Prologue - Part 1
1960
“He’s dead! They’ve killed him! Moya lubov, he’s gone!”
Nothing but agony resonates from the woman’s screams as she clutches the telephone with trembling hands, desperation lacing each word that slips from her mouth.
Wrapped around her torso is a bundle hidden in a black cloth; a baby wrap. From afar, no one would suspect a baby to be hidden inside, especially not with the jacket making it look as though its a design.
Not another human being.
Gazing down at her baby, the salty tears trickle down her round cheeks, landing on a head full of dark hair.
Another sob wracks her body but she wrestles the sound, muffling it with her filthy, mud-coated sleeve whilst the baby stirs. A whimper slips from the woman’s mouth.
“My Anton. He’s gone. Oh, my sweet Anton,” she whispers into the telephone shakily, a sad smile plastered onto her face as she admires the calm infant staring up at her.
She’d been able to open her eyes in the same hour of her birth and for that, she’d been called a miracle. Now, she wasn’t sure if she was a miracle or a curse even if she loved her so dearly.
“Where are you, you silly girl!?” A harsh, grating voice returns from the other side of the line, panic and annoyance clashing, fighting for dominance. “We can’t do anything if Anton is dead. He’d tell you to save the baby. Now tell me, Dunya!” The Slavic accented receiver demands.
“I’m at the telephone box outside the clock tower-” the glass beside her head suddenly shatters and an ear splitting scream pours from her lips. “Mama, I can’t do more. I’m wounded!” She whisper yells as a fresh wave of nausea crashes over her yet she stands her ground, clutching her whining baby closer to her chest.
Cooing softly as she rocks the child back and forth, back and forth, soothing it, she rasps swiftly into the phone in fluent Russian.
“I need to go. They’re close.” Before she can hang up, more glass breaks and she wills as much of her remaining strength together, letting out another shriek that shakes the very ground, glass fragments clattering around her.
A thunderous bang slices through the heavy winds, cutting her off and she stagger back, choking, spluttering and shielding her baby with her arms.
“Ma-” she sobs, pained, fatigued but still hopeful. “Ma- please… save her.” Dropping to her knees as the power drains from her body, she clings to the bundle of warmth sucking its thumb, attempting to nurse.
“Dunya! What happened-” the lady from the other end cries, whispering prayers in Latin under her breath. A bitter laugh spills from the woman’s mouth.
“God isn’t going to let me live. I’ve done my duty,” she coughs, bloop appearing on her mouth and seeping from the bullet wound on the centre of her neck.
Forcing herself onto her feet, she drags open the door, the movement taking more effort than she can muster.
Another shot vibrates in the air and a blaring ring strikes both her ears. Her body sways, eyes staring off into the distance. The pulse in her ears dims and the infant pules.
Glass rains down on her body as she crumples to the ground, inert, limp.
“Dunya! Dun- Yevdokiya!” The woman on call screeches, a blood-curdling scream crackling from the other end as she curses the one who dares touch her daughter.
Boots march over to the limp corpse, kicking glass and chuckling as they lift the phone to their mouth and spit.
“Yevdokiya is gone. She’s with Anton now.” The figure nudges her hand away from a now silent child with his boot yet even in death, she’s wound tightly, protective and maternal whilst her soul undoubtedly roams the planet mindlessly.
“I’m warning you now Tamesis, the child will kill you one day. You can’t avoid it.”
“She won’t kill me if I raise her,” he cackles cruelly into the phone, silencing the woman instantaneously.
Egotistical, she was but aware was another of her assets. And now, as he spoke, she knew what his way of raising was.
“I will kill you,” the woman threatened weakly but just as those words left her lips, the doors to her home exploded, wood splintering as it showered the room and masked men filed into the room, guns drawn.
“Say hello to Yevdokiya for me, Varya.”
A cacophonous round of gunshots blast the room, the sound putting the assassin at ease. Hanging up, he drinks in the view of the lady lying in a pool of her own blood before crouching down.
Running a calloused finger down her jaw, he tsks in disapproval before smoothly slicing her arms off to get to the baby.
“Get here, you ugly brat,” he hisses, grabbing the baby and lifting it into his arms as it stares wide eyed and frozen, like it can sense the danger reeking from this individual.
“Looks like you’re coming with me.”
