Deceitful Vows by Brook Wilder
Chapter 52
Andrei
I hesitate outside the door, unsure if I should leave, and then I hear it. A low murmur that doesn’t sound like grief but madness. Behind our bedroom door, Paige starts to laugh loudly and wildly. It leaves me confused. I don’t know how to handle emotions like this. I don’t know how to handle her.
In the hallway, I quickly pull on my clothes and listen as her laughter grows louder. Instead of delicate chimes, it sounds like the clash of metal against metal, echoing out into the hall. It sounds foreign to me; the lightness is gone as it sounds a warning. Did I push her too hard? Of course I did. I always push too hard. Other Bratva women can take it. They expect it. But not Paige.
My hand rests on the doorknob; my fingers squeeze the smooth metal. I want to open the door, but I’m afraid of losing control. A pang of regret chokes my throat, and a knot of frustration tightens in my stomach. I want to be with her, but I don’t know how to handle the situation that’s left us here.
Paige laughs instead of crying over her losses, and she doesn’t want me to witness it.
I take a step back and bump into my mother, who has silently materialized. She scowls at the closed door, recognizing the sound for what it is—the beginnings of madness. I clench my jaw and watch my mother, waiting for her solidarity.
But instead of forgiveness and understanding, Eva glares at my bare feet. Then her gaze slowly rises over my body, taking in my disheveled appearance. Finally, a harsh and withering glare meets my eyes. A cold shiver attaches to my spine.
She’s looking at me as if I am my father.
I take a few steps back, and she steps forward to confront me. Her petite frame barely reaches my chest, but she refuses to cower anymore. She will say what she knows is right, and her determination reassures me. I can’t be evil. Eva would never have acted like this with my father.
“We must talk,” she says firmly, her voice low and resolute. Her eyes are full of disappointment, but they also flash with anger.
I stare at the doorknob. Get out! Paige screamed it until I left. She doesn’t want to see me now. I’m not her husband; I’m her captor.
Perhaps something even worse.
Mother turns away and leaves me alone with the mess I’ve created. The laughter emanating from the bedroom seems more unsettled than before. It continues gathering strength, and the closed door cannot conceal Paige’s shattering emotions. I take a deep breath, thankful my composure has returned, and slowly, I follow Mother down the hallway.
***
As we walk away, I wonder how different this experience would’ve been if I had been able to show my feelings as a boy. As a man, the range of my emotions is limited to a deep-seated mixture of resentment and fury. Compassion made me vulnerable to Vasily’s cruelty.
My father would taunt me, claiming that I was a “fairy” for feeling “girlie” emotions. But I couldn’t stand by and let him hurt Eva. And he knew it.
He tested me, and I tried to pretend that I didn’t care about other people. Then one day it finally happened. I didn’t care who he hurt as I stood by and idly watched Vasily slice a thieving guard’s thumbs off with a knife. The man shouted with agony as my father worked the hunting knife through bone. With my pity gone, the only thing left was to hurt those I hadn’t wished to hurt before.
The absence only really hit me when I stole Paige from her life. I’m only good for killing her mother’s murderer, not for comforting my grieving wife.
Mother stops and opens the door to a guest room. The mattress is stripped, with no sheets or pillows, and the curtains have been replaced with a set of vertical blinds. The blinds are slatted so the midday sun leaves a striped pattern across the nearest wall. An ancient oak dresser stands in the corner of the room.
“I thought I taught you better, Andrei Vasilyevich.” Eva lifts her index finger into my face.
“What do you think …” I comprehend quickly, disgust leaving a stale taste in my mouth. “She …” I stop speaking before I can say those damning words: she wanted it.
I realize too late what it looks like. “I would never do that.”
But her gaze doesn’t soften. She looks at me as if she can’t decide if she wants to hate me or not.
I turn my back on her and lower my voice. “I am not Father.”
“But he is a part of you.” She won’t look at me. “Just as much as I am. His cruelty is yours. It’s in your blood.”
I wince at her words. “Sometimes I must be cruel,” I reply. “It’s up to me to make hard decisions for the Bratva.”
“You sound just like him.” She closes her eyes, brows furrowing. “And I don’t even have to pretend that hard to see him standing where you are right now, Andrushka. You can be cruel, that I accept and understand.” She opens her eyes at me slowly. “But not with her. You have no right to be cruel to her.”
“This is why we can’t have a decent life.” She laughs bitterly. “We aren’t made to love, Andrushka.”
“I never said I was in love.”
She shakes her head. “That’s because you weren’t taught. I hoped she would teach you, but your heart is too hard. You’ll break her and then hate her for failing you.”
Her words come deep from her heart. She stood next to a man on the altar who vowed to love and protect her. But instead, he broke her body and spirit time and time again. He promised to love her and care for her, as I did for Paige.
“I don’t hate her,” I reply stiffly. I swallow hard, and now it’s my turn not to look my mother in the eye. “I’m falling for her. Even if it doesn’t look that way.”
Eva approaches me and takes my hand in hers. “Don’t hate her for it, Andrei. Love will make you stronger. When you stood up to your father for me, you did it because of love. You can love without being weak. Don’t believe in Vasily’s lies.”
“I showed my love for you by defending you.” I pull my hands out of hers. “And I will do the same by avenging her mother’s death for her. No one will touch her or her family again.”
I stand in front of the dresser and slam down my fist. The crack of wood resounds in the sparsely furnished room. Mother’s gaze flicks toward the antique dresser as she wrings her hands.
The violent action does something to me. Rage makes me certain of myself again. I know this feeling. I understand this territory, and my footing is secure as I leap back onto familiar terrain.
When I express my anger, it’s like I’ve found myself again.
“If Igor Karamazov is responsible, he will pay with more than his life,” I say coldly. “I will destroy everything of his—his family, his men, his businesses. I will crush everything he cares about into the ground and then bury him beneath it.”
“You can’t.” She rushes toward me as if she can hold the rage back with her delicate hands. “Even if you’re sure, you can’t. This war is not your war. So let it go, Andrushka. Don’t do this. You won’t win.”
My eyes narrow on hers. “He thinks I’m a pale replacement for my father. So, he’s toying with me, seeing how much he can take. This is why this happened. My first day as pakhan, I should have struck. I should have shown my power, but I played games. Not anymore. One blow. One strike will put them all in their place. I’ll make an example of Igor Karamazov. I swear it.”
Eva grabs my hand again, and something drops to the floor, rolling under the bed. I stroll over to get it as she grabs for my shoulder.
“No, Andrushka.” She tugs at my sleeve. “Leave it.”
The look on her face alerts me that something is very wrong. I have to see what she’s trying to hide. I shake her off and reach under the bed as she tugs at my other arm, pleading for me to leave it alone.
My fingers can barely touch it. The smooth metal slips farther out of my grasp.
“Stop it, Andrushka,” she begs. “It’s not important!”
My fingers graze it, and I flick it toward me, catching it in my hand. Standing to my feet, I open my fist, and in my palm is a silver band. Eva reaches for it and swiftly grabs it away.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she pants, backing away from me.
“Then show it to me.”
She shakes her head and desperation appears in her eyes. A look I haven’t seen in a long time. A look reserved for my father.
“No.”
I walk toward the door and block her exit before she can run. “It’s not a request, Mother. It’s an order.”
She wavers, rocking on her heels, her eyes wide with terror as I tower over her.
I hold my hand out. “I love you, mamechka,” I whisper. “Please don’t make me prove what I really am.”
For a second, Eva looks away as if she won’t do it. I don’t know what I will do, but I can’t make an idle threat. I will have to do something. They will hate me for it. I will hate myself. But I will have to do something.
Eva looks at me, and then it drops into my palm. A silver ring. I hold it up to the light and read the engraving inside, written in the old alphabet. To my only love.
My tone reflects my scorn and confusion. “What is this ring?”
“There is so much that you don’t know,” she whispers. “And if you did, you would never forgive yourself or me.”
Eva snatches the ring out of my hand. She slips past me, out of the room, before I can demand an answer. I sit down on the bed, and the platform squeals under my weight. Today I feel the weight of my world on top of me. And the past begins to churn in my mind as I seek out answers.
Is that ring the reason why we’ve gone through hell?
