Moskva (8 page)

Texas - present day

Alina's panicked scream woke Mishka. His arms grasped at nothing. The boy shouted, his voice twisting like a rabid animal as Mishka lumbered out of the closet on deadened limbs.

Bitch!

With no other voices reaching his ears, Mishka knew Bogdan was speaking to his mother. Flinging open the bedroom door, he looked immediately toward the kitchen where Alina was trying to keep the boy at arm's length and away from sharper instruments as Bogdan wielded a fork.

A patch of blood stained the forearm of her plain white nightgown from where Bogdan had already stabbed her. More vile words and accusations spewed from the child's mouth. She was a bitch, a whore, a filthy cunt who had seduced Mishka into murdering his papa.

With shaking hands, he stepped silently behind Bogdan, cupped beneath each armpit and lifted the boy off his feet, spinning at the same time so that there was only empty air to kick at and not his mother's face.

"Drop the fork," he ordered coldly.

Bogdan tightened his grip on the utensil. "Fuck you!"

Just as quickly as he had scooped the boy up, he dropped him and grabbed both wrists separately. Ignoring Bogdan's thrashing, Mishka squeezed at the pressure points on each side of the boy's wrist. Twisting like a demon, Bogdan tried to find a patch of Mishka's skin to bite, but the big man held him taut, his arms stretched as far as they would go without dislocating Bogdan's shoulder.

"Please, don't hurt him," Alina pleaded, stepping toward them and reaching for the fork.

"Stay back," Mishka bellowed as the boy tried to twist his hand and the sharp tines of the fork in Alina's direction. He squeezed a little harder at the pressure points, but only managed to make the boy growl furiously.

A rough chuckle escaped Mishka. He had finally found one point on which the boy was nothing like Dima. He didn't roll belly up at the first bit of pain.

"You know how this ends," he thundered in the boy's ear. "Let go."

The scent of shoe polish filled Mishka's nostrils as he straightened. Looking more closely at Bogdan, he saw that the boy had applied the substance to the blond roots on his scalp and his eyebrows.

Alina caught the direction of Mishka's gaze. "He was knocking at his door, said he had to go the bathroom -- he must have hid the polish in his room yesterday. I was going to wash it before you woke up..."

"Filthy whore!" the boy shouted. "You know papa hates it when it's yellow!"

Patience hanging by a thread, Mishka squeezed the pressure points one last time and the fork clattered to the ground. Wrapping his arms around the boy's chest, he sat on a kitchen chair.

"You stabbed your mother," he said, the low, flat tone filled with menace.

"He didn't mean--"

Mishka shot her objection down with a sharp glance.

"Show him your arms."

She shook her head. His meaning was clear. He had said "arms," not "arm." He wanted the boy to see not only the damage from the fork but all the scars that criss-crossed from a few inches above her wrist up past her biceps.

Kneeling on the floor, she tried to placate Bogdan. "Let me wash the polish out, it's not healthy. We'll get some proper dye at the store."

Seeing the boy's cheeks hollow, Mishka nipped at his ear. "Don't think about spitting at anyone, especially her."

With memories of Osip and Kostya spitting on his bruised and bloody face surfacing, Mishka squeezed the boy a little harder.

"No dye," he ground out. "Bring me my clippers."

Alina's face went hard. "No. You are not going to shave him."

The boy went wild as understanding finally sank in.

Ignoring both of their protests, Mishka stood, the boy helpless in his arms, and went into the bathroom. He shut the door and braced his back against it so Alina could not intervene beyond pounding her fists raw on the wooden surface.

One arm pinning the boy to his chest, he turned the clippers on and ran a line up and over the boy's scalp. As the black hair fell around Bogdan's shoulders, the boy went limp. Still blocking the door with his weight, Mishka angled his body to see the boy's face.

The stark blue eyes were open, the jaw slack.

"I'm sorry, my son," Mishka whispered, hoping the boy was just playing possum and not in a deep state of shock as the last vestiges of his Rodchenko past drifted to the floor.

Texas - present day

The day didn't get any better. Bogdan remained unmoving after Mishka finished shaving the boy's hair at the clipper's closest setting and washed the shoe polish off what remained.

Carrying Bogdan into the front room, he placed him on the couch, across where Alina sat in a side chair, her arm awkwardly held to avoid getting blood from her sleeve on the fabric. Turning his back on Bogdan, Mishka knelt in front of her.

He reached for the cuff of her gown. She recoiled and pulled the arm closer to her body. Her haunted gazed darted in his direction then away just as quickly.

"It needs disinfected and bandaged," he said, settling onto the floor in defeat. "If you won't let me take care of it, you need to."

Careful not to come into contact with him, she eased out of the chair and went into the bathroom.

With a quick glance at the boy to make sure he hadn't moved, Mishka rose and went into the kitchen. He would need locks for some of the kitchen drawers and cabinets to secure anything the boy might turn into a weapon -- which was pretty much everything. Pulling out his phone, he started dictating a list into his texting app.

After a lifetime under the thumb of the Rodchenko family's hired thugs, Alina hadn't wanted guards outside or in the house. A security team was still in place in another house across the street. If he hadn't also consented to her pathological need to remove the listening devices and cameras discreetly placed around the safe house, the team would have been able to stop the boy before he had stabbed her with the fork.

Sighing, he hit send, requesting one of the team members across the street to pick up the supplies. No more glass or china, just plastic, plus brackets and combination locks to lock up the necessary dangers.

Hopefully the boy hadn't picked up Dima's fascination with fire.

A shudder passed through him as he remembered the long ago arson that happened in the days following his ejection from the Rodchenko family. He saw the building filled with families, their lives acceptable collateral damage so long as it meant Mikhael Nazarov died that night.

And he had died -- inside at least. Making the jump between the burning building and the next one and then one more, he had gone down the fire escape out of sight and disappeared into the night. Two hours later and an hour out of the city, he had contacted the FBI agent whose assassination he had heard Dmitrey Rodchenko plotting.

That one call for help had snowballed into rushed training for a spot on the joint task force, his age, coloring and Moscow accent matching a dead Russian convict whose identity they could steal and use to insert him into the Grekov family.

He saved lives with the work he did in Russia -- took more than a few, as well. But the work he did for the task force and later for Kane's company and the Kehoes never made him feel alive for more than a few minutes at a time.

Each night, he crawled into bed and woke up a corpse.

Dragging himself up out of the past, he saw Alina slip into the kitchen and begin to fix breakfast. Dressed, with her face washed and her long, black hair pulled into a tight knot, she kept her head down. Whenever Mishka moved the slightest, she froze in place.

She was never going to forgive him. Not for what he had done today -- not even for saving her in Moscow and rescuing the boy from Dima. She couldn't see past the boy's current frame of mind. He had been happy before Mishka's arrival, now he was miserable. That was all she could focus on. That and the boy's glaring hate for her.

Going into the attached living room, Mishka sat at the opposite end of the couch from his son. The boy looked at the blank television screen while Mishka's attention floated between Bogdan and Alina.

She made oatmeal and buttered toast and marmalade, something that didn't require trusting Bogdan with a fork again. Ignoring her own needs, she brought a tray to Mishka then returned with a second tray and knelt in front of the boy. She tried to coax him into taking a piece of toast. When he remained limp and unblinking, she held the bowl in one hand and scooped up some of the oatmeal.

"Try to eat a little,
malcheek
," she urged, the spoon hovering an inch from his mouth.

With no time to react, Mishka saw the boy's face suddenly narrow. Bogdan's arm whipped toward the bowl and made contact, plastering the hot oatmeal against Alina's blouse and drawing a pained gasp from her lips.

"Perhaps the psychiatrist--" she started.

"No." Mishka winced at the harsh tone with which he answered, but he knew what Alina didn't know. After the earlier displays of violence, the doctor had wanted to drug and institutionalize the boy "for a few months or more."

"Go see to yourself," he ordered, settling back against the couch and taking a bite of his toast. "I will watch him."

She looked at Bogdan and then the bits of oatmeal that had missed her clothing and landed on the floor. Cupping her hand, she started to scrape the mess on the carpet in one direction.

"I said take care of yourself," Mishka repeated, the already hard edge to his voice growing sharper. "He will take care of the mess when he finally gets hungry enough to behave."

Texas - present day

By four in the afternoon, the boy's stomach was growling loud enough for both of his parents to hear. Disobeying Mishka's order, Alina placed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a paper plate and left it on the coffee table, a plastic cup with milk resting next to it.

Her gaze beseeched Mishka to turn on the television and distract the boy with one of his favorite shows. He ignored the pleas in her eyes and, six hours later, the food and drink remained untouched.

"He has to drink something," she whispered, approaching Mishka for the first time since she had brought him breakfast.

"So do you," he countered. "Go to bed. I'll get him to drink something."

Seeing the shadow that crossed her face, his mouth drew into a deep scowl.

"For the love of God, Alina, I'm not going to waterboard him!"

She blinked, but her eyes were dry. No more crying for Alina. No more smiling either.

"Get ready for bed," he ordered as he began to chew over what needed to be done.

The boy took his catharsis with violent tantrums. Alina allowed herself no release at all. No tears, no raised voice, no angry shaking of her hands. Every day, she faded a little bit more.

Sitting in silence with Bogdan, he watched Alina disappear into the bedroom. She shut the door. He heard the slide of the dresser door and closed his eyes. He imagined her body, the marks across her back from the electrical cord beatings, the same network of abuse on her legs and arms.

"Maybe if I sit with him," Alina suggested after she opened her door.

Mishka nodded at her bed. "I'll bring him in a few minutes."

Another flicker of mistrust crossed her face but she turned back into room and sat on the edge of the mattress. Mishka picked the boy up, but took him into the bathroom. Leaving the door open, he stood Bogdan in front of the toilet and turned the water on at a barely audible trickle.

The boy shot him a dirty look, the sour twist of his mouth indicating he knew what Mishka was up to.

"I can wait all night," Mishka said as he turned his back on the boy and blocked the doorway. "I'm not going to have you wet yourself when you throw your next tantrum."

Not that the boy had done so already. But he hadn't urinated since at least early morning. And a tantrum was imminent because Mishka planned on triggering it. He wasn't going to watch the woman he loved wither away and his son continue turning to stone until one day the boy realized with a devastating clarity just how much pain he had inflicted on his mother.

The sound of water running in the sink was joined by liquid hitting the toilet bowl. Mishka suppressed a grin and kept his back turned until a few seconds after the boy flushed.

He had to fight to keep the smile from his face as he faced Bogdan and maneuvered the uncooperative pile of flesh over to the sink. He squirted soap on the boy's hands then waited several long seconds before the kid shot Mishka another furious look before shoving his hands under the faucet and washing them on his own.

Two wins in his column, Mishka mused as he turned off the water and dried Bogdan's limp hands. Pretty much his only wins as far as Alina and the boy were concerned. But hopefully there would be more before the night was through.

Placing a firm hand against Bogdan's shoulder blade, he tried to coax the boy out of the room. The little mule's legs locked straight so that any pressure threatened to propel him face first into the floor.

Fine -- carrying him wasn't a loss even though Bogdan seemed to think so.

"You know what I remember about your Papa," he asked softly as he carried his son toward Alina's bedroom.

Hearing the question, her head whipped up.

Mishka warned her to stay silent with a narrowing of his gaze.

"He loved the mafia movies, Godfather, Wise Guys, anything with a lot of bang, bang, BOOM."

The boy looked uncomfortably inward as the volume of Mishka's words grew. Ignoring how Bogdan stiffened in his arms, the big Russian sat in the dainty reading chair shoved in one corner of Alina's bedroom.

Worry clouding her gaze, Alina swiveled a few degrees to stare hopefully at her son.

"Roll up your sleeves," Mishka demanded, his arm looped around Bogdan so the boy couldn't bolt.

"You know I won't." Her gaze hit the floor then skittered around the room like a cornered animal looking for escape. When she finally looked up, she nailed Mishka with a hard stare. "He's as much a victim as we are."

Mishka shook his head. "No. And he never will be. Now show him your arms."

Her body slumped in passive disobedience as Mishka continued to hammer at her.

"He stabbed you today. Maybe next time he'll get a knife when we have our backs turned."

"He won't" she protested, ignoring the boy's satisfied huff at the scenario Mishka had just laid out. "He was upset because Dima could be cruel when the blond started to show."

She dipped her head, tried to catch Bogdan's attention. "Your uncle didn't like your hair looking like your real papa's."

"Lying whore," the boy muttered.

Forcing his arms not to squeeze a little submission into Bogdan, Mishka changed arguments with the woman.

"There are only two paths that lead out from where you want to go, my Alina," he started, the soft voice eerily ominous. "The first path, he never, ever accepts you."

Her breathing hitched, but her face remained placid, the eyes as dry as sun baked clay.

"He never accepts you," Mishka pressed on, "and he keeps on hurting you physically and emotionally."

Another satisfied huff from the boy made Mishka want to rap the kid on his nose. Maybe it was already too late. The Rodchenkos taught their children to fear and hate from the cradle. Sweet Alina had somehow escaped that curse, only in part because her early years had been spent in a place slightly less horrible than living daily in her father's presence.

Mashing and rolling his lips, Mishka hesitated to say anything more. Maybe waiting a few days was best. Maybe medication like the doctor had said -- something to calm the boy.

A second away from Mishka relenting, Alina met his gaze with a questioning look.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the pain he was about to inflict scratch and claw its way across her beautiful face.

"The second path, he realizes too late and he can no longer accept himself."

The boy started to twist angrily in his arms. "Shut up, stupid. I hate you!"

"Show him what they did to your arms, your papa and his," Mishka implored.

Slowly, she pushed one sleeve up. The boy wouldn't look, so Mishka wrapped one big hand around the top of his skull and forced his gaze up.

"Both sleeves," he said when the boy remained stubbornly stiff and unresponsive.

Fresh hurt unfurled in her beautiful dark gaze as she stared at her son's face and worked the second sleeve up to her elbow.

"Your papa and his papa did that," Mishka told the boy.

"She was being bad," Bogdan accused. "Papa told me what a filthy whore she is but that I had to be polite even though I hate her. I always hated her because I'm a good boy."

Bogdan strained against Mishka's hard grip, his slender body leaning toward Alina. "I hate you! Those are your fault, not mine!"

Head drooping, she started to push the sleeves back down. Growling, Mishka stood and dumped the boy in the chair. A soft kick closed the bedroom door and then his arm shot out to lock it.

Slowly he stalked toward the bed and pointed toward the headboard. "Turn around."

Alina looked up, the first threat of tears making her eyes shimmer.

So damn beautiful and hurting so badly, all because of his mistakes.

Bending down, he lifted the hem of her long nightgown up to her knees.

"They did this, too," he told the boy before straightening and pointing at the headboard a second time. "Turn around. He needs to see your back."

"Please, no," she whisper-cried.

Her shoulders shook. Even though she wouldn't obey, all the fight was gone from her. She let him turn her and unbutton the back of the nightgown. When Mishka started to push it over her shoulders, she only moved to cross her arms across her breasts to avoid exposing them to the boy's gaze.

Returning to the chair, Mishka lifted the boy out if it and stood him a foot away from Alina. He wrapped his hands around Bogdan's head, controlling its tilt.

"It looks like you took a giant cheese grater to your back," the boy cruelly taunted. "You deserved it. You're fat and ugly. You're not even a Rodchenko. My papa said so."

Drawing a long, slow breath, Mishka fought the angry fire building inside him. Just a child, he reminded himself, a child raised by a sociopath and intentionally poisoned against his own mother, just as Dmitrey had tried to poison Mishka's mother against him.

He pushed Bogdan closer, held the boy's face an inch from Alina's flesh.

"The marks across the front of her arms are from when she shielded her belly so your grandfather couldn't belt you in her womb." His voice went as dead as the boy's soul. "And the marks on the other side of her arms are where she shielded her head from getting whipped and kicked so she wouldn't die with you in her belly."

One hand leaving Bogdan's head, Mishka traced a scar that ran the full width of Alina's back. "And these are from all the times you were a little baby when someone would hear her whisper to you, 'I am your mama, lubimi, know me. Know your mother loves you.'"

The first full-bodied sob tore through Alina's throat.  

"She almost died the last time," Mishka said, winding down. "And that's when your precious papa took you completely away from her and said your mama was some dead whore."

"I. Don't. Care!" the boy screamed.

Another harsh cry wrenched Alina's throat. She rolled across the mattress until she faced the opposite wall, her back still exposed and a hand pressed against her ear to blot out the torrent of hateful words that spewed from Bogdan's mouth.

"Say what you want," Mishka growled and dragged the boy toward the bed. "But you will look at her."

"It's ugly," the boy protested, his voice nearly wrung out. "It hurts my eyes."

"It's your papa's work," he said, holding the boy's chin so Bogdan couldn't look away, could only close his eyes. "His bang, bang, boom work, like all the movies he watched. He punished her for loving you. Now you're doing your papa's work for him, hurting your mama."

Alina's sobbing became uncontrollable. Her fingers curled around her ear, the nails denting the thin flesh and threatening to tear it.

Bogdan's legs gave out. Mishka let him collapse onto his knees, his own stomach churning from what he had done. The boy's frame shook with the tears he cried, just as Alina shook. Mishka crawled onto the bed and tried to fasten the gown back in place, his deep voice attempting to soothe her but unable to pierce her sobs or those of their son.

"Mama..."

Just a tearful whisper from Bogdan on the floor, but the word froze Mishka's hand.

"Mama," the boy repeated, a little louder, his crying twisting the word into something hard to recognize.

Mishka got off the bed and crouched over the boy as the word issued over and over, building in volume. He looked from Bogdan to Alina. She was still trying to block everything out, dry heaves shaking her voluptuous frame.

"Mama!" the boy screamed before returning to more softly sobbing for Alina.

She rolled across the bed and reached with one shaking hand to brush her fingers lightly across the boy's nearly bald scalp. With a hiccup, Bogdan looked up. She withdrew her hand, not sure if the boy wanted her touching him.

Mishka urged the boy onto his feet then onto the bed.

Exhausted, the boy cradled his body against Alina. Tentatively she curled an arm around him, one finger softly caressing just below his chin.

Mishka returned to the chair, watching his son and the boy's mother as they slowly fell asleep. Through it all, he noticed her glassy stare and how stiffly she held everything but her arm and the hand that stroked the boy's cheek.

She finally had what she wanted and he had helped give it to her -- but the distant look on her face told him it came too late.