in a warehouse. He’s listless from exhaustion, and his suit is torn and hanging loosely on his emaciated body. His pale skin is littered with black, purple, and blue bruises. His eyes are swollen shut from all the beatings, and his lips are busted open and caked with dry blood. Semyon stands before him, and his ugly face is twisted with rage. He chastises my husband in Russian, barking at Vladimir to answer him, but he is too weak and out of sorts to give him the information he seeks.
Go away. Leave my husband alone!
Semyon raises his tattooed hand and strikes Vladimir on the side of the face. Then again…and again. The smacking sound of him abusing my husband terrifies me, but Vladimir shows no weakness as he endures the punishment. Semyon shouts once again, but this time, the enforcer in the gray suit steps forward, pulls out his gun, and presses it against Vladimir’s temple…
No! Don’t hurt him! Help!
A thunderous knock on my bedroom door jolted me out of my nightmare. I sat up in bed, screaming, startled by the noise. My clothes were drenched in sweat, and my throat burned as if it were on fire. The wood around the doorknob splintered and Boris busted in my door, charged into the room, and rushed to my bedside. His gaze darted to the wall, to the empty frames and photos of the dead spread out across my bed, and then to the torn photo of Vladimir in the palm of my hand.
He stared at my sweaty, tear-soaked face, probably to assess if I was having a “normal” type of breakdown or if I was suffering from another PTSD episode. “Come here, lapsha.” He tugged on my arm and dragged me away from the carnage on the bed.
“Please go. I’m fine. I want to be alone.” I tried to walk away, but Boris put his arm around my back and pulled me in for a hug. In the past, whenever Boris put his hands on me, it was either to control me, coerce me into submission, or physically hurt me. There was a time when I was so frightened of him, my body trembled at the sight of him. But now that we were family, his fatherly embrace was warm and loving, and I felt safe when he held me.
“Everything is going to be okay, lapsha. It was only a nightmare.”
There were numerous reasons why I might be upset, but Boris knew me well enough to figure out I wasn’t in my room bawling because he and Dmitri were rude to my friend. I felt like I was headed toward another coddling session and pushed back before the pep talk ensued. “I swear, if you tell me to be strong for my kids, I will—” I stopped myself from delivering an idle threat and sucked in my lips to clamp my mouth shut.
“Carter.” Boris rested his hands on my shoulders. “Do I look worried to you?”
I shook my head. “But Moscow is pissed at him for what he did.”
“Have faith in your husband. Concentrate on the good things you have and look forward to your future with him and your family, okay?”
“Okay. But—”
“But?”
“You have to promise never to lie to me. No matter what happens, I want the truth.”
“I give you my word. Anything else?”
“Da. I need you to help me make some changes around here.” Boris’s encouraging words lifted my spirits. He was right. I did need to stay positive, and there were a million things I wanted to do in preparation for his homecoming. I rattled off a list of what I had in mind, and Boris liked my ideas and said Vladimir would be proud of me.
As the boss lady of the household, I made the decision to make some changes to our home and asked Boris and the guys to help me implement my ideas. My mission was to transform the mansion from a billionaire’s bachelor pad into a family-oriented dream home. Vladimir had an enormous wine cellar in the lower level stocked with fine wine and champagne. Now that he was no longer drinking, I wanted all the alcohol removed from our home.
In its place, I hired a designer to turn the massive space into a playroom for the girls. We worked on a design that included a sleepover dream house for when my sister spent the night, a craft table loaded with art supplies, and a pretend nursery complete with a changing table, mini high-chair, and a crib for their dolls.
On the main floor, Mari and Ruslana shared my old bedroom—the guest bedroom—and I had to carve out a space for the baby. He needed to be close to my room, and that meant I only had one room to work with. I made the executive decision to turn Vladimir’s office into the nursery. The guys moved his office furniture to the storage room in the basement and took down the ominous map of Russia that hung on the wall.
Out of all the design decisions I had to make, it was George’s room that was the most complicated. From the paint colors to the drapes, the tough part was deciding on an overall theme for the nursery. Looking at all the fun and adorable fabrics warmed my heart, and I wished Vladimir was home to share the joy of preparing for the birth of our child. Even though I didn’t officially know the gender of our baby, my mother’s instincts told me I was having a boy.
I loved the trains, cars, and planes collection, and melted when I saw the baby bunny sheet set and accessories, but my absolute favorite was the pastel elephant theme. The collection featured a whole family of polka dotted, striped, and pastel colored cuties, smiling and holding on to one another’s tails with their trunks. I loved their big happy family and couldn’t resist ordering everything in the collection, including a receiving blanket, hat, and a couple packs of onesies for George.
By the time the baby’s room was completed, it was August. Three weeks had gone by and we still hadn’t heard from Vladimir. Boris assured me no news was good news, but I could tell by his demeanor he was more concerned than he was leading me to believe.