yelled Vasiliy in Russian. “Who the fuck do they think they are?!” The SUVs had taken us directly to his house—Vasiliy had insisted. There was an antique suit of armor at the top of the stairs and I watched as Vasiliy kicked it apart, sending metal clattering down the stairs. “Fucking fat little jumped up son of a whore thinks he can threaten us?!” He spun to face me, his chest heaving with rage. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked in English. I nodded. I was wearing a spare set of combat fatigues which Yuri had found for me. They were enormous and looked ridiculous, but at least they covered me and that made me feel better. “No one,” spat Vasiliy, “messes with my family.” He said it in English and he met my eyes as he said it. There was regret there, beneath the anger. An apology for not trusting me, before. I was one of them, now, and the thought send an unexpected flood of warmth through me.
