Daria Sidorchuk Novels & Stories

They were just fleeting glances. “So, where’s dinner?” Miron said. Her words just made me feel even more awkward. I mean, is this how they communicate? It's tense and sarcastic. Just from the way they looked at me, I could tell they didn't fully accept my presence. “I’m full, Brat,” said the woman with the sharp nose. “I’m Daria.” She turned to look at me. “That’s mama and papa.” She pointed at them, smiling slightly. “He’s the third son, his name is Sergey. The first son is Kiril, he’s passed away.” She explained even though I didn’t ask. “And she is Sergey’s wife, her name is Mariya.”

Maria "So, this is the one your brother picked." "My name is Darya Kuznetsov." A tall, bleached blonde in a tight gold gown looks me over. "Dima's wife." She pauses and waits for me to comment, but I don't. Dima? Why does that sound familiar? "He's around, talking to the men," Darya continues as she cocks an eyebrow. "How old are you, girl?" "I'm eighteen." I try hard not to stare at her huge breasts, but she's wearing heels that put them right at eye level, and she radiates bitch energy.

I just watch. Fucking hell, just hearing my mama’s name fall from her lips makes me feel a rush of emotions and with it comes the memory of her death. “Who are you?” My voice turns deathly hoarse and threatening. I notice the way her shoulders stiffen. She swallows and blinks. “I'm Dariya. I once worked with Vladimir before his sudden death years ago.” Stalin told me she applied for the housekeeper job he held. Dariya is gripped with tension and I know it’s the sight of me that stirs it.