15. Sasha
15
SASHA
Ariel goes upstairs to lie down when we get home, tired from the morning’s exertion. She doesn’t say a word as she leaves. But I do hear her footsteps pause halfway up the stairs, like she’s torn. That’s what I tell myself, at least. Could be a fucking fantasy for all I know.
As I haul the groceries into the villa’s kitchen, one item burns a hole in the burlap sack. The peach I swiped from the market is perfect. Overripe, velvet skin flushed red-gold and splitting at the cleft. Exactly how Ariel used to smell whenever I buried my face between her thighs.
For one second, I let myself indulge. I sink onto a wobbling stool and press the fruit to my nose. I push my thumb into its flesh to test the give. A bead of juice wells up and slides down my knuckle. Sweet, sticky, beautiful.
“Fuck.”
Then I drop the peach into a cracked ceramic bowl like it scalded me.
Cooking is a tactical retreat. I dice onions, crush garlic under the flat of my knife, let the sizzle of olive oil in the pan drown out the static in my skull. The recipe itself is muscle memory— sofrito , tomatoes, a splash of wine from the dusty bottle Kosti unearthed in the cellar.
It’s easy to let my mind mute itself. Or at least, it is for a little while—until the knife slips and nips at the meat of my hand between thumb and forefinger.
“ Blyat’.”
I snatch up a rag and press it to the wound. It’s not deep, but the pain is bright enough to ruin the too-brief high of cooking.
I don’t know what to blame. It’s been a hell of a few days, end-capped with thirty-some sleepless hours since we arrived in Tuscany. I’ve spent longer awake in worse conditions—a week guarding Yakov’s drug shipment in Vladivostok comes to mind—but my body is protesting.
Look at you, you wreck of a man. You can barely dice a fucking onion without your shoulder screaming like a banshee.
Footsteps creak on the stairs. I tense, expecting Ariel’s voice. Expecting another fight.
But it’s Jasmine who drifts into the kitchen, barefoot and wrapped in one of the villa’s threadbare quilts. She eyes the simmering pot, then me.
“Punishing yourself?” she asks with a glance at the bloody rag in my hand.
“Just testing the knife.”
She arches a brow. “And?”
“It works.”
She laughs breezily and takes a seat at one of the counter stools. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
I look at the risotto simmering in a skillet on the stove top. The smell of butter and blooming garlic fills the kitchen with a warmth of its own. “I dabble.”
“Sure you’re not planning on poisoning us?”
“You and Ariel really are related; she asked me the exact same thing.” I laugh and stir the arborio rice. “I didn’t duck bullets with the two of you just to feed you arsenic now that we’re safe.”
“Ahhh, arsenic, that’s what I’m smelling.” She looks at me, a smile playing across her face. Her eyes—same green as her sister’s, but frosted by fifteen years of watching over her shoulder—track every movement.
“My secret ingredient.”
“That, and love, right?” Jasmine chuckles. “Ari said you kidnapped her bright and early this morning.”
“She said that word? ‘ Kidnapped’? ”
“I may be paraphrasing.” Her gaze flicks to the peach where I left it in the bowl. “You know she’s allergic, right?”
I pause mid-stir. “What?”
“Oh, yeah. Big time. If she’s even within the vicinity of a peach, her lips start swelling up like she got stung by bees. Guess you’re not as omniscient as you think, Mr. Ozerov.”
I’m already lunging for the peach and cursing under my breath, ready to launch it over the mountains, when I glance up and realize that Jasmine is laughing.
I scowl and let my hand go slack as the pieces click. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I wanted to see how you’d react,” she confirms as she doubles over, wheezing and clutching her ribs. “You did not disappoint.”
My scowl remains fixed in place as I turn back to the risotto and resume stirring. “Glad I could amuse you.”
“It’s cute, though. Honestly. You looked at that peach like you wanted to murder it for the sheer audacity.”
I glance over again and see it lying there, orange and innocent, fuzz glowing in the afternoon light.
So what if I did want to murder it? What if it did make a unique flavor of anger rise up in my stomach, to think of this stupid fucking fruit causing Ariel so much as a millisecond of discomfort? Who the hell cares?
Jasmine reaches over to scoop it up and toss it back and forth between her hands. “She loves peaches, actually. Question for you: Is it a hair color thing? ‘Cause she’s really more auburn than peachy. Or is it more like a symbol? Like, she’s a forbidden fruit, Garden of Eden-style?” Her nose wrinkles up. “Just don’t tell me it’s a sex thing. Turns out you never really outgrow the ick factor of imagining your siblings getting after it.”
“It’s just a fruit.” I don’t look up at her.
“Right. Right. Of course it is.”
“Look, if you’re here to rile me up?—”
“Actually, I’m here because we’re long overdue for a chat.” She sets the peach down with a soft thud . “Fifteen years, Sasha Ozerov. That’s how long it’s been since you dumped me in Marseille with a fake passport and a ‘ don’t look back.’ Now, you’re at my door again, mucking things up, as per usual. And I once again cannot decide whether to thank you or hit you over the head with a blunt object.”
The memory rises like bile—Jasmine at nineteen, trembling in a cargo container, her face swollen from tears. Please don’t let him find me. Please. She’d clutched my sleeve like I was a saint instead of the self-serving bastard who’d profited from her pain.
“Both might be called for,” I concede.
Jasmine nods. “At least you can admit that much.” She pauses and toys with the corner of the quilt. “Do you know what I did that first night in Marseille? I cried like a baby, then I ate so many croissants my stomach hurt. Then I slept for two days straight. It was a confusing time, to say the least. What about you? What’d you do? Go straight to a nightclub to toast to your good fortune?”
My face darkens. “I went and talked to your father.”
“You told him I was dead,” she says, as if I need the reminder.
“I told him what he needed to hear.”
“And what about what Ari needed?” Her voice sharpens. “You let her grieve.”
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles bleach. “The choices I made kept her safe. If your father or Dragan had suspected?—”
“Don’t.” She slashes a hand through the air. “Don’t hide behind strategy. Not with me. We’ve come way too far for that, Sasha.”
The risotto bubbles violently. I tamp down the flame, but the silence only thickens.
Jasmine sighs. “You saved my life. Gave me freedom. I’ll always owe you for that. But what you’re doing to Ari? It’s not salvation for anyone—not you and definitely not her. It’s slow, mutual suffocation.”
I turn to face her fully. “What would you have me do? Walk away? Let Dragan pick her bones clean?”
“For starters, I’d have you try,” she snaps. “Try being honest. Try being human. Christ, Sasha—she’s carrying your children . If that doesn’t crack your armor, what will?”
I brace against the counter, suddenly dizzy. “I am trying.”
“Are you? Or are you just rearranging your obsessions?” She leans forward, eyes blazing. “Protecting her isn’t love. Neither is controlling her. So what’s left, huh? What’s left when the bullets stop flying and all your enemies are ash stains, hm? What comes after that?”
Love is a weak spot , my father’s ghost snarls. It either betrays you or gets you killed.
But Nataliya’s voice whispers louder—her lullabies, her hands smoothing my hair after Yakov’s beatings, her warm fingers slipping me honey cakes and saying, “Shh, malysh, don’t let him see you cry.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit hoarsely. “Not one damn bit of it.”
“That’s honest, if nothing else.” Jasmine’s expression softens. “Start by apologizing. To her. To yourself, too, while you’re at it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.” She stands, quilt trailing behind her like a royal cloak. “But here’s the thing about Ari—she doesn’t need grand gestures. She needs you . The messy, flawed, terrified man behind the crown.”
I stare at the peach. At the knife. At the bloodied rag I left on the counter.
“She’ll never forgive me,” I rasp.
Jasmine pauses in the doorway. “Maybe not. But you don’t get to decide that for her.”
The quilt rustles as she leaves. I’m alone again with the ghosts and the garlic.
I pick up the peach. Press it to my nose. Inhale sunlight and shame. Then I slice it open—neatly, cleanly—and arrange the pieces on a chipped plate.
A peace offering.
A prayer.