Chapter 21 Aleksei #2
The room goes quiet for a second, all of us considering the same thing. If my father didn’t send them, then someone else did. Someone with enough nerve to move on me and enough interest to put hands on Zatanna.
I don’t know which possibility I hate more.
Anton breaks the silence. “We’ll keep digging. If your father even breathes in the wrong direction, we’ll know.”
I nod once.
That’s when I hear the soft click of heels behind us.
All four of us turn.
My mother stands in the doorway in a dark silk robe, one hand still resting on the frame. Her expression is calm, but I know her too well. She’s been listening long enough to understand the shape of the conversation, if not the details.
Her gaze moves from me to Ilya, then to Sergei and Anton. “So,” she says quietly, “everyone is still pretending I don’t hear things in my own home.”
Ilya rises first, all polished manners. “Good evening.”
She waves that away. “If it were a good evening, you would not all look like undertakers.”
Anton and Sergei stand as well. They respect her. Everyone does. My mother may never have held power openly, but she has survived too much for anyone to mistake her for fragile.
I set my glass down. “Mama, it’s late.”
“And yet you are all still here.” Her eyes settle on me. “Which means this is not business. It is family.”
No one speaks.
She steps into the room and closes the door behind her with a soft, deliberate motion.
“I heard enough,” she says. “Your father is moving against you again.”
It is not a question.
I don’t bother insulting her with a lie. “Possibly.”
Her face hardens in that quiet way she has, the one that reminds me exactly how much of my steel came from her, not him.
“And the girl?”
The room stills. I don’t answer quickly enough. That alone tells her too much.
Her eyes sharpen, just slightly. “Ah.”
Ilya, bastard that he is, says nothing, which means he is enjoying this immensely.
My mother studies my face another moment and then sighs, almost sadly. “You always did make things harder for yourself when they mattered.”
I feel irritation start to climb. “This is not the time.” My voice comes out colder than I intend, but my mother doesn’t flinch. She rarely does.
Instead, she steps farther into the room, her gaze moving from me to Ilya and then to Sergei and Anton, who have all gone just still enough to be obvious about it.
Her eyes settle back on me. “So, who is the girl?”
I keep my face blank. “It’s no one.”
My mother’s expression does not change, but I know her well enough to see the disbelief in it. “No one?”
“That’s what I said.”
She studies me for a beat too long. “Then why are your men discussing her safety in your living room?”
I feel the trap in the question immediately. “She was present when something happened,” I say. “That makes her a loose end. Nothing more.”
The lie lands cleanly enough in the room, but not with her.
Never with her.
My mother takes another step forward, folding her hands in front of her. “Alyosha. I raised you. You may lie to the world if you find it necessary, but don’t insult me by trying it here.”
The room goes very quiet.
Anton suddenly finds the label on his whiskey bottle fascinating. Sergei looks at the floor. Ilya, bastard that he is, says nothing at all.
I force my jaw to unclench. “It is being handled.”
“That was not what I asked.”
I hold her gaze. “And I’m not answering.”
For a second, I think she’ll push harder. Instead, she sighs, soft and tired, and some of the steel leaves her posture.
“Your father has always been cruelest when he senses softness,” she says. “If there is a girl, and if she means nothing, then good. Keep it that way.”
I say nothing.
Because agreeing would be too easy.
And because, standing here, I can still picture Zatanna in my coat, pale and shaken, looking up at me and asking who I am like the answer might ruin her.
My mother watches me absorb that and knows, of course she knows, that she’s closer to the truth than I want anyone to be.
She nods once, more to herself than to me. “Then I hope for her sake that you are better at distance than your father ever was.”
The words sting more than they should.
Because distance is exactly what I’ve been trying.
And I’m already failing.
She turns toward the door again, then pauses. “Be careful, Alyosha.”
“I always am.”
That at least gets the faintest, saddest curve from her mouth. “No,” she says. “You are often ruthless. That is not the same thing.”
Then she leaves, the door closing softly behind her.
No one speaks for several seconds.
Finally, Ilya lifts his glass. “Well. That went about as badly as expected.”
I cut him a look sharp enough to draw blood.
He raises a hand. “I’m just saying. She knows.”
“She knows there was a woman in the conversation,” I say. “That is all.”
Ilya gives me a long, unconvinced look. “If telling yourself that helps.”
Sergei clears his throat, wisely steering us back to business. “We’ll keep watching your father. So far, his people are still talking like he expects the deadline to beat you. Nothing specific about the girl.”
“Good,” I say.
But it doesn’t feel good.
It feels like borrowed time.
Anton nods. “We’ll know more by tomorrow.”
I give both of them a short glance. “Discreetly.”
“Always,” Sergei says.
They gather their files and drinks and head for the door. Ilya lingers last, because of course he does.
“One week,” he says quietly.
“I’m aware.”
His mouth quirks. “Then maybe stop saying she’s no one.”
I don’t answer. He smiles like that answers enough, and leaves me alone with the city lights, the cooling whiskey in my hand, and the increasingly useless lie I keep trying to tell myself.
She’s no one.
If only that were true.