Page 18 of Refrain

“Or you’ll handcuff me again?”

“I apologize for that.” Going off her strained frown, I don’t think she accepts it.

“What’s your name?” she asks. This time, she doesn’t even try to aim for tact in steering the conversation.

“Ksei. Is that yourrealname?” I dare her to tell me it is.

Her mouth opens and her pink tongue darts around the rim of her bottom lip. “It’s Ksenia.”

It’s the truth. It’s a lie. She’s red and green, wavering between two sides of the same color. I don’t challenge her though.

“Espisido,” I say. “Everyone calls me Espi for short.”

“Espisido.” She draws it out like she’s memorizing each letter, and I find myself gripping the fridge handle tighter. “That’s an unusual name.”

“So is Ksenia.” When she doesn’t run off, I decide to push my luck. “So, if you’re not a cop, then what were youreallydoing at Piotr Petrov’s little playground, Ksenia?”

“These will have to come out, won’t they?” She innocentlyruns her good hand down the arm wrapped in gauze as if counting the stitches underneath.

“Five days,” I tell her. “Ten tops. Don’t go over that.”

“Will it scar?” She’s stalling. No. On second thought, she’s trying to distract me from my original question.

“Yes.” Only god knows why I play along. “It’s gonna be a nasty one. If you like wearing tank tops, don’t. Keep it out of the sun. Unless you want a nice, dark—”

“Thank you.” She purses her lips as if she’s not used to saying the words.

“Don’t,” I say. “I didn’t disinfect it well enough. If that sucker turns gangrene and falls off, you can’t sue me.Khorosho?”

“Da… You know Russian?”

“Enough to get by. I’m not a part of the Syndicate though. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Fair enough.” She extends one of her legs along the length of the couch, still anxious.

If she’s not stupid, she won’t try to stand. Though the smart thing to do would be to let her leave. All I need is to get mixed up with another Russian.

“So, you’re not a part of the Syndicate,” she says carefully. “Then who are you? Part of some other gang? Or is that tattoo on your chest just for show?”

Touché.“I prefer the term artist.”

She raises an eyebrow, silently demanding more. An explanation. Something concrete.

I hate to disappoint the lady. “That’s it. Espi, the artist. Not a part of the syndicate or any other gang. I do commissions at request.”

“An artist.” She eyes her arm with renewed interest. “You do yourcommissionsoften?”

“Only for the people I like.”

“And for those you don’t?”

I have to laugh even as I look away, hoping I smother the disgust that claws through my skin. “I prefer to make friends.”

“Friends,” she says carefully. “Who you like to keep captive?”

There’s no way to skirt the loaded question, so I say nothing.

“I…I want to try to stand up,” she says.

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