"Look at the color of this bath water," Oxana says, playing with my toes.

"I guess you should start calling me Oxana," she says, a little regretfully.

"I know. Cool name. But too dangerous to use now."

"Mmm. OK… Oxana."

"I guess I should. I liked Villanelle."

The apartment is on the third floor of a massive neoclassical block in an area called Avtovo. The building must once have been very grand, the sort of property where senior Communist Party officials and their families lived, but it has clearly been in decline for decades. The fittings are worn, the lift creaks, the plumbing clanks and grumbles.

We're lying at opposite ends of a huge old enamel bath in Dasha's apartment. Tall windows overlook a broad highway from which the rumble and hiss of traffic and the clanking of trams are dimly audible. Oxana, needless to say, has taken the end of the bath without the taps, but the hot water is bliss after our confinement in the container.

"It does help. It's fun. Watch. Squeeze asshole, little bubbles. Relax asshole, bigger bubbles."

"I know, gross. And you farting all the time doesn't help."

"I'm sure. So what's the deal with Dasha?"

"Awesome."

"When you live alone, you get good at stuff like this."

"Dasha and I were in Dobryanka prison together, and under the criminal code, the vorovskoy zakon, we are sisters. Murder sisters. That means that she has to help me. I told her I was a torpedo, a shooter, for a powerful family in Europe, and that I had to get out fast. She doesn't need to know more than that at this stage."

"And me?"

"How do you mean, what's the deal?"

"I mean are we her guests, her prisoners…?"

"I'm just the torpedo's girlfriend?"

"She didn't ask about you."

"You want me to say you worked for MI6? Seriously? I told her what I had to tell her to get her trust, because right now, we need her. We need new identities, new passports, all that shit, and she can fix it. Or at least she's connected to people who can fix that. Basically, we can stay here as long as we need to, she'll help us, and she won't give us up. But she'll also expect me to do something for her in return. Something big. So we have to wait and see what that something turns out to be."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"I'm weird? You're the one in the bath with the psychopath."

"Nothing. Can we have some more hot water? It's getting cold at this end."

"I want to be by your side. I didn't come all this way just to go shopping."

"I mean you just, I don't know, hang out or whatever. Dasha knows you're my woman. She won't involve you in any criminal stuff."

"I did. I'm going to make you look so amazing."

"Wow. That sounds… Fuck, I don't know what it sounds like."

She takes an experimental bite of my big toe. "You want to be a gangster, pupsik?"

I try to get my head comfortable against the taps. "What sort of criminal stuff is Dasha into?"

"Yes, you are. You know your feet taste of Emmental cheese? The sort with the big holes in?"

"You are seriously fucking weird, you know that?"

"I'm serious, Oxana. I'm not just your babe."

"The usual. Smuggling, credit cards, protection, drugs… Probably mostly drugs. Her father Gennadi led a brigade for the Kupchino Bratva, which controls the St. Petersburg heroin trade, and when he retired he passed the leadership of the brigade to Dasha. It's almost unknown for a woman to hold rank in the gangs, but she was already a fully initiated vor, and people respected her."

"There isn't any more hot water. What do you mean, nothing?"

"She didn't have to torture me."

"Huge question."

"She was just doing her job. Why is it that when a woman is assertive in the workplace she's always seen as a bitch?"

"I'll tell you. It's because we expect men to torture and kill people, but when women do it it's seen as violating gender stereotypes. It's ridiculous."

"You're so full of shit."

"I bet. She's a fucking sadist."

"I know, sweetie, life's unfair."

"Thank you to my protective, feminist girlfriend."

"She'd have tortured me a lot if you hadn't turned up."

"It really is. And just for your information"-- she kicks bathwater in my face --"I'd appreciate a thank-you for rescuing you this morning."

Dasha, I have to admit, takes very good care of us. The apartment is impersonal, and the room she assigns to us has an unaired, unused feel to it. The windows, which are locked shut, have the thick, greenish look of bulletproof glass. But the bed is comfortable enough, and after breakfast, which is brought to us by a young woman who introduces herself as Kristina, we both fall fast asleep again.

"She only tortured you a bit."

"Eve, pupsik, you have to move on from this morning. See it from her point of view. That Prekrasnaya Nevesta warehouse pays her to protect them, and we did make quite a mess in there. Dasha had to be seen to be taking control of the situation."

It's good to be in direct sunlight. The sky is dark azure blue, and the morning's snowfall has frozen, dusting the grimy, yellow-brown buildings with sparkling white. Lunch is a Big Mac and fries, and then Kristina walks us a short distance down Stachek Prospekt to a second-hand store in a converted cinema, the Kometa. The seats have been removed from the auditorium, which now holds rank after rank of clothing stalls. These offer everything from goth and punk fashions to old theater costumes, military and police regalia, fetish-wear and homemade jewelry. The place smells musty and cloying, as such places always do, and it's oddly poignant to wander down the aisles beneath the art deco chandeliers, picking through the tattered residue of other people's lives.

When we wake it's almost midday, and we're ravenous again. The apartment appears to be empty except for Kristina, who has clearly been waiting for us to surface. Handing us each a warm down-filled jacket, she leads us out of the flat, and we descend to the street in the shuddering lift. My ankle is less swollen than it was, and although it's still sore, I can walk.

Oxana gives my waist a squeeze. "Reinvent yourself, pupsik. Go crazy."

"In these clothes, you'll look as if you've lived in St. Petersburg forever, like subculture people," Kristina says. Tall and long-legged, with hair the color of wheat and a gentle, hesitant manner, she's an unlikely member of a gangster household. She doesn't speak often, and when she does it's so quietly that we strain to hear her.

In this spirit, I make a point of choosing things I'd never have considered in my former life. A midnight-blue velvet coat, its silk lining in tatters, its label identifying it as the property of the Mikhailovsky Theatre. A studded jacket painted with anarchist slogans. A mohair sweater striped in black and yellow like a bee. It occurs to me that I'm enjoying myself, something I've never felt while buying clothes before. Oxana seems to be having a pretty good time too. She's as ruthless out shopping as she is in every other area of her life, not hesitating to rip a garment out of my hands if she wants it for herself.

Afterward, we take a taxi to Aviatorov Park. Why Kristina wants to take us there, I'm not sure. Maybe it's the nearest thing to a tourist attraction that Avtovo has to offer. As the sky darkens, and flurries of new snow whirl around us, we mooch across the near-deserted park to a frozen lake girded by dark, skeletal trees. On the far shore, a Soviet monument stands on a promontory. A MiG fighter aircraft leaping into the sky, arrested at the moment of takeoff. Kristina indicates it perfunctorily before continuing on her ghostly way along the icy lakeside path. Only then does it occur to me that she has been ordered to keep us away from the apartment for as long as possible, so that Dasha can search our possessions and decide what to do about us. Which might include selling us out.

A visit to a nearby hairdressing and nail salon completes our makeover. Kristina pays for everything from a large roll of cash, which I'm guessing is Dasha's. In the salon she sits quietly, staring into space, as Oxana and I are attended to. The stylist gives me a short, choppy bob, while Oxana gets a spiky pixie cut. My nails end up turquoise, hers black. When we're done Kristina gives us a rare, shy smile. "Now you look like proper Russians," she tells us.

"I'm sure she has, but they wouldn't lead her to the Twelve."

I ask Oxana about this, and she's doubtful. "The only people who'd be interested in me, in us, are the Twelve, and they operate at a much higher level than outfits like the Kupchino Bratva."

"Supposing she did make the connection. Just for the sake of argument."

"Dasha might have heard of them, though. Presumably she has access to all kinds of underworld information sources."

"How would she get in touch with them? On Facebook?"

I nod, not quite convinced.

Days pass, and I begin to feel stronger. My shoulders are still painful, especially in the mornings, and I can't walk far without my ankle protesting. But Dasha feeds us well, and the effects of living in a container on starvation rations are beginning to ebb. Oxana runs every day, sometimes for two or three hours, and pushes herself through a rigorous exercise routine on her return. I spend the time trying to improve my Russian by reading Dasha's back issues of Vogue and listening to Radio Zenith, the local current affairs channel.

"Look, Dasha didn't get to be a brigadier in a bratva by being stupid. If she breaks the vory code and betrays me to the Twelve or anyone else, she won't ever be trusted again. Also, I'd kill her. Maybe not immediately, but one day I'd come for her, and she knows it."

What Oxana hasn't yet raised with Dasha is the question of Lara Farmanyants, currently languishing in Butyrka jail in Moscow. Personally, I'd be happy to see the bitch rot there forever. Not only is she Oxana's ex, she also tried to kill me. But Oxana wants her out of there, and is planning to ask Dasha whether it might be possible, through her vory connections, to make this happen.

She keeps the details about our departure from England vague, and is confident that Dasha believes her, more or less. She's asked Dasha about fixing us up with Russian interior passports and new identities. This appears to be possible, for a price.

Sleeping with Oxana is so different from sleeping with Niko. Where Niko's body was unambiguous, so familiar that it was part of my waking and sleeping, Oxana's body is enigmatic. The more I explore it, the more mysterious it seems. Hard and soft, yielding and predatory. She draws me deeper and deeper. There are times when she slides into an impenetrable silence, or pushes me away from her, tense with anger at some imagined slight, but mostly she's skittish and tender. She's like a cat, yawning and stretching and purring, all lean muscle and sheathed claws. When we sleep, she faces outwards and I fold into her. She snores.

I know that I can never tell her this, just as I'm certain that she will never tell me that she loves me, because those words have no meaning for her. I know that I have only myself to blame. I believed that I could somehow finesse her affectless nature, and in the cold light of day I see this to be impossible. St. Petersburg winter days are short, however, and the nights are long. In our shared bed, wrapped in darkness and dreams and the warm smell of her body, I find myself believing it again.

I try not to let the idea of Lara upset me, but Oxana knows how vulnerable I feel when compared to her former girlfriend, and misses no opportunity to drop references to Lara's amazing physique, athleticism and sexual virtuosity. There's a rational part of me that knows that she can't possibly miss Lara in the way that she claims to, and probably doesn't give her a moment's thought from one day to the next. But love is not rational, and for all Oxana's casual cruelties, I have stopped pretending to myself that I'm not in love with her.

"Don't I make you feel alive?" I ask, and immediately wish that I hadn't. Oxana turns a pitying gaze on me and says nothing.

A week after our arrival, Kristina directs Oxana and me to a department store where there is a photo booth. When we return, Dasha takes the prints and tells us that we should have our Russian internal passports and other identity documents within the week. In total, for both of us, the cost will be fifteen hundred U. S. dollars, which Oxana pays immediately. There are cheaper versions available, Dasha says, but they are recognizable as forgeries. I'm glad to see the money handed over, because I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable about accepting Dasha's hospitality on an indefinite basis, vory code or no vory code. I'm also aware of Oxana's increasing restlessness, which running and exercise cannot assuage. "I need to work," she tells me, pacing the flat like a caged panther. "I need to feel I'm alive."

After pocketing the cash for the documents, Dasha informs us that she's hosting a dinner at the apartment that evening. Her boss is coming, his name is Asmat Dzabrati, and we should address him as Pakhan, or leader. He is a hugely respected figure, apparently. A gangster boss of the old school, who in his younger days was known for dispatching rivals with an ax. With the Pakhan will be the gang's three other brigadiers, Dasha herself being the fourth. It's an important occasion, Dasha impresses on us, and she's anxious for it to go well. Kristina will lend us the appropriate clothes.

"Oh… you know."

Oxana is in a vile mood, so the session doesn't go well. She glances into Kristina's wardrobe, snatches a Saint Laurent tuxedo suit, holds it against herself, glances in the mirror and walks out without a word.

She smiles faintly. "I do know."

I hold her gaze. Listen to the sound of my own breathing.

I stare at the array of dresses, not knowing where to start. "Do you love her?" I ask impulsively.

Kristina watches her go. "Everything OK?"

She hands me the dress. "She's a killer, isn't she? A professional."

"I can recognize them straight away. That look they have. Do you like the name Elvira? I think it's so pretty for a little girl."

"Yes, and she loves me. One day we're going to move out of the city to a village in Karelia. Maybe adopt a daughter."

"Something like that."

"Kris… are you with Dasha?"

"Good luck with that."

"Kristina?"

She takes a ruffled silk Bora Aksu dress from the rail, looks at it, and frowns. "You and your Oxana. You're going to live happily ever after, is that the plan?"

"Kris."

"Yes. For a year now."

We're in the apartment's principal reception room. This is furnished with heavy grandeur and dominated by a spotlit portrait of Dasha lounging in a smoking jacket, holding a cigar. Opposite the painting, between the tall windows overlooking Stachek Prospekt, an ice sculpture of the Russian president riding a bear drips on a sideboard. At the far end of the room a white-jacketed steward with a bandaged head is serving drinks at a generously stocked bar. Belatedly, I recognize the gang member that Oxana laid out cold in the warehouse. His colleagues mock him, slapping him condescendingly on the cheek as they collect their drinks, laughing at his idiocy in allowing himself to be hospitalized by a woman.

Asmat Dzabrati is one of the least remarkable men I've ever met. Short, with thinning hair and mild, rabbity eyes, he's the last of the evening's guests to arrive. His entrance is low-key, but he's immediately the center of attention. The Pakhan wields the kind of power that doesn't proclaim itself, but is evident in the demeanor of others. As he is helped from his shabby overcoat, led to a chair and furnished with a drink, the other guests enact an elaborately deferential dance, positioning themselves around him in hierarchical ranks. The inner circle consists of Dasha and the other brigadiers, then there's a cordon of bodyguards and foot soldiers, and finally the wives and girlfriends. Oxana threads herself between these groups like a shark, never quite finding a resting place, while I drift around the outer perimeter of scented, dressed-to-kill women, smilingly listening in on conversations, and moving on if there's any suggestion that I'm expected to do more than nod in agreement.

I take a glass of pink Latvian champagne from the bandaged barman, who eyes me ruefully, and search the crowd for Oxana. She's deep in conversation with Dasha, and although I can't hear what either of them is saying I can see the sly flash of Oxana's eyes and Dasha's slow, complicit smile. They look at me and laugh, and although I'm tempted to hurl my glass at them, I sip the sweet, ice-cold champagne instead.

Kris materializes beside me. She looks elegant in gray chiffon, but out of place among the glittering Kupchino Bratva women, like a moth among fireflies. "They're so boring," she murmurs to me. "It's impossible to have an intelligent conversation with any of them. They only talk about three things. Clothes, kids, and how to stop their men screwing around."

"Oh God."

"Exactly. Oh God! They're endlessly telling me how the nanny's so lazy, how she spends her whole time stuffing herself from the fridge and WhatsApping her friends and ignoring little Dima or Nastya, and then they look at me pityingly, like they've just remembered, and say, 'But of course, you haven't got children, have you? Do you think you might have some if you met the right guy?' And of course I have to be polite and play along, because Dasha would be high-key angry if I was rude to them, but I want to say, 'You know what, bitches? There's never going to be a "right guy," so suck on that.'"

For Kris, this is quite a speech.

"Are you sure this whole vorovskoy mir is for you?" I ask her.

Clapping her hands to announce that dinner is served, Dasha squires the Pakhan out of the room. The rest of us follow the two of them at a sedate pace into an ornate dining room, where a long table has been set for twenty. A crystal chandelier sends out rainbow spikes of light, the air is heavy with the scent of lilies, and along the center of the table, framed by gold cutlery and glassware, a glazed sturgeon is laid out like a corpse. Place cards indicate where we should sit and the protocol is strict. The Pakhan occupies the place of honor, flanked by Dasha and another brigadier, the soldiers are arranged on either side of them, and the women cluster around the table ends.

I'm wary. Has Dasha instructed her to fish for information about us? But then I drain my champagne glass and look Kristina in the eye, and she's so transparently guileless, and I so badly need an ally, that I'm almost tempted to tell her the truth.

She gives me a weary smile. "I love Dasha, and this is her world, so I guess it has to be for me. How did you and Oxana meet?"

I don't, though.

She regards me uncertainly for a moment. "Pavel," she says, nodding to one of the men whom Oxana is studiously ignoring. "My husband. He's a boyevik. One of Dasha's crew."

"I'm with Oxana," I tell her. "Over there, in the black suit."

"So which is your man?" asks the woman seated on my left, as a selection of blinis, salads and caviar is brought to the table, along with silver trays of vodka in shot glasses. A glance at her place card tells me that her name is Angelina. She has nervous eyes and hair the color of burnt caramel.

Oxana, looking fabulous in the tuxedo suit, has been placed between two of the soldiers, and I watch as her eyes narrow with anger as she realizes that she has not been seated among the Kupchino Bratva elite. I've learned the hard way just how badly she reacts to any perceived disrespect. Something flips in her. Possessed by the need to reassert control over the situation, she's capable of the most lacerating viciousness. I watch as one of the men tries to converse with her and is icily ignored. I could have told him not to bother. When she's like this she's impossible.

"Life partners."

"So how does he feel about working for a woman?"

"So what do you do?" I ask, piling caviar onto a blini.

"I'm from London. It's a long story."

"He says he doesn't mind, because she's clever like a man."

"I put up with Pavel and all his bullshit precisely so I don't have to work." She glances downwards at her cleavage, which has been sprinkled with tiny gold stars. "That's why we're married to these bratva guys. They're wealthy. Not Forbes Rich List wealthy but, you know, comfortable. So where do you come from? Your Russian is like, really weird."

"And this Oxana, you're friends, or…"

Her face goes blank for a moment, then she brightens. "That's a really beautiful dress, where did you buy it?"

"Partners."

"Like do you work, or…?"

"Business partners?"

"What do you mean, do?"

I'm saved from answering by Dasha, who stands, raises her glass, and proposes an elaborate toast to the Pakhan. "Long life and good health to the father of our bratva," she concludes. "Death to our enemies. Strength and honor to our fatherland."

Dasha's eyes widen with shock, and she starts to laugh. Everyone else joins in, even the Pakhan. The men stare at me and at each other, spluttering as they repeat my words, and Dasha has tears running down her cheeks. The laughter goes on and on, as I look desperately from face to face. Even Kris is smiling. "Don't worry," one of the brigadiers says, wiping his eyes with his napkin. "You're among friends. Your secret's safe with us." Only one person is not amused, and that is Oxana, who is staring at me with icy, undiluted hatred.

The Pakhan blinks, smiles his rabbity smile and touches his shot glass to his lips.

Oxana bows, grins and raises her glass to Dasha. "From one tough bitch to another, spasibo."

At this point Dasha evidently thinks she should bring me into the conversation. "You and Oxana had quite a journey, didn't you? The Baltic container route can be quite cold, I believe?"

"I'd also like to welcome my sister Oxana," Dasha continues. "We holidayed together in Dobryanka, the finest resort in the Urals. And believe me, friends, she was one tough bitch. They told us that she'd hanged herself in her cell, but here she is, alive and well."

A polite silence descends on the table, and nineteen faces turn toward me. I force a smile and, suddenly unconfident of my Russian, attempt to explain that Oxana and I spent the entire week shivering.

The meal seems to go on forever. Endless courses of soup, baked meat, ash-roasted beetroot, sturgeon with porcini mushrooms, dumplings and pastries. And vodka, glass after tiny glass of it. Citrus vodka, cardamom vodka, raspberry, pepper and bison grass vodka. Every couple of minutes someone proposes a toast. To companionship, loyalty, honor, the vory life, beautiful women, absent friends and death. I try to sip discreetly rather than swig, but am soon hopelessly, wretchedly, drunk. Time slows to a ticking standstill. The conversation and laughter rise and fall, the room swims in and out of focus. Angelina and others attempt conversation, but give up when they discover that I can only manage slurred and simplistic responses. From time to time I glance over at Oxana, but she is making a point of avoiding my gaze, and conversing animatedly and flirtatiously with everyone around her. The briefest complicit smile or sympathetic glance would turn the evening around for me, but none is forthcoming. Instead, her eyes slide over me as if I'm simply not there.

"Planning another torture session?" I ask, and Dasha has the grace to look uncomfortable. "Can I just say I've had the loveliest evening. The food was divine and your friends are delightful. I particularly liked the Pakhan. He's a riot."

"Eve, please," Oxana murmurs. "Haven't you embarrassed yourself enough tonight? Do us all a favor and fuck off."

I obey, picking my way carefully through the thick silence to our bedroom. There, I sit on the edge of the bed for ten minutes, listening to the thudding of my pulse as the vodka creeps through my system. Drawing back a curtain, I watch as a tram rumbles laboriously down the street, sparks intermittently cascading from its overhead cable. Then I go to the chest of drawers, open the second drawer and take the Glock from beneath my bee-striped sweater. I'm sorry that I haven't yet had the chance to wear the sweater, but it's time to face the fact that my life is over. I have made a catastrophic series of decisions, the worst of which was entrusting my life to a murderer with mental health issues whose interest in me was fleeting at best. She persuaded me that there was nowhere else to hide, that she was my only chance of survival, and I in my turn persuaded myself that this was true.

Finally, mercifully, the last toast has been drunk. Na pososhok, one for the road. Everyone stands, and the Pakhan is escorted from the dining room by his bodyguards. Standing at the door, I watch the guests file past. Some smile at me, some shake hands; one or two of the women, clearly as drunk as I am, embrace me like old friends. As Oxana passes, her face is stone.

The apartment empties, leaving Dasha, Kris and Oxana standing in front of the glassy remains of the ice sculpture. "Go to bed," Oxana orders me as I approach. "Dasha and I need to talk."

When I shoot myself, will it hurt? Will my last sensation be one of unimaginable pain? Or is it as they say, that you don't hear the shot that kills you, let alone feel it. That it's just… lights out?

Pathetic really, but it no longer matters. I've burned my bridges. I'm stateless, loveless and alone.

A heart shot, then. That will be appropriate in so many ways. It'll probably take me a few moments longer to die, but I won't be disfigured. Taking off my glasses, I put them on the bedside table. Then I kick off my shoes, and lie down on the bed with two pillows supporting my upper body. Here we go. An end to fear, to worry, to everything.

I don't think I can bear the idea of a head shot. I don't want to be found with half my skull missing and my brains all over the silk-upholstered headboard and the damask curtains. I don't particularly like Dasha, but neither do I want to force her to redecorate.

When I'm comfortable on the pillows, I slap the magazine into the Glock and rack the slide. The gun is now cocked, but to shoot myself in the heart I have to invert it, place the barrel against my chest and slip the pad of my thumb through the trigger guard. This is an awkward maneuver when you're drunk. Glocks don't have a safety catch, they have a double trigger. You have to engage both parts, and I'm just aligning them with my thumb when a faint sound penetrates my consciousness.

"Have you got a better idea?"

"What did it look like?"

"You're not that stupid."

She frowns. "Us."

"What did you think you were doing?" Her voice is low, barely audible.

"Eve, please."

"Us? Oxana, I just make you angry. You don't tell me your plans, and when you speak to me, it's like you hate me. There is no us."

She sits on the bed, reaches out a hand, and touches my cheek. I slap her hand away, swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit bolt upright, shaking with fury.

"So you decide to kill yourself?"

"It wouldn't be stupid. Give me one fucking reason to carry on."

She walks back to the bed. "You are such a dumbass, Eve. Such a fucking dumbass."

"Actually, I'm not. I'm pretty smart. The dumbass is you."

"That's what I mean. That tone of voice. I annoy you."

It's Oxana. One moment she's standing by the door, the next she's on top of me, wrenching the Glock from my hands. I stare up at her. She's shouting, but the movement of her mouth doesn't correspond to the words. She bounces off the bed, stalks over to the window, wrenches open the curtains and stands with her back to me. There's a metallic rasp and snap as she makes the Glock safe.

"You look very sexy in that dress."

"I want you to show me some kindness," I tell her, spitting the words in her face. "I don't give a shit if that's hard for you. It's time you learned how to be a fucking human being."

"I see." Behind my hand, her neck is throbbing like an anaconda.

I ignore her, stand up and start to walk toward the door, although I have no real idea where I'm going. She jumps off the other side of the bed, bounds across the room and blocks my path. I don't slow down, but throw out an arm in front of me, grab her by the throat and slam her hard against the wall. I hold her there, she gasps and her eyes widen, but she doesn't resist.

"So what am I?" she sneers. "When you've finished choking me. Which I'm enjoying, by the way."

"Someone who can't deal with the fact that you have, within your reach, a real living, breathing person who has given up everything for you. Everything."

"No, you don't see, because you're too fucking lazy to see. You hide behind your psycho label because it gets you off the hook. But you're not just some walking mental health disorder, and you know it."

Almost casually, Oxana drives her knuckles into my extended elbow, so that the nerve-shock jolts to my fingertips. I release her neck. Then she grabs one of my ears and a hank of my hair in each of her hands and pulls my face to hers, so that we're eye to eye, nose to nose, mouth to mouth. "So what do you want in return, Eve?" she whispers.

We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving, just breathing.

"All the way."

In response, I take her lower lip between my teeth, and bite it. Oxana exhales softly, and I taste her blood. "I want you," I tell her. "I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine."

"OK," she says. "OK." Taking my glasses from the bedside table, she fits them carefully over my face. "There, now you can see me properly."

She pulls her head back so that she can look at me, and slowly traces my face with her forefinger. Across my eyebrow, down my cheekbone and between my lips, which are glued together with her blood. It dries fast.

"All the way?" she asks.

"You're still a bitch," I whisper, taking her hands in mine.

"Why did everyone laugh at me at dinner? When I said that I spent the whole week shivering. What was so funny? They all, like, pissed themselves."

"What's that?"

"What does drochila mean?"

"What did Dasha ask you to do?"

"Eve please, shut the fuck up and let me sleep."

An hour later, I'm almost asleep when a thought occurs to me. "Sweetie?"

"Mmm?"

"You really need to know right this second?"

"I'm quite drunk."

"Just… things."

"Really? What sort of things?"

"Sweetie?"

"She asked me to kill the Pakhan."

"Can we talk about it tomorrow?" She pulls me toward her. "Because right now I have other things in mind."

"It was your Russian. Shivering is drozhala, and you said drochila."

"Masturbating."

"I noticed. Me too. But not that drunk."

"I really do."

"I know, pupsik. I'm sorry." She looks at me gravely. "Tomorrow, we sit down and plan. Together. Dasha is getting us passports and money, but I have to do something for her. We have to do something for her."