Chapter 4

The morning sun filtered weakly through the curtains of the modest Petrescu home in Chisinau, casting a pale light on the worn kitchen table where Teodora and Daria sat with steaming mugs of coffee. Both women wore somber, respectable clothing, ready for Sunday church. Teodora’s dark hair, now streaked with gray, framed her tired face, her brown eyes clouded with the sadness of their family’s poverty. She sipped her coffee, trying to shake off the lingering headache from last night’s wine.

Across from her sat 18-year-old Daria, mirroring her mother’s appearance with the same dark hair and brown eyes. But where Teodora was weary, Daria was tense, her jaw tight with simmering frustration.

Teodora sighed again, her voice heavy with worry. “I wonder where your sister is. It’s 11 a.m.,” she murmured. “Did Irina stay over last night?”

Daria’s grip tightened on her mug, her knuckles whitening. “Yes,” she replied, her voice clipped with anger. She knew what Irina and Anya had been up to—webcamming in the bedroom, as usual. The thought made her stomach churn with a mix of disgust and helplessness. “Irina Albulescu, that girl was always trouble in school. I can’t believe she has her hooks in my little sister, the pervert.”

“At least we know where she is,” Teodora said gently. “Anya doesn’t have your brains, Daria. We have to be patient with her.”

“Mummy, you’re too indulgent,” Daria said. “At least kick Irina out or bar her!”

“And have Anya follow her out onto the streets?” Teodora sighed. “We need to go soon, Daria. Can you check on them?”

Daria set her coffee down with quiet resolve and stood. “I’ll wake them,” she said, heading upstairs with a heavy heart.

Anya’s bedroom door creaked open, and Daria found herself face to face with Irina. The sight of her—red hair tousled, green eyes sharp with mischief, and wearing nothing but skimpy panties and a bra—made Daria’s breath catch. Irina leaned against the doorframe, her lips curling into a cruel smile at Daria’s discomfort. She enjoyed the power she held over the two women downstairs.

“Yes?” Irina drawled, her tone mocking.

Daria struggled to find her voice. “Are you coming down for breakfast? And is Anya joining us for church?”

Irina’s smile widened, a flash of something wicked in her eyes. “Haha, maybe. Anya is still sleepy; we were up too late last night.” Her words were a taunt, a reminder of what had kept them awake.

Without another word, Daria turned and retreated downstairs, her heart pounding. She sat back down with her mother, rolling her eyes in frustration.

Teodora looked at her with a flicker of hope, though it was fragile. She hoped, prayed even, that Anya could be persuaded to come to church with them, to leave Irina and the cam work behind.

Her hopes were dashed a few minutes later as Irina and Anya descended the stairs, their appearance starkly contrasting with the somber attire of the two women watching them. Anya wore a pair of bright pink hot pants, so short that the crease of her buttocks peeked out from beneath the hem. Her belly button was exposed, and her tiny crop top hung loosely, one strap slipping off her shoulder. It was clear she wasn’t wearing a bra, her nipples visibly protruding through the thin fabric. She was barefoot, her steps casual and carefree.

Behind her, Irina had made even less effort to dress appropriately. She wore only a long, baggy T-shirt that barely covered her panties, the dark gusset visible as she walked down the stairs and even as her thighs swished towards them with each step towards the breakfast table. Both girls’ hair was tousled, their makeup smudged from the night before, and they yawned as if unaware—or perhaps unconcerned—about the disapproval that radiated from Teodora and Daria.

“Anya! Where did you go last night? You were back so late,” Teodora reproached her daughter, her voice a mix of concern and frustration.

“Sorry, Mummy, the DJ last night was sooo good, and the after-party was a blast!” Anya replied, her tone light and carefree. She playfully stuck her tongue out at Irina, who returned the smile. “Irina got his number, though. He’s gonna take us out before he heads back to the UK.”

“Your daughter can really move on the dancefloor, Mrs. Petrescu,” Irina remarked with a grin, dancing playfully as she reached for some coffee. She didn’t seem to care that her panties flashed the other women as she gyrated and hummed, completely at ease. Anya joined in, just as carefree, and the two started singing a song, twerking at each other and laughing, completely oblivious to the discomfort they were causing Teodora and Daria.

“Girls, please stop!” Teodora scolded them, her voice stern. “Anya, you’ll have to change if you want to go to church!”

“Sorry, Mummy, we’ve got a busy schedule with camming today,” Anya replied, sipping her coffee nonchalantly. Her slender figure was barely concealed by her tight shorts and skimpy top. “Sunday’s when people have a day off, so they get really ... interested in us.”

“But hey, maybe there’ll be a cute guy at church for Daria,” Irina teased, winking as she provocatively gyrated in front of Daria, her T-shirt riding up and her panties flashing right in Daria’s face.

“Fuck off!” Daria snapped, pushing Irina away, her frustration boiling over.

“Daria! What language on the day of our Lord,” Irina chided her, laughing.

At the church, the two women knelt in prayer, their eyes closed in quiet supplication. Daria prayed fervently for success in her upcoming exams, hoping to finally gain admission to university and pursue her dream of studying medicine. Beside her, Teodora prayed just as earnestly for Daria’s success, hoping it would give her the strength to fulfill her own vow to give up alcohol in memory of her late husband. She also prayed that Anya, their wayward relative, would see the error of her ways and become as diligent and good-hearted as Daria.

As they made their way out of the church, the women’s attention was drawn to a man they hadn’t seen before, engaged in conversation with the priest. Teodora, ever curious, made her usual approach to thank the priest for the service. As she did, her eyes lingered on the stranger—a handsome man in his late forties, with wavy dark hair flecked with gray. His strong jawline, well-tailored dark coat, and the glasses perched on his nose all suggested a man of sophistication and means. He stood out in the modest surroundings, his presence intriguing.

“Ah, Teodora, Daria! So good to see you both,” the priest greeted them warmly, clearly pleased by their devotion. “I was just speaking with Mr. Nikolai Solokov here, a generous donor to our church.”

Mr. Solokov inclined his head in a polite bow, and Teodora felt a flutter of excitement in his presence. He was dressed impeccably—something rare in their small town—and she couldn’t help but notice the absence of a wedding ring.

“Mr. Solokov, unfortunately, doesn’t speak much Romanian,” the priest explained, “but he’s fluent in Russian and several other languages.”

Mr. Solokov smiled at the two women, his voice smooth as he said, “I speak Russian, English, and a few others, but my Romanian isn’t very good. I grew up nearby, but my family emigrated many years ago. I’ve kept my Russian but lost much of the Romanian.”

“Oh, I learned Russian at school,” Teodora responded eagerly in Russian, happy to showcase her knowledge. “And Daria did too—she’s incredibly smart. We have no Russian blood, but we’re Orthodox, and of course, things were better back when we were all together.”

Mr. Solokov laughed, a deep, warm sound. “I’m mostly Romanian,” he said, “with a little Ukrainian, but I grew up in California.”

Teodora, intrigued by this blend of familiarity and foreignness, asked warmly, “What brings you to church in Chișinău?” She couldn’t help but feel a sense of lightness talking to him, a refreshing change from the often gloomy atmosphere of their town. Her eyes also noted his well-fitted suit once more, and she couldn’t help but wonder about the life he led—especially given the absence of that wedding ring.

“Memories of childhood,” Mr. Solokov replied, his tone softening. “Of church, of Moldova. My family was based in Tiraspol. It feels good to be back here after so many years—it feels like home.”

Teodora’s face brightened at the mention of Tiraspol. “My mother was from Tiraspol!” she exclaimed, her excitement palpable. “Maybe we’re related—I went on so many trips there.”

Mr. Solokov’s expression grew more guarded, and he glanced away briefly before responding. “It’s changed quite a bit since I left. I was only eight when we emigrated.” There was a subtle tension in his voice, as if the memories were bittersweet, though a more skeptical observer might have thought he was hiding something.

“May I ask your surname?” Nikolai inquired, his tone casual but curious.

“Petrescu,” Teodora replied with a smile.

“Haha, I’m afraid that doesn’t narrow it down much,” Solokov smiled, a hint of relief in his voice.

Daria, sensing an opportunity to learn more about the man who had so captivated her mother’s attention, asked with a touch of interest, “What is life like in California?”

“It’s very different from here,” Solokov sighed, a wistful note in his voice. “I used to think that meant better, but now ... not so much. Ever since my wife passed away, I find myself coming back here more and more. My daughter is nearly thirteen, and I think she would have a much better life growing up here now.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear about your wife,” Teodora blurted out, sympathy and a hint of shared understanding in her voice. “I’m a widow myself,” she added softly, taking Daria’s hand as her daughter smiled sadly at her. “It’s been five years since he passed away.”

Nikolai smiled gently. “It’s always hard to lose someone we love, but I know my wife wanted me to move on.”

“Where is your daughter now?” Teodora asked, her interest deepening.

“She’s back in Los Angeles,” Solokov replied, a terse smile on his lips. “Yes, I can afford a childcare provider, though she is ... thirteen.”

“You need a woman in your life to look after your daughter,” Teodora teased, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she laughed lightly.

“Oh, of course!” Solokov chuckled, his demeanor relaxing. “But enough of this talk. What a beautiful church this is!” he said, changing the subject with a smile.

“I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl,” Teodora replied, her voice soft with nostalgia.

“I’d love to see more churches around here,” Solokov enthused, turning to the priest. “Father Kokescu, I must bid you adieu, but I hope to see you again before I leave!”

“Oh, where are you going?” Teodora asked, disappointment creeping into her voice.

“I’m going to get something to eat,” Solokov replied with a warm smile. “And then, more churches! Perhaps if you ladies aren’t busy, you could join me and recommend a good local restaurant with some authentic Moldovan food? My treat,” he added, his eyes twinkling with a mix of sincerity and charm.

Teodora felt her heart skip a beat at the invitation, glancing at Daria before nodding with a smile. “We’d be delighted.”

Solokov’s Russian was nearly flawless, with only the faintest hint of an accent, and he captivated the two women with stories of California, his business ventures, and the poignant tale of his late wife, who had passed away from cancer. At one point, he discreetly wiped away a tear but quickly assured them that he was now in a better place, eager to embrace change and start anew.

“I thought a man like you could have any woman you want in Los Angeles,” Teodora remarked, her tone laced with disapproval. “But in the West, women seem so ... loose, so ... undisciplined.” She huffed, shaking her head. “Here, we hold onto decent family values, even if we aren’t wealthy.” Teodora smiled with pride, her words carrying a certain righteousness.

Daria nodded in agreement. “The West is crazy, with all their ideas—trans women, children identifying as animals. We’re not like that. We have a decent society here, and we want to keep it that way.” Despite her strong words, Daria couldn’t help but enjoy the slice of chocolate cake Solokov had ordered for them. As she reached into her handbag for a tissue to clean her fingers, her hand brushed against something unfamiliar. Puzzled, she pulled out a large, blue, banana-shaped object.

“What the...” Daria’s face flushed as she realized what it was—the dildo Irina had teasingly waved in her face just a few days ago. “Oh ... that’s ... um ... that ornament...” she stammered, her cheeks burning as she hastily shoved it back into her bag, silently cursing Irina for her prank.

Teodora, on the other hand, turned as pale as a ghost. She glanced nervously at Solokov, who was staring out the window, seemingly oblivious to the mishap. “Yes, ladies,” he continued, his voice steady, “family values are what the world needs. A man, a woman, and children—that is all we should desire. Nothing more, no riches.” He turned to Teodora and smiled, his gaze warm and reassuring.

Teodora managed a relieved smile in return, grateful that Solokov either hadn’t noticed the embarrassing incident or was too polite to acknowledge it. Daria, still mortified, was also thankful for his discretion.