47. Alexei #2
“I can’t,” he says slowly. “I just—I’m not hungry.” His eyes touch mine and drop again.
“You’re clearly not getting any sleep.”
He gives a rough laugh. “I get plenty of time to sleep at the hospital.”
“Plastic chairs aren’t a bed, Benny. And vending machine coffee is a crime. Particularly in Sicily.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he says flatly. “I’m not your responsibility.” His bloodshot, haunted eyes lock onto mine. “And I definitely don’t need your fucking pity.”
I nod slowly.
Reaching into my leather travel bag, I bring out my father’s hip flask and pour a measure into the bottom of two empty water glasses.
“This is a vodka called Graf,” I say, pushing the glass toward him.
“It’s a Russian brand. My father started importing it decades ago.
He used the crates of it to smuggle pre-revolutionary treasures out of Russia.
The pieces were known as the Naryshkin treasures, named for my grandfather, a Count Naryshkin, if you can believe it. ”
I clink my glass against Benny’s. “In Russian, we say za zdorov’ye. To health.” I raise my glass. “Za zdorov’ye, Benny.” I nod at his untouched glass and wait until he tentatively raises it. “Drink.”
He swallows the vodka, watching me.
I refill the glasses.
“The Naryshkin treasures have cost a lot of lives over the years. They were the reason for a coup that cost my mother her life, my sister her youth, and me an eye. The Orlov coup sent Darya and my invalid father on the run for six years, right up until she ran into Roman. Then the same people kidnapped Ofelia and Masha to force Darya, Roman, and me to open the vault for them.” I raise my glass again. “Drink.”
We do, and I pour a third shot.
“I was fifteen when the Orlovs came for my family and twenty-two when I finally defeated them. I survived those years not because I was tough, or out of loyalty to my family, but because of Lars.
“Despite being just a kid himself, and despite the fact that the Orlovs cut me off from all normal means of communication, he found a way to talk to me—and he never gave up.” I raise my glass. “Drink.”
We do.
“Three is traditional.” I screw the cap back on the flask. “Now”—I reach for the terracotta jug—“we drink wine and eat food. Then maybe, if the pain of being alive is so beautiful that we still feel it, we drink some more. Sing an old ballad, maybe shed tears.”
I smile at him. “Lars used to roll his eyes at us. He would say that Swedes get drunk, have an orgy, and laugh, whereas Russians get drunk, kill something, then cry.”
That elicits a reluctant snort of laughter.
“My father gave me this hip flask recently.” I turn the battered metal over in my hands.
“He and Roman’s father carried it all the way across the steppe when they escaped Russia.
Their friendship was the most important in my father’s life.
He told me recently that even now, after all these years, Aleksander’s voice is more real to him than those who still live.
He loves Aleksander Borovsky to this day, as much as he ever loved anyone.
More, perhaps.” I smile ruefully. “I used to resent it.
I even resented Roman, for being the son of the ghost my father loved so much.
“But since Lars has been in that bed, I’ve understood it.
Because he isn’t gone. Not for me.” I meet Benny’s eyes.
“I’ve heard his voice every moment of every day,” I say quietly.
“Calling me names. Giving me hell. Making me realize how fucking stupid it is to think that life is something we deserve, rather than something we embrace.” I shake my head.
“He talked to me so much in Miami that it felt like he was inside me, alive, part of me. Until I came back here and sat at his bedside.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t wake instantly.” Benny’s weak attempt at a smile does nothing to soften the jagged edge of hurt in his voice. “If anything was going to wake Sleeping Beauty from his slumber, it would have been you. The kiss of true love and all that.”
I ignore his comment. “I couldn’t hear him at all in that ICU room. I don’t think that’s an accident, Benny. I think it’s because here, Lars has you.”
His head jerks up, his eyes narrowing.
“You said that Lars was in love with me.” I don’t flinch from the hurt in his eyes.
“Maybe that was true, once. But over the years, it became something else. I know you might have trouble believing that.” I nod at the skepticism on his face.
“But Lars and I are friends, Benny. In the truest sense of the word. As my father recently said, to have a true friend is the greatest blessing life can give us—equaled only by the love of a good woman.” I give him a half smile.
“Or in your case,” I say quietly, “the love of a good man.”
I don’t look away from the tears in his eyes.
“I saw it in his face the first time he talked about you. I knew it when he kept flying you out places or bringing you up in random conversations. Going to a Taylor Swift concert, for Chrissakes.”
I roll my eyes, and Benny gives a choked laugh.
“I didn’t tell you about my family history and my past with Lars to make you feel like an outsider. I told you because Lars is my family—and you are the man he loves. That makes you my family, Benny.” I grip his hand briefly. “Now, always—and regardless of whether Lars wakes up or not.”
I hold his eyes long enough that he knows I mean it. Then I forcibly wrap his fingers around his cup of wine.
“Now drink your wine and stop ruining a perfect Sicilian pizza with tears. We’re going to eat it, then I’m going to go and find the woman of my dreams—and leave you to the man of yours.”