Chapter 4 4. Anne - Where is the groom? 3

It’s not the first time someone has called me that, but I never get used to people being so cruel to me.

“Frankenstein is the doctor,” I correct Rayan.

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“The monster in the book doesn’t have a name. Frankenstein is the name of the doctor who created the monster,” I explain.

Anger flashes in his eyes. “This is why you’ve never had a boyfriend. Because you were too busy trying to be right all the time,” he says before storming out of my room.

I exhale loudly, pick up my book from where Rayan left it on the bed, put it on my desk, and go help Vasiliy prepare dinner. He has been the family chef for over five years, and he’s my only friend.

When I enter the kitchen, I find Vasiliy leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone with a sad expression on his face. I don’t usually pry on other people’s lives, but Vasiliy has always been there for me when I needed him.

“Is something wrong?” I softly ask him. “You look upset.”

He turns off his phone’s screen and puts it in his pocket. “No,” he replies in his Russian accent. He moved to the US from Moscow about twenty years ago. “I’m not upset.”

I know there’s something bothering him, but I don’t insist. He will tell me when he’s ready.

“Did you find out why your groom never came?” he asks.

I open the fridge and start pulling out ingredients. “No.”

“For a bride left at the altar, you don’t seem sad about it.”

I snort at that. “There was no altar, and I was no bride. It was only an arranged marriage, the groom decided that he didn’t want to go through with it, and that’s why he never came.”

“He could have texted,” Vasiliy comments, which makes me snort louder. “Your father must be fuming.”

“I am sure he is.”

Vasiliy looks around, making sure no one is listening to us. “Anne, listen to me. You can’t marry someone from the Bratva. You are young and soft… and the Bratva men are heartless. If you marry into the Bratva, it will destroy you.”

I take his right hand between mine and give it a little squeeze. “All things pass like wind. That’s what the Mayans used to say, and they are not wrong. I will be fine,” I promise, even if it’s a lie. I haven’t been fine in a very long time.

“I will always be worried about you, Ласточка.”

A smile blossoms on my lips.

Ласточка

Lastochka.

Little swallow.

He calls me that because swallows are my favorite birds.

I give Vasiliy a hug while I whisper, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

I love you.

Because I do. He has been more of a father to me than my own father.

Vasiliy pulls away and quickly turns his back to me, but not before I see him wiping away a few tears. I rarely smile these days, and when it happens, it’s always around him. Even now, I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my lips. But it vanishes quickly, because there is no warmth in my soul, just endless coldness.

“Let’s make dinner,” he says.

“What do you have in mind?” I wonder.

“Today we are making borsch,” he says.

He made borsch for us the day my father hired him. It’s beet soup, to which he adds beef, cabbage, potatoes, and carrots. He always serves his portion with sour cream.

Borsch is not my favorite because I don’t like beets, but I don’t have the heart to tell Vasiliy, since he puts so much heart into every dish he makes.

“And of course pelmeni,” he adds.

Dumplings filled with ground beef–my father’s favorite.

I go grab my apron, and while I put it on, I say, “I’ll take care of the vegetables.”

I am chopping the beets when my father enters the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” he snarls.

His question catches me off guard. “Helping Vasiliy, like always,” I reply.

“Dimiti will be here any minute now, and you are here wearing,” he waves his wrist at me, “that. You have five minutes to make yourself presentable.”

My mouth goes dry.

Dimitri is on his way here.

I really hoped he had changed his mind about marrying me. But it appears that’s not the case. Probably, by the end of the day, I will be his wife.

My chest starts to tighten.

Breathe.

I focus on the cutting board until I can breathe without panicking.

A few seconds pass with me doing and saying nothing, and then my father slams his fist into my stomach, knocking the air out of me.

It hurts so badly, I can’t breathe for several seconds.

You are strong. You will survive this.

What if I don’t want to survive?

You will carry on. That’s the only option you have.

I am tired of surviving, of enduring.

Vasiliy’s back is to me—he didn’t see my father hitting me. Not that it would matter. Even if he wanted to intervene, he couldn’t. My father has him cornered, threatening to have him deported back to Russia if he ever dares to take my side.

“How many times do I have to repeat myself?” my father sneers. “Are you that stupid?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper before rushing out of the kitchen and retreating to my room.

The spot where my father struck me still aches, but I force myself to focus on slipping back into my mother’s dress and brushing out my hair. Afterward, I double-check my bag, wanting to be sure that I got everything that I need—clothes, books, and Arthur. Pulling Arthur free, I hug him tight, needing the comfort before I can compose myself. It takes me a few minutes to steady my breathing.

After I return Arthur to the luggage, I slip on a pair of flats and make my way into the living room.

My father and Narcissa sit on the sofa, deep in conversation with three men I’ve never seen before.

“Ah, there she is,” my father says the moment his eyes land on me. His tone is calm—almost cheerful. More relaxed than I’ve ever heard him. “My beloved daughter, Anne.”

I blink, certain my ears are deceiving me. Why is my father suddenly acting so affectionate toward me when we both know how much he hates me?

“Come and sit by me,” my father instructs.

I do as I’m told.

Once I’m seated between Narcissa and my father, he pats my knee like any loving father would do.

“Anne, I am sure you remember Dominick, Yuri, and Ivan,” my father begins.

My heart plummets as I look at the men before me. My vision starts to tunnel.

I met them before. A long time ago. In another life–or at least, it felt like that.

We were children back then, and I was pretty much in love with them. But they only cared about Isla. They never liked me, not the way they liked her.

They look nothing like the boys I first met when I was eight. If I had seen them casually on the street, I would have never recognized them. They probably wouldn’t have known who I was either, as I’ve changed so much since the last time I saw them.

I glance at Ivan’s black eyes, then Yuri’s grey ones, and lastly, Dominick’s blue ones. Only hatred and contempt stare back at me. They blame me for what happened to Isla.

Everyone does.

And they are not wrong.

I can still feel the biting cold of that day wrapping around me like a blanket, never letting me forget, always tormenting me.

What are they doing here? The last time I saw them was ten years ago, the day after Isla died.

My father keeps talking. “They are here to take you to Dimitri.”