Chapter 22 Nadya
NADYA
The apartment feels different when I return, as if the confrontation with Irina has shifted something fundamental in the atmosphere.
She sits at her usual place at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a fresh cup of tea, steam rising between us in the space where words once came easily.
And she eyes me as I walk in and shut the door, begin removing my coat.
"I meant what I said earlier," she grumbles.
Her voice is softer than it was just over an hour ago when I left, but it's no less resolute.
She doesn’t want me here.
I pose a threat to her idea of a happy family, and I understand that stance completely.
I’m dangerous to her now.
I hang my coat on the hook beside the door, avoiding her gaze.
"I know," I say quietly, and I do know.
My choices and the random occurrences that have led me to where I am now have made me a risk for them all.
I’d never live with myself if something happened to them because of me.
"The children need stability. They need to know the adults in their lives are making safe choices."
The phrase would be amusing if it weren't so tragic.
Nothing about my life has been safe since the moment I answered Xander's advertisement.
Everything I touch becomes contaminated with violence and secrets.
I thought it would end with cleaning, but it's evolved into so much more.
And if I don't stop this, I may be the next person pulling a trigger.
"I'm going to quit," I tell her as I walk toward the table anxiously.
I think I made my choice seconds before Xander pulled me onto his lap to fuck me, but even that didn't change my mind.
If he wants to kill me he'll do it whether I'm working for him or not.
I just have to find the right time to tell him.
Irina looks up sharply.
"What?"
"The job. The hotel work. All of it."
I move to the refrigerator and pull out the jug of nearly expired milk, then get a glass from the cupboard.
"You're right. It's too much, and I can't keep at it anymore. I'm tired…"
I pour the milk and put the jug away, then turn with the glass in my hand and look at her.
The relief that crosses her face is immediate and profound.
Her shoulders drop, tension bleeding away as she processes my admission.
"When?"
"Soon. I need to give notice, wrap up some final assignments."
I don't know what "final assignments" Xander may have for me, but he made it clear his job is not finished.
"But it's over."
And when his job is done, I'm done.
She stands and crosses to me, pulling me into an embrace that feels as refreshing as the first warm morning in spring.
She smells faintly of hospital soap but more like Mamochka's favorite shampoo.
I let myself sink into her warmth, memorizing the feeling of being held by someone who loves me without conditions or expectations.
"We'll figure out the money," she whispers against my hair.
"I can pick up extra shifts at the hospital. Maybe you can find something during the day, office work or retail."
Office work.
Retail.
The normalcy of it feels foreign after months of scrubbing blood from crime scenes and lying to everyone.
Can I return to a world where the most dangerous thing I encounter is a difficult customer or a malfunctioning copy machine?
"Mamochka, Aunty Nadya!"
Anya's voice rings from the living room.
"Come look at the tree!"
We separate, and I follow Irina toward the bright display that dominates our small living space.
The tree towers over everything with branches so wide you almost can't walk around it.
Beneath them, wrapped packages crowd together in neat rows.
Anya and Mikhail kneel beside the gifts, their faces bright with excitement and expectation.
They've been good about not touching, not shaking boxes or peeling back tape corners, but I know the feeling of being anxious and excited.
I remember being a child creeping beneath the yolka days before Novy God to snoop.
Nostalgia hits hard.
"Can we open one?" Mikhail asks, his blue eyes hopeful.
"Just one? There are so many."
Irina looks at me, eyebrows raised in question.
The tradition has always been to wait until New Year's Eve, but the mountain of presents makes our usual restraint seem cruel.
I smile at them and feel my heart strings being tugged.
They, after all, are the only reason I went out to get that damn job to begin with.
"One each," I concede.
Their joy is immediate and infectious.
Anya dives toward the pile, searching for the perfect choice, while Mikhail stands paralyzed by the abundance of options.
"This one," Anya declares, pulling free a medium-sized box wrapped in silver paper.
Her name is written across the top in elegant script that I recognize as Xander's handwriting.
It's a bittersweet revelation to me that he labeled them.
I wonder if he also hand wrapped each one, or if he picked them out himself too.
Mikhail selects a smaller package, also marked with his name in the same careful letters.
They tear into the wrapping with zest that only children possess, paper flying in all directions.
Anya gasps as she reveals a jewelry box, its surface inlaid with mother-of-pearl and tiny gemstones that sparkle under the lights.
"Aw," she coos, almost whining at the pleasure she receives.
She opens the lid, and a delicate ballerina begins to turn while classical music plays from hidden speakers.
"It's beautiful," she breathes, her voice filled with wonder.
Her eyes rise to meet mine.
"Thank you, Aunty Nadya."
I nod at her but the sweet moment is interrupted as my nephew cheers in celebratory whoops and hollers.
Mikhail has uncovered a model airplane, but not the cheap plastic variety from toy stores.
This is a detailed replica of a military fighter jet, its surface painted with authentic markings and tiny rivets.
The metal is heavy and sturdy, and he's already swooping it around the air.
"Look at the propeller," he says, spinning the mechanism with one finger.
"It actually moves!"
I watch their faces, seeing pure delight unmarred by adult complications.
Xander somehow knew exactly what would bring each child joy.
The jewelry box plays Anya's favorite piece from her ballet class, while the airplane matches the posters on Mikhail's bedroom wall.
The thoughtfulness undoes me completely.
Tears stream down my cheeks before I realize I'm crying, hot tracks that blur my vision and make breathing difficult.
The generosity isn't random—it's targeted to show me exactly what I'm walking away from.
Like he knew before I did that I would try to run, and the trap was set to snare me the instant I spoke the words.
I cover my mouth and sob quietly, wondering what other torturous pleasantries await me when we tear into the rest of these gifts.
"Nadya?"
Irina's voice carries concern and confusion.
"What's wrong?"
Everything.
Nothing.
The man I love bought perfect gifts for children he's never met because he pays attention to every detail about my life.
He remembers things I mention in passing, filing them away for moments exactly such as this.
"They're so perfect," I manage between sobs.
"They're just toys," Irina says, but her tone suggests she's beginning to understand the deeper implications.
Not toys.
Declarations.
Promises wrapped in silver paper and tied with expensive ribbon.
Each gift says I see you, I know you, I want to be part of your world.
It's uplifting yet crushing in the same breath.
"Who did you say sent these?" Irina asks quietly.
I can't answer.
Can't explain that the man who terrorizes Moscow's streets chose a ballerina music box because he knows my niece dreams of dancing professionally.
Can't describe how someone capable of such violence can also demonstrate such tenderness.
The contradiction is tearing me apart.
"I need some air," I whisper, heading toward the balcony.
"Nadya, wait—"
But I'm already sliding open the glass door, stepping into December's bitter embrace.
The cold hits my face immediately, drying tears and shocking my system back toward equilibrium.
Moscow's lights twinkle through the darkness in patterns that might be beautiful if I didn't know what happens in the spaces between them.
Somewhere out there, Xander is planning his next move in the war against the Sokolovs, and men are dying because of orders he's given.
And in my chest, my heart breaks a little more with each breath.
I love him.
The admission no longer frightens me because it's simply true, as undeniable as gravity or the passage of time.
I love his pale gray eyes and the way they soften when he looks at me.
I love his hands, both gentle and deadly depending on the moment's requirements.
I love the way he calls me Ptichka, as if I'm something precious that might fly away.
Which is exactly what I'm trying to do.
Behind me, I hear Irina's footsteps crossing the living room, the soft murmur of her voice as she speaks to the children.
They're probably wondering why their aunt is crying over presents, confused by adult emotions that make no sense in their world of simple pleasures.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
For a moment, I imagine it's Xander, calling to argue or plead or threaten.
But when I check the screen, it's just a notification about tomorrow's weather forecast.
Snow expected overnight.
Temperatures dropping below freezing.
I slide the phone away and grip the balcony railing, metal cold enough to bite through my sweater sleeves.
The nausea that has been plaguing me for weeks churns again, stronger this time.
I press one hand against my stomach, feeling the slight bloating that could be stress or could be something much more significant.
Fear crawls up my throat, mixing with the tears that won't stop falling.
If I'm pregnant—if there's a child growing inside me who carries Xander's DNA—then walking away becomes infinitely more complicated.
And I fear that might be the case.
The nausea has only been getting stronger now, and I keep avoiding the simple thoughts that pass overhead like birds in a cloudless sky.
Because my sky is gunmetal grey and cloudy as a winter night.
A baby would tie us together permanently, creating bonds that can't be severed by good intentions or family pressure.
A baby would give him claim to something beyond my body or my skills.
A baby would make me his forever, whether I want to be or not.
"Aunt Nadya?" Anya's small voice comes from behind me.
"Are you sick?" she asks, eyes glancing down at my hand pressed to my belly.
I turn to find her standing in the doorway, still clutching the jewelry box against her chest.
Her green eyes are wide with concern, and I realize my tears are frightening her.
"I'm fine, little one," I lie, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand.
"You don't look fine."
Children see truth so clearly, unfiltered by adult rationalizations and social niceties.
To Anya, I'm simply a grown-up who is crying, which means something must be very wrong.
"Sometimes, adults cry when they're happy," I say, kneeling to her level.
"Are you happy?"
The question stops me cold.
Am I happy?
When did I last feel genuine joy instead of the hollow satisfaction of survival?
"I'm happy you love your gift," I deflect.
"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever owned."
It's the most expensive thing she's ever owned too.
She opens the lid again, and the tiny ballerina begins her eternal dance.
"You know me very well."
Yes. He knows us all very well.
"We should go inside," I say, standing and taking her hand.
"It's too cold out here."
We return to the warmth of the apartment, where Mikhail is making airplane noises while flying his model through imaginary combat missions.
Irina watches from the kitchen doorway, her expression thoughtful and wary.
"Feeling better?" she asks as I close the balcony door.
"Much," I lie.
But I'm not better.
I'm drowning in the realization that love and fear can occupy the same space in a human heart, that wanting someone and being terrified of them aren't mutually exclusive emotions.
I love Xander Morin with an intensity that frightens me.
And because I love him, I have to find the strength to walk away before his world destroys everything I'm trying to protect.
Even if it destroys me in the process.