Chapter 17 Miko
MIKO
My curiosity spikes as Anika pales, visibly caught off guard by my presence—and not in a good way.
I was drawn to the garden, intrigued by who the old woman was and why she would be the first person Anika sought out when she had free rein of the house.
But now, I get the sense that she would rather I not find out.
Despite her confusing reaction, though, the sound of my name on her lips sends a jolt of anticipation through my body.
And even in the broad light of day, it makes me want to carry her back to bed and do dirty things with her for saying it.
“Morning,” I say, my voice coming out more gruff than I intended.
“What are you… doing out here?” she asks hesitantly, glancing around the garden as if only now realizing they were holding an intimate conversation in far too public of a location.
“I saw you walking through the window and thought I’d come out to meet your friend,” I state, turning my eyes to the woman nestled in her wheelchair.
“Oh, this… this is, um… Well, she’s no one really, just—” Anika’s cheeks flush as she struggles to give me an answer.
It isn’t hard to see she’s reluctant to tell me, and my curiosity intensifies as I raise my brows.
Then the old woman cackles, the harsh sound interrupting the awkwardly unexpected standoff. “And they call me senile,” she jokes. “At least I can remember my name. Svetlana Novikov,” she adds, extending one gnarled hand.
A lightbulb goes on at the name, and though I’ve never met her before, I have heard about Pyotr Novikov’s great-grandmother, the matron of the family, who lived to bury both her son and her grandson—and now, her great-grandson as well.
My stomach knots as I look down at the old woman, a twinge of guilt coming to life inside me for the first time.
Pyotr deserved to die for what he did.
But I don’t like being the man responsible for killing this woman’s last living blood relative.
“Michelangelo Chiaroscuro,” I say solemnly, my hand swallowing her tiny one as I shake it gently.
“I know who you are,” she says, her milky eyes shrewd. “Now come down to my level. You’re going to make me break my neck looking so far up.”
A low chuckle rushes from me, and despite the sharp bite of rocky gravel, I lower myself to a crouch, feeling oddly chastised and welcomed in the same breath.
“Now tell me, Mikhail, what are your intentions with my Anika? She might not be my grandchild by blood, but she’s as good as, and I won’t have you disrespecting her.”
My eyes flash up to meet Anika’s, and her blue gaze is guarded. She watches me intently for a moment before leaning in to take Svetlana’s hand. “This is Michelangelo, babushka,” Anika reminds her, emphasizing the pronunciation of my name.
But I’m less concerned with having her get my name right and more troubled by the implication beneath her words. “Anika is my wife, Signora Novikov. And I can assure you, I will respect and honor those vows.”
The old woman seems mollified by that, and she graces me with a shrewd smile. “My Mikhail, you always were such a strong-willed little boy.”
Anika frowns, deep worry lines etching her brow, and she scoots forward on her bench to meet Svetlana’s eye. “Babushka, are you telling me you already know Miko?”
She glances in my direction, seeking confirmation, and I shake my head.
My family and the Novikovs were never on amicable enough terms that I would have spent time with Svetlana as a child.
If anything, I grew up on the horror stories of what the Bratva had done—and why we were never to trust them.
“Of course I know him,” Svetlana says, her tone affronted. “Mikhail is my great-grandson.”
She says it with such confidence, I could almost believe her, and an unsettled feeling sinks into my gut.
But then Anika shakes her head, her eyes meeting mine with an apology that closes like a fist around my heart.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes, she gets confused,” Anika explains. “The doctor says it’s a natural thing at her age. The trauma over the past week has probably shaken her.”
Svetlana huffs, tugging her frail hands back from Anika’s. “I’m not confused about anything,” she states. “This is my Mikhail. You think a grandmother doesn’t know her own grandson when she sees him?”
“Babushka, your great-grandson’s name was Pyotr. Mikhail was your son’s name,” Anika explains gently.
“No!” Svetlana insists.
Anika’s head snaps back, as if the woman’s denial hit her like a physical blow. Slowly, she lifts her gaze, looking back toward the house. And when I follow her lead, I spot her handmaid, Chastity, bustling toward us.
“It’s alright, babushka,” Anika says kindly. “We’ll sort it out another time.”
But Svetlana is having none of it. She huffs and sputters, clearly worked up about her memories misaligning. Rising slowly to my feet, I hang back as the maid arrives, and she and Anika share a quick, hushed word.
“I’ll take her back inside,” Chastity murmurs. Then she raises her voice so Svetlana will hear as well. “It’s time for your nap, gospozha,” she says, taking the handles of the wheelchair. “Let’s get you back inside.”
“I’ll visit you soon, Svetlana,” Anika calls after their retreating figures. Her expression is pained as she watches them follow the path back to the double French doors that open out onto the garden.
I study Anika in the silence that followed.
She’s openly concerned for the old woman’s welfare, worried about her failing memory, and I wonder if Svetlana might not be the closest thing she has to family.
“Why didn’t you want to tell me who she is?” I ask finally, when we’re entirely alone.
Anika cringes, the subtle gesture defensive as she slowly turns to face me.
Her blue eyes meet mine, their soft sky-blue color cold with mistrust.
Her body language speaks volumes accompanied by her reluctance to respond.
“Anika,” I press, and my desire for her flares to life as her chin lifts in that subtle act of defiance that gets me every time. Sighing, I comb my fingers through my hair and force myself to focus. “She’s important to you,” I observe.
“She is,” Anika admits, the confession looking almost painful.
“So, when I asked you who should be at the wedding, why didn’t you mention her?”
Her slender throat bobs, and Anika drops her eyes as she picks at her nails. “I was worried you might hurt her if you knew she was a Novikov.”
The truth cuts like a knife, but I can’t blame Anika for her concerns. It’s not like we took the Novikov compound peacefully—and she witnessed firsthand the gory death I dealt Pyotr.
But that doesn’t make me the kind of monster who would hurt an innocent, unarmed old woman.
“I could have hurt you if I were that kind of man,” I point out.
Anika nods, but she still refuses to meet my gaze, and a sinking disappointment settles in my stomach.
She still doesn’t trust me—or maybe men at all. I can’t quite tell where she draws the line, because the men she’s been surrounded by were all a part of the attack that turned her life upside down.
But I thought we were moving past that. Yesterday, it felt like she was starting to lower her guard. And last night… as far as I’m concerned the sex was out of this world. But it would seem that Anika is back to freezing me out this morning.
I don’t know what to do.
“Sorry. If you’ll excuse me,” she murmurs, keeping her eyes down as she flees toward the doors to the house.
Stunned to hear just how little she trusts me, followed by her abrupt departure, I stand frozen to the spot, watching as my wife flees to the safety of the house.