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  My cheeks are tinged rosy pink, and my full lips part in a perfectly symmetrical, straight smile, dimples appearing on both cheeks. I have long lashes framing my large, pale blue eyes, but I have never worn mascara on them. In fact, I’ve never worn any kind of makeup. It is forbidden in my household. Sometimes, at the supermarket, I have sneaked away from my mother to look at the makeup aisles, in complete awe of the multitudes of colors and textures. I know nothing about how makeup is supposed to be worn, but the colorful shades of lipstick have always intrigued me.

  I wonder if I will be allowed to wear colors like that on my wedding day. I assume not, as the husband my parents choose for me will probably be a likeminded individual, carefully selected from our tight-knit, closed-off social group. My parents have a lot of friends, all from the congregation at church. Most of them are also parents who homeschool their children. At church I have stolen glances at these other young people, some of them around my age. I wonder if they are just as restricted as me. I think they must be. Children are meant to be seen and not heard, though, so I don’t have many opportunities to speak with them.

  During the last church service we attended, I surveyed the crowded pews, looking for male faces. I wanted to see what the pool of potential husbands looked like. I was dismayed to see how dull and plain they all were. I know that men don’t need to be handsome to serve God. But women must be beautiful, because the best way that a woman can serve God is by serving her husband. Therefore, a woman must be both beautiful and pure.

  At least, that’s what my father and mother have told me.

  Perched in front of the mirror, I comb my waist-length, silvery blonde hair over my shoulder, working the tangles out of my soft curls. Then I plait it down my back in a simple, no-nonsense braid that keeps my hair out of my face. I get up and stand in front of my armoire, trying to decide what I should wear today.

  Finally, I settle on an ankle-length light pink skirt, beige button-up blouse, and a chocolate brown cardigan. The pink skirt is the brightest article of clothing I own, and I hope that my eighteenth birthday is a fitting occasion to wear it. My parents usually only buy me muted neutral tones, like gray and brown. A woman is not meant to be flashy for anyone but her husband and her God. I think about the little red and brown birds outside on the branches. The lady bird is brown and the male is bright red. My father says this is proof that women are meant to be modest and men are to be powerful.

  After I smooth down my skirt and make sure that most of my flesh is covered up, I go down the hall to tap on my little brother’s door and wake him up. Isaiah is seven years old and the sweetest child in the world, I’m convinced. He is rowdy sometimes, of course, but Father says that is acceptable for little boys. Girls are supposed to be soft and quiet, but boys can be loud and messy. It’s just the way things are.

  “It’s time to get up, Isaiah,” I say through the door.

  I hear him groan and roll out of bed, and I smile to myself as I walk down the stairs and into the kitchen. My mother is already there, wearing a long brown dress and white apron. Her blonde hair is tied back into a perfectly round bun, as usual. She radiates a kind of demure, sophisticated beauty that I aspire to. She takes me on a lot of outings to have tea or coffee with other mother-daughter pairs from church. I think she wants to let me see a little bit of the world, even if it is only a sliver.

  “Good morning, Mother,” I greet her, taking my place beside her at the kitchen island. She is rolling out dough for homemade biscuits, and there’s a frying pan of bacon and eggs on the stove across from us.

  “Happy birthday,” she replies. “Could you take over these biscuits so I can tend the stove?”

  “Of course!” I say, taking an apron from a peg on the wall and tying it around my neck and waist. It certainly wouldn’t do to have my clean outfit covered in flour.

  “And hurry, please. Your father is in quite a rush this morning. He has a meeting with some, uh, business partners in a couple hours.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I quickly and efficiently form the biscuits, arranging them on a baking sheet and pop them into the oven. Then I gather a stack of cloth napkins and four sets of silverware to set the table. My brother and father both take a lot longer to come down in the morning, but that’s okay. My mother and I are made to serve, and we do it happily.

  She was married to my father when she was eighteen and he was thirty, and despite the fact that they did not know each other until the day of their wedding, they have made a lovely life together. My mother is very subservient and very good at maintaining a beautiful house. Our two-story craftsman home is furnished with refurbished antique furniture and hand-sewn linens, and my mother keeps it perfectly spotless at all times. “A woman’s home is reflective of her soul,” she always tells me, “So keep it clean.”

  Once all the food is cooked, we place portions on each plate and fill the glasses with freshly-squeezed orange juice, just in time for my father and Isaiah to come down the stairs, rough-housing playfully. Standing primly by his chair to pull it out for him, I greet my father.

  “Good morning, Daddy,” I say, smiling widely.

  He is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache and beard, once brown and now gray peppered with white. He’s dressed in a dark business suit and tie, everything perfectly polished and ironed smooth, from his slacks to his cuff links. He is an investment banker, and from what I have gathered, a very powerful man in our community. All the time, women at church tell my mother how lucky she is to have landed such a prestigious man. But all of her thanks go to God, of course.

  “Good morning, and happy birthday,” he says, his voice deep and resonant.

  Isaiah’s face lights up. “It’s your birthday?” he asks excitedly.

  I nod. “Yes! I’m eighteen today.”

  He gasps and bolts toward me, flinging his arms around my waist and hugging me tightly. I laugh and ruffle his fluffy brown hair. He is a handful, to be sure, but he is never dull. In fact, some days I shudder to think how boring and quiet my life would be without him running around. I’m going to miss him terribly when I get married. But I’m sure I will still see him all the time, especially since my husband is almost certainly going to be a part of our established community here.

  “Eighteen? That’s so old!” Isaiah bursts out, peering up at me with a wrinkled nose.

  I kiss the top of his head. “I know. I’m ancient now.”

  “Does this mean Cassie’s gonna go away?” he asks, turning to my father with a suddenly worried expression. He clings to my hand, pressing his chubby little cheek into my palm.

  My heart tightens in my chest at how panicked he sounds. My parents are wonderful, of course, but it hurts me to think of my little brother being all alone in the house without me there to entertain and take care of him. My mother is home all the time, and she looks after him, but she doesn’t play with him like I do. Apart from a couple neighborhood boys, I am Isaiah’s best friend in the world. I hope he won’t be too lonely without me.

  My parents exchange concerned glances. Then my mother takes Isaiah by the hand and takes him to his seat quietly.

  “Perhaps we will discuss this over breakfast,” Daddy says, scratching at his beard. Suddenly, I feel a little fearful. They’re acting a little peculiar.

  “I won’t be going too far, I’m sure,” I tell Isaiah with a wink as I take my seat across from him at the table. My parents sit down and we all eat in silence for a couple minutes, waiting for my father to speak.

  Finally, he sets his fork and knife down and announces, “We have selected a husband for you, Cassandra.”

  I nearly choke on my biscuit.

  “Already?” I ask, my eyes going wide. I hadn’t expected an announcement quite this big this morning. I thought they would take a lot longer to pick a candidate, and I had hoped — a very small, quiet hope — that they would include me in the decision to some extent. I know it isn’t my place to choose; my parents know what is best for me, anyway. But
I don’t know if I am ready to be anyone’s wife. Not quite yet.

  “No!” shouts Isaiah.

  “Hush, sweetheart,” my mother tells him softly, shaking her head at him.

  But my brother slams down his fork and crosses his arms. “I don’t want Cassie to go!”

  “It is nothing to fear,” my father tells Isaiah firmly. “And it is none of your business. It is an arrangement between your sister and… God.”

  “Could you tell me his name?” I ask, my hands starting to tremble. I look back and forth between my parents as they give each other knowing looks.

  “Um, no. We… we can’t,” my mother says.

  “Don’t worry about it,” says my father.

  Now my stomach is turning in knots. Why are they acting so strangely? Why is my future husband’s name such a big secret? I have probably already heard his name in passing — our community is very exclusive, and everyone knows everybody else.

  “Haven’t I met him before?” I press, daring to test my father’s patience in my panic.

  “N-no, you have not,” Mother answers hesitantly. My father shoots her a warning glare and her mouth closes tight.

  Daddy clears his throat and folds his hands on the table in front of him, pushing his plate forward as he fixes me with a dark gaze. “It is not your place to question our judgement in this matter, Cassandra. Put your faith in God, where it belongs, and do not fret about your fate. Rest assured that this decision will be made based on what is best for our family.”

  I stare quietly down at my plate, my appetite totally dissipated by now. I feel as though I’m on the verge of tears, but crying is not allowed in front of other people, and especially not in my father’s presence. I resign myself to crying later, alone in my room. But before I drop the subject entirely, I ask one more question: “So, he is of our faith, then?”

  My father pauses, and a shadowy darkness crosses his face. I am afraid of him in that instant, as I often am. I love Daddy, but sometimes he frightens me with his sternness.

  Then he replies, “We don’t know.”

  My mouth falls open before I can stop it, and tears burn in my eyes, threatening to spill over. But I cannot let them. So I swallow my fear, nod my understanding, and quietly remind myself that I must trust my parents.

  Surely they would never send me away somewhere bad. They have protected me from evil all my life — so I must continue to trust them now.

  It’s what a good girl would do.

  3

  Andrei

  Nobody pays attention to the droves of men slipping into the back room of the little store on the street corner. Very few of the regular patrons of the grocery and cafe aren’t Russian, and none of the locals know about this place. It’s the worst-kept secret in Little Odessa.

  The back room of the store sports a narrow staircase that leads to a basement that’s far larger than the building, and it’s what’s really keeping this sorry excuse for a Russian cafe afloat.

  It’s a dimly-lit place lined with yellow, flickering lights that cast a cheap, unkempt feel about the whole place, but really, the security at tonight’s event is a testament to how valuable it is to the Bratva. Enough money has passed through this shoddy-looking basement to buy out most of this part of town.

  I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs, keeping my eyes on the men who are shuffling in. They come from all walks of life, from surly-looking men in stained tanktops to a few gentlemen in designer clothing. I recognize a few of them, but I’m in neither the mood nor position to make small talk with old acquaintances. There’s a makeshift bar set up at the far corner of the room, and more than a few of the people who’ve been here a while are already getting drunk.

  I’m wearing a tight-fitting black shirt and jeans, nothing fancy for tonight. Dressing more simply makes the dregs less likely to think about fucking with me.

  Bouncing isn’t the kind of gig I like, but I know my boss assigned me to this post since I’ve been in minimal contact with him the past week or so. He’s the kind of man who demands regular attention. Not unlike a child.

  Of course, if he’s so interested in things going smoothly tonight that he has a hitman handling security, something high-stakes must be happening tonight. Poker games are a popular one, and I’ve seen more than a few of Brighton’s highest-profile businessmen and criminals alike lose fortunes under these lights.

  High-dollar drugs aren’t out of the question either, but I find it doubtful with all the people here. Back in the 80s, though, I can imagine this place saw its share of coke parties.

  I see a few burly men making their way down the stairs, and I give them a nod of recognition, knowing whose guard dogs they are. A moment later, their master — my boss — makes his way down the stairs wearing a lavish and gaudy orange jacket and a thick gold chain, laughing with what looks like a similarly dressed Chechnyan from across town.

  “Ah, and here is the man who’ll keep us sleeping safe at night,” he gestures to me as he reaches the bottom of the stairs where I’m standing cross-armed, a statue compared to the other guards. “My own personal Shadow — I couldn’t replace this man with a hundred of these other goons, I tell you!”

  “Mr. Slokavich,” I incline my head to him, “You and your friends have something special planned for the night?”

  “Andrei,” he chides me, slapping me on the back heartily, “have I ever hosted something that disappoints? Sergei Slokavich is not a man to let his valued guests go wanting, you of all people know this.”

  He’s trying to suck up to someone, I think privately, giving a smile to Sergei and his rich friend. Sergei is a proud man, but sucking up when it’s useful is not beneath him by any measure. Tonight must be something special indeed.

  “People are still buzzing over last week’s match,” I agree, bringing up the fixed fight Sergei had a chubby hand in. “It takes a special talent to draw men from all walks of life like this.”

  “Aahh,” Sergei says, holding up a finger triumphantly. I’ve learned how to flatter him fairly easily over the years. “Good eye as ever — you see?” He turns to his Chechnyan friend again, who’s looking bemused. “This is why he’s my best. Ace in the hole, the Americans call it. And he’s absolutely right, tonight is going to be something for the whole community. Now come along,” Sergei starts to wander into the crowd with his wealthy friend, “there are a few of my associates who’ve been dying to meet you, and…”

  His voice trails off as he and his men melt into the crowd, and I’m left alone again. Finally.

  Working for Sergei Slokavich has become more of a chore over time. When he isn’t having half the other Russians in Brighton Beach killed, he’s indulging in every vice he can lay his hands on. Embarrassing as he is from my point of view, I have to admit, he’s skilled at making friends with deep pockets, particularly those who are fresh off the boat from the motherland.

  The Chechnyan with him put on airs of authority, and judging by his age, I guess he’s the absurdly wealthy son of some mob boss back home, but even though we all spoke Russian, I could tell from his silence that he hardly spoke a word of the English that was being chattered all around him by the rabble. He’s out of his element, and Sergei is taking the chance to butter him up. It’s a clever ploy, but I wonder how long it’ll last.

  I don’t have long to think about it, as the lights start to dim and focus on the stage at the far end of the room and people start to gather around.

  That stage has been used to auction off high-dollar stolen goods in the past. I’ve seen everything from filched art and antiques to military-grade custom weapons pass through that stage. Whatever Sergei is selling tonight, it’s going to be good. I don’t have to crane my neck to see over the sea of people in the room.

  A blonde man with a tight goatee I recognize stands up on the stage, running a hand through his hair as he waves at the crowd to quiet them, obviously playing the auctioneer for tonight. I chuckle.

  The man’s name is Oskar, and he
’s been through the ringer with the Bratva. Used to be a fairly successful collector until being recently disgraced by a job that went bad. I had been wondering where he’d end up after that kind of shame.

  “Quiet down, quiet down!” he shouts at the crowd, “Gentlemen, you’ll want every one of your senses free for what we’ve got tonight!” One of the other bouncers reaches up from below to hand him a mic, and he grins, trying to look dramatic. He always was a fast talker.

  “I see all the faces in this room have come from far and wide, and tonight’s entertainment does too! I got an eyeful of what we’ve got in store for you, and let me tell you, I envy those of you with the deepest pockets out there! But don’t worry, these goods have never before been sampled!”

  There’s a dark laughter that goes out around the crowd of men, and I arch an eyebrow, getting a bad feeling about where he’s going with this.

  “But you didn’t come to hear me ramble, so without further ado,” he turns to stage left and waggles his finger in a repulsive beckoning gesture, “come on out, ladies!”

  With some hesitation and encouragement from the musclebound goon behind them, ten young women stumble out onto the stage, and the crowd starts hooting and hollering.

  Immediately, I feel rage burning in my heart. Each one of the women is scantily clad, a few of them outfitted in counterfeits of expensive lingerie, others wearing nothing more than star or heart-shaped nipple coverings and underwear.

  Every terrified young woman, none of them a day over 20 and all of them shaking with wide-eyed fear at the sea of ravenous, drunk men cheering up at them, holds a little placard with a number on it.

  This is a slave auction.

  My hands ball into fists, and I feel my face going red. So this is what Sergei valued so dearly that he wanted his best man guarding it — a flesh trade, the most lowly and vile practice even the Bratva could sink to.