6. Alexei
Alexei
I’m fighting the urge to run.
It’s what I should do. What I would normally do.
A swamp creature doesn’t belong in places like these, among chattering crowds in evening wear gushing over how exquisite Ofelia’s playing was.
Exquisite is the wrong fucking word anyway.
Not that I have a right one. How do you describe the feeling of your soul leaving your body to soar high up into the multilayered ceiling?
One’s body, darling, I think dryly. The people here tonight would definitely refer to their soul in the objective third.
And I’m certain they were all focused on the music Ofelia was playing, rather than on Ofelia herself.
I doubt they found themselves fascinated by the almost fierce crease of concentration between her eyes during the tumultuous beginning, or the hint of vulnerability as she leaned in during the second movement, like she’d gone somewhere else entirely.
I’m sure their eyes didn’t linger on the curve of her spine, or the taut, supple length of thigh beneath the black dress.
Nor should yours, asshole.
“Where’s Mickey?” Masha asks as the applause dies down. “Papa’s going to kill him.”
“With Lars. Their plane was delayed in Helsinki,” I lie.
“Oh, well.” Masha bumps her head against my arm and turns her impish face up to mine. “I’m glad you’re here instead.”
I bump her back gently. “Me too, myshka.”
“Lex.” Dimitry, Roman’s closest friend, grips my hand with a warm smile. We’ve worked together quite a bit over the years, although less since Dimitry and Abby have based themselves permanently in Spain.
I return his smile. “Looks like you have a child-free night for once.”
“Thank Christ.” Despite his wry eye roll, Dimitry has the relaxed, smiling demeanor of a man extremely content with his lot in life. “Believe me, with three boys, not to mention Roman and Darya’s four, our place is a madhouse.”
“I can imagine.” I nod politely at Abby, who does the same in my general direction.
Like most of Roman and Darya’s friends, she’s long given up trying to make anything but the most superficial effort when it comes to me.
For once, maybe because Ofelia’s performance is still thrilling every nerve in my body, my characteristic aloofness feels discordant.
I open my mouth to ask Abby how she’s doing, but she’s already turned away.
“I thought Luke and Zinaida would be here,” I say, looking around.
Despite Zinaida’s fearsome reputation, and the fact that she has been watching me with just a little too much perception ever since the night I burst into her London nightclub and nearly carried Ofelia forcibly out of there, I rather like her.
And her husband, Luke Macarthur, is absolutely impossible not to like.
I won’t ever forget that he put his body between Ofelia and a hail of bullets in the Orlov basement.
He’s never directly asked me what went down while I was her captor.
I’m not too sure what I’d tell him if he did. Luke is a hard man to lie to.
Dimitry’s smile widens. “You didn’t hear? Zin and Luke had a baby girl, Mila, two weeks ago.”
“Zinaida Melikov—a mother?” I stare at him in amazement.
“No shit.” Dimitry chuckles. “Good luck to Mila when she gets older, trying to pull anything over on those parents. Luke has already warned me and Roman that our sons aren’t allowed anywhere near his daughter for the next two decades at least.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “I was hoping he’d be here, actually. Last time we caught up he was in Miami, setting up a branch of that new business he’s running.”
“Red 24.” He nods. “High-risk rescue is a good addition to his security firm. And let’s face it”—he gives me the ghost of a wink—“between all of us, we’re likely to keep him busy.”
No shit.
“He gave me a card for the Miami branch,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “Is the number the same here in Europe?”
“No.” Dimitry fishes around in his jacket pocket and comes out with a silver card holder. “Here.” He pulls out a cream card. “This will get you through to a European switchboard, and they’ll take it from there.” He lowers his voice. “Have you got a code?”
I nod.
“Good. Same code works everywhere, but I’m guessing Luke explained that already.” He slips me the card. “You expecting to give Red 24 a trial run sometime soon, Lex?” His tone is humorous enough, but I don’t miss the edge of concern.
“Always expect the unexpected, Dimitry.” I smile easily. “That way the fuckers never catch you off guard.”
“Ha!” He gives a delighted boom of laughter. “I like that. Now.” He looks at his glass. “Drink.”
My father appears in front of me as Dimitry moves away. Gripping my shoulder with one large hand, he leans in close. “Vse khorosho?” he asks in a low voice. All is well?
“Da.” I nod briefly.
He stands back. “I am glad you are here,” he says simply. An elegantly dressed dark-haired woman appears behind him, and the lines on his hard face soften as he draws his wife forward.
“Alexei,” Rosa says, smiling gently. “I am so glad to see you.”
I kiss her cheeks from a safe distance. “And I you.” That, at least, is not a lie.
Rosa is Roman’s mother—yet another tie binding our extremely fucked-up family tree.
Although my father has never said it in so many words, I’m fairly sure he was in love with her long before she ever met Aleksander, Roman’s father.
I’m glad they’ve found one another again.
“Alexei.” Papa puts his head close to mine, and Rosa moves diplomatically away. I like that about her, the way she seems to understand what my father needs without words. “Can you spare some time tomorrow? I have somewhere I would like to take you.”
I begin to automatically decline his invitation. Then I remember, with an odd jolt, that I literally have nowhere else to be. “Yes,” I find myself saying. “Yes, Papa. I can.”
I don’t miss the flare of surprise in his eyes.
But he doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my shoulder again, then shifts his eyes to Masha, his face softening even further.
“Now, myshka,” he says, slipping her hand into his big one, “tell me the name of the piece by Mr. Beethoven that your sister played tonight and what you liked about it.”
My heart twists oddly as I watch him lean in attentively to listen to Masha’s answer, gently correcting her when she makes an error.
I remember when he used to do that with us.
Back when our mother, Maria, was still alive. When we would all sit in the kitchen of the Miami compound while she cooked, before the Orlovs came and turned my mother’s kitchen into a soulless place of stainless steel occupied by a paid chef.
“It’s strange, sometimes, isn’t it? Watching them together?
” Jolted, I realize Darya is standing in front of me, her eyes on my face uncomfortably perceptive.
“I remember when he would do that with us,” she goes on quietly.
“Play classical music while Mama cooked, then ask us to name the piece and tell him how it made us feel.”
Her recollection so precisely matches my own that for an extremely awkward moment, I find it difficult to speak.
Thankfully, Darya saves me from answering by pressing my hand. “It’s good to see you, little brother,” she says quietly. She doesn’t attempt to embrace me, for which I’m grateful.
“And you.” I hear the rough note in my voice, even if my sister is diplomatic enough to ignore it.
This is why I never come to these things.
Why I dread my father’s visits, as much as I long for them.
It isn’t just that I don’t belong in the kind of society my sister seems to navigate so effortlessly.
It’s the memories and emotions that come at me, like a barrage of carefully aimed artillery, every time I find myself in intimate contact with my family.
Whatever life we all shared before their coup is a dim distant memory, one I learned early not to cling to. Not if I wanted to survive.
Family events feel like an enemy force battering at walls it took time and pain to build.
“Alexei.” Roman’s greeting isn’t quite so warm as the others. “Must have missed your RSVP.” He gives me a rather hard look. “What’s my son’s excuse?”
“A delayed plane.” I match his tone. “Mickey asked me to be here instead.”
“Well.” Roman doesn’t look remotely mollified. “Good to see you listen to him, at least.”
Clearly, Darya told him about my lack of RSVP to the original invitation.
Over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of two vaguely familiar faces glaring in my direction. Friends of Ofelia’s, if I recall correctly, and by their forbidding expressions, equally as unimpressed by my presence as Roman.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Get me out of here.
“Well.” I return his hard smile. “Thanks again for the invitation. Pass on my congratulations to Ofelia. Her playing was . . . exquisite.”
“Yeah.” Roman grips my elbow as I go to turn away, pulling me close. “No fucking chance,” he snarls in my ear. “You’ll come for cocktails and act like you’re having the time of your fucking life. And if you upset your sister, I’ll put a bullet in your side myself.”
I resist the familiar urge to beat him to it. The problem with Roman is that he sometimes forgets he’s not the only killer in the room.
The irony is that it’s Darya he’s worried about me upsetting. If he had any idea of what my presence will do to his daughter, he definitely wouldn’t be inviting me for fucking cocktails.
It blows my mind sometimes that Roman can be so astute when it comes to business and so utterly fucking clueless emotionally.
Oh, because you’re such a genius at that shit, Alexei, are you?
Roman releases his steely grasp on my hand, but the warning in his eyes is still plain as he puts an arm around my shoulders. “I was just telling Alexei about the cocktail bar we’re headed to,” he tells Ofelia’s friends. “What did you say it was called again, Benny?”
“404 Not Found.” The male friend gives me a distinctly frosty look. “It’s a speakeasy-style bar near Place de la Bastille.”