The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

“Hi,” I say in Russian to the man at the desk, flashing him my most winsome smile. “I’m here to see Calina Brague.” I live in solitude and speak to hardly anyone, so my Russian is shit.

He blinks, then looks at the computer screen in front of him. With a nod, he looks a second time at my I.D. A corner of his lip tips up and he mutters, “Amerikanskiy?”

“Konechno,” I reply. It helps to know the casual phrases indicating nonchalance when trying to avoid notice.

Of course.

Naturally.

I see.

Excellent.

A confident word and a ready smile go a long way sometimes in throwing people off course, and if I speak the language badly enough, they typically don’t want to engage in small talk, which is a decent plan.

Glen wanted to accompany me today, but I want a little time alone with Calina. I come here several times a week, and he usually comes with me, but today is a special day.

It marks the fifth anniversary of our father’s death.

Calina won’t remember, but it’s a date I’ll never forget.

The man at the desk nods in surprise at the screen. I know what he’s seeing: the green notice at the top of the page that grants me visiting rights, thanks to Glen. I get my visitor’s pass from him and head to the elevator. My peppermint’s nearly gone, so I take another one from the tin in my pocket and slip it into my mouth. Steeling my nerves. I adjust the bag by my side, hoping not to arouse suspicion. The third floor is highly restricted, and the only way I was even able to attain access was by having Glen hack into their computer system and adjust records.

I smile at the friendly blonde nurse who knows me by now. She’s filling little paper cups with pills, and looks tired. There aren’t enough nurses for the patients, and it shows. Someone moans down the hall, a large stack of dirty food trays sits precariously on a cart near the elevator, and the phone at the main desk rings and rings. I wonder if this particular unit is understaffed, or is it that the people who work here don’t wish to come on this floor?

The third floor is where the most volatile patients reside. I don’t believe Calina really belongs here, but when a doctor tried to examine her last month, she broke his nose and nearly strangled him with his stethoscope.

She’s a little feisty. But we never were the most complacent creatures.

On record, they put her on this floor for her own safety and the wellbeing of others.

We were never even supposed to stay in this country. My father, American-born and raised, brought us here when we were just children. Barely out of junior high, we didn’t know a lick of Russian. He’d been “commissioned” he told us, to work for a government associate. At first, it was exciting. Whoever my father worked for paid him amply, and it was nice living in comparatively luxurious conditions. For a few years, we lived like normal people. After our mother’s death in America, we were all ready for something new. A new place, a new home. We were so much happier here that we never had plans to even go back to America for a visit.

That was before my father’s plans took a decided turn. Before the men he worked for discovered he was swindling them out of their money. Before they came for him.

They made it look like an accident. Dimly lit road. Late winter. Snowstorm.

They didn’t care if we lived or died, as long as my father met his demise.

The accident was horrific and tragic and my father died on impact. My sister suffered head trauma and significant brain damage as a result. I walked away relatively unscathed… physically.

The papers reported it wrong, though. They declared Calina was the only survivor.

So I used that to my advantage.

Calina was deemed mentally unfit and institutionalized. I lived on my own and kept my head down, visiting Calina and researching what it was that brought about my father’s death, but the research I do brings up dead end after dead end.

I’ve spent the past five years wondering what if?

What if I’d been the one brain damaged like Calina?

What if she’d died in the accident?

What if I had?

I gently push open her door, and I know what I’ll see before I walk in the room.

Calina’s dressed in a white hospital gown, sitting on the bed with her knees tucked up to her chest. Her once glossy black hair is dull, stringy, and unkempt. She rocks gently back and forth, and eighties rock plays in the background.

“Hey, honey,” I whisper, shutting the door. “You can’t play the music out loud. They’ll know you have something.”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I forgot.”

Reaching under her mattress, she takes out the computer I’ve snuck in to her. She’s not allowed any electronics on this wing, but I managed to not only get this computer in, but hack into this floor’s WiFi so she can get online. She’s isolated enough. Isolating her from the online world too seemed harsh.