Sold to the Hitman(41)
“Wh-”
I help her into my car and get in on the driver’s side, shutting the door and turning on the ignition. “Boris is dead. You’ll never have to do that kind of work against your will again. Nor will you have to deal with Sergei again. I’m going to arrange a flight out of here for you — you can decide where you go, but New York won’t be safe for you. Nor will the American west coast, for that matter.”
She tries to form words, but her eyes are wide as her mouth just gapes, stunned at what she’s hearing. I pull out of the driveway and start heading back towards the interstate.
“In the meantime,” I say, pulling her seatbelt over her as we pull out onto the open road as I give her an even look, “I want you to tell me everything you know about Sergei’s son, Kasym Slakovich.”
16
Cassie
It’s been a month since the wedding, and I’ve never been so happy in my life.
Andrei and I have spent most of our days jetting around the city, visiting museums, parks, theaters, restaurants, and even a couple live music venues. I am soaking up as much modern culture as possible, and my eyes have been wide and amazed nearly every waking minute. I had no idea how beautiful and diverse the world truly is, and I never thought I could feel this way… so immersed, so overwhelmed, yet completely exhilarated. There is still that voice in the back of my mind telling me that I will burn in hell for exposing myself to such temptation, for partaking in filth such as popular music and movies. But it’s a softer voice now, more like a whisper, reminding me to remember where I came from and who I really am.
But the truth is, I’m not sure who I am anymore.
The things I have seen, the things I want now, are worlds apart from the sort of life I foresaw for myself even as recently as a month ago. The quiet, mundane, domestic lifestyle I aspired to my whole life now feels more like a death sentence in contrast to the exciting way I have been living lately. I am still constantly haunted by the spectre of my parents’ expectations for me — screaming at me to be subservient and soft, to defer to my husband. And for the most part, I do. But it isn’t out of fear or even a sense of godly duty. I want to follow his lead, because he has never led me into anything but joy and adventure. Andrei is my tour guide, my initiator. The man who keeps me on my toes and yet always makes me feel safe.
Despite my growing suspicions about what he does for a living.
He doesn’t talk about it, and I don’t ask, because I am terrified of bringing up something which might widen the slight rift between us. For as much as he appears to care for me, and as much as I definitely care for him, I do worry sometimes about the coldness he displays. Sometimes he is so incredibly soft, so gentle and warm, that it helps me forget the colder times. Many days we have spent together in the sunshine of mutual affection, Andrei showing me a whole new world, holding my hand all along the way. But then, there are so many nights when he slips away under the assumed cover of shadow, leaving me to awaken in the wee hours of an eerie dawn and find myself alone in the massive bed.
Early this morning, that’s exactly what happened.
I woke up suddenly from a nightmare, instinctively turned on my side to snuggle into Andrei’s warmth… only to realize that there was only a cold, empty place beside me. I was alone again, curled up tight in the dead silence of the apartment. Surely, it is a different kind of silence than what I was used to back home in upstate New York. Up there, the silence was complete — a total absence of sound. But here in the city, there was no such thing as complete quiet. There was always the muffled hum of neon signs, the bustle of traffic, wailing sirens and impatient car horns, even in the dead of night.
So this morning I lay there for hours, listening to the drone of city life down on the street, wondering which minutely small sound might just indicate the location of my husband. Where was he? What was he doing?
These questions plague me, keeping me from sleep. I watch the soft moon sinking down the sky on the other side of the curtains and worry incessantly about Andrei. I wanted some sign, some divine clue to tell me that at least he was okay. I need to know that he is safe, that he will come home again and rescue me from my anxiety.
When he finally returns, the sun is just beginning to poke its luminous head from behind the horizon. I’m still lying in bed, and when I hear the quiet but distinct sound of the front door handle turning, I shut my eyes tightly and pull the blankets up to my face, pretending to be asleep. As desperately as I want to know what is going on, I am not quite ready to bring up that subject yet. It’s just easier to pretend it isn’t happening.