You Don't Own Me (The Russian Don 1)

Stretching and yawning noisily, I notice a plastic tab with two pills in it and a bottle of water. Excellent idea, Noah. I take the pills and drink half the bottle of water. I must be really dehydrated. I flip the duvet and swing my legs out of the bed. There is a pair of pink bedroom slippers waiting below. They obviously have a pink theme going on.

I pad over to the first window and draw open the curtains. With the curtains open the room seems light and bright. A perfect place for me to work in. I look outside the window and realize that the room is on the third floor. It faces a formal garden with mature trees and topiary that looks pretty spectacular in the morning sun.

Still yawning I pad over to the bathroom. The bathroom makes me smile. If I had not believed Zane was a Mafia boss, the bathroom would have convinced me. It is entirely done up in pink marble and is, I suppose, very impressive. The taps and fittings are all gleaming gold. Brand new toothbrushes, combs, hairbrushes, soaps, and moisturizing lotions have been put out next to the basin. I use what I need in the shower and wrap myself in a fluffy white bathrobe hanging behind the door.

Back into the room and feeling more human, I notice that Yuri or somebody else has neatly tucked away my battered suitcase with its Michigan Girl sticker, my rucksack, and my cheap shoes next to the wardrobe. They look out of place in these opulent surroundings. I open my suitcase, get dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, and put the rest of my stuff away in the wardrobe.

My headache is nearly gone. I open the door and step into a circular landing. There are two other doors around the curving central staircase, but they are both closed, and since I have zero desire to explore, I go down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor. There is no one about in the hallway so I veer into the corridor that leads to the kitchen. Olga is in it. She is sitting at the counter, her hands curled around a mug. She stands and smiles politely when she sees me.

‘Good morning,’ I greet.

She nods. She mimes the act of carrying her right hand up to her mouth.

‘Breakfast. OK.’ I bite my lip. ‘No English?’ I ask shaking my head.

She shakes her head.

‘Not even a word?’ I ask hopefully.

She looks at me blankly.

I sigh. Great.

She indicates that I should follow her, which I do, into a sunny breakfast room. The sun is streaming in and the table is already set and loaded with food.

‘Wow,’ I say. I look at her and point at my chest. ‘All for me?’

She nods and makes a motion for me to sit.

I sit and look at the selection of food. Pancakes. She points to the jars of jam and honey and a pitcher of some thick and whitish liquid. It doesn’t look like cream.

‘What’s that?’ I ask, pointing to it.

She indicates I should wait, goes out of the room, and comes back with a can that she puts into my hand.

‘Ah, condensed milk.’ Ugh. ‘I eat this with the pancake?’ I ask politely.

She nods, smiles and gives me the thumbs up signal.

Over my dead body. ‘OK. Thanks.’

She lifts a little dish and exposes a slimy, whitish pudding that shivers like jelly and looks like it has been set in a gelatin mould. She picks up a jar of runny raspberry jam and pours a generous amount on top of the little mound.

She looks at me encouragingly. I take a spoon and try a little. It is semolina. I hate semolina. She looks at me expectantly. I smile, swallow, rub my belly, and make an ‘mmmm,’ sound.

She smiles happily and points to some open sandwiches. Buttered bread slices topped with pink sausage meat or slices of cheese.

‘Kolbasa,’ she says pointing at the meat, and gives me another thumbs up signal.

‘Right, Russian sausage.’

She points to a cold omelet sprinkled with dill, and I make a mental note to stock up on cereal.

I make a sign of drinking and say. ‘Coffee?’

She nods and leaves the room. I push the semolina away and reach for a pancake. I’ve seen these in the supermarket, but never bought them. Blinis. I butter it and add some honey. It is good. Olga comes in with a mug of black tea. I shake my head. ‘Coffee,’ I say slowly, as if saying it slower will help her understand.

‘Oh,’ she says, and rushes out of the room.

I take another bite of my blinis and stare out of the window. It is so beautiful and peaceful. As I watch, a thickset man in a black leather jacket crosses the garden and disappears behind some bushes. I glance at my watch. Stella is probably still asleep. My other life seems a world away. It feels as if I am not even in the same country. Olga comes in with my coffee. I hold my finger up to her and, taking my phone, Google thank you in Russian.