Destroy (Sordid 2.5)

Was she a Petrov? Sidor’s family was so large, and most of them had never bothered to learn my name, so I had done the same with them.

“What about my husband?” I asked.

She clasped her hands together and ran the pad of her thumb nervously over the back of her hand. “He’s . . . I’m sorry. He’s been shot.”

I blinked to try to absorb her statement but couldn’t. “What?”

“He was out with Sergey and—”

“Where?”

“I don’t know where or who they were meeting.”

“No,” I said, my tone demanding and frustrated. “Where was he shot?”

She drew in a sharp breath, but it didn’t give any power to her voice. “In the head.”

I pulled my gaze away from her and turned to glance at the sitting room Sidor had begrudgingly let me turn into my studio. I felt as hollow as the statue I was building, devoid of emotions. “Is he dead?”

She shook her head. “Not yet, but Sergey says it doesn’t look good. He wants you at the hospital.”

And if Sergey Petrov wanted something done, it had to happen. He was the head of the Russian bratva in Chicago, and his rule was merciless.

“Are you all right?” the girl asked. She had to be wondering why there weren’t tears streaming down my face, or how I seemed completely indifferent to her shocking news.

I ignored her question. “Who are you?”

“Oksana Kuznetsov.” Her gaze dropped to the stone porch. “I’m the Petrovs’ housekeeper.”

I took a step backward, more stunned with this revelation than anything else. I knew Sergey disliked me, but this cemented it, and now I could place her. “He sent the girl who cleans his floors to tell me my husband’s dying?” I swore in Russian. “Fucking Sergey.”

Oksana’s eyes went wide, and I realized my place.

“I didn’t say that,” I announced quickly. That kind of comment was dangerous.

Thankfully, she nodded in understanding. “And I didn’t hear it either, but we need to go. I’ll drive you.”

? ? ?

I stared at Sidor’s nearly lifeless body, only kept alive by the whirring machines attached to him, wishing he could hear me when I told him what a failure he’d become. I used the exact tone, a similar disappointed glare, and the same Russian words he’d lectured me with for the past seven years.

Three days he’d been like this, and I couldn’t believe my terrible luck. When karma delivered a bullet to his head, this awful man couldn’t even die properly.

I’d fulfilled my marital obligations to the best of my ability and deserved to be released from our arrangement. How many months of this would I have to endure?

What if he lasted a decade or more, taking my best years with him?

Divorce wasn’t acceptable to the Petrov family, and neither was turning off the life support system. I couldn’t instruct the doctors to shut down the machines and speed along my husband’s guaranteed descent to hell, because Sidor had never trusted me. He’d given power of attorney to his brother, Sergey.

I was his wife, yet even in his eventual death, Sidor had kept me powerless.

No money had been set aside for me, and there would be none coming my direction. Even though I carried the Petrov last name, I’d never been part of the family. I was a mail-order bride from the homeland and hadn’t produced any children.

Only miscarriages and art.

The lawyers I would need to fight the power of attorney or to petition for divorce were expensive, and the Petrovs had all their mob money and ruthless attorneys on retainer. They would oppose and stall at every opportunity, until I’d been bled dry. Whether they got the outcome they desired or not, in the end they would win. In our marriage, Sidor’s money had been my life support. For all their righteousness about that being sacred for him, Sergey had no qualms about shutting mine off.

I sat in the uncomfortable hospital chair, my posture perfect, while my mother’s condescending voice echoed in my head.

Nothing is good enough for you, Nikita. You’re never happy.

I wondered how I was supposed to be happy when nothing ever went the way I’d planned. I’d been nineteen when I’d seen the online ad looking for young, pretty girls who could speak English. I understood what was required of me when chatting with the lonely American men, most of whom were as old as my father.

I would get nowhere as an artist in Volograd, where money was hard to come by and even harder to keep. Sidor was supposed to be my escape from Russia. His long, unattractive face and line of work made finding a wife for him difficult, and he wanted someone he could speak to in his preferred language. He was wealthy and an art lover, and it wasn’t likely I was going to find a better match. He had seemed nice enough, and I’d been too naïve to see through his act.