Chapter 35
Chapter
Thirty-Five
Dimitri
Father guilt is hitting hard today. It’s my sister-in-law’s death anniversary. It also means we’ve been in America for two years. Shouldn’t I have more to show for it?
I thought Katya and I would be together by now. Done with the secret meet-ups in random hotels when it’s “safe” for her. She should be here. Instead, I’m stuck in this perpetual cycle of hope and disappointment every time the phone rings. She asked for this to be our anniversary, and I’ve never been happier I pushed for a different day. She doesn’t need to see me like this—sad, broken, and depressed.
And the fact that she feels bad about it, blames herself, breaks my heart.
The worst part about it is, she’s right. If she had stayed, there wouldn’t have been much of a change and we would still be together. She’s willing to give up her happiness just to fight this impossible war. Is it a war worth fighting? Yes. But is it misguided? Also yes.
Worst of all, everyone else is moving forward. Izzy and Lance are settled, talking about serious life plans. Waverly and Lukas are thriving with their house cows. Even Uri is mending things with his father. And me? Stagnant.
Ian speaks English most of the time now—only switching to Russian when he’s upset. And he has friends. He’s growing like he’s supposed to.
And the one time I tested the waters to return to the stronger side of myself, the one who’d been locked away, Katya burst into tears. Maybe it’s better that I stay the same and freeze in space.
My muscles feel too heavy to move, depression’s weighted blanket pinning me to the bed. Screw you, depression. But damn it, the bed is warm, and the air outside is cold. Nope. Staying here.
There’s a knock on the door. “Bye, Uncle Dimitri! Lance is here.”
Uncle Dimitri. Fuck. I need to tell him the truth. But when? How? There’s no manual for this. Hey kid, by the way, I know you thought I was your uncle, but surprise! I’m your dad. Cool? And that guy you thought was your father? Nope, just a placeholder. Now let’s go get waffles.
Every day I don’t tell him, the guilt builds. What if he’s disappointed? What if I’m not enough? What can I even offer him? A kidney if he needs it? Back in Russia, he had more toys, space, a full-time nanny, and a mother. And here? He has me.
I’m not much of a prize.
The smoke detector’s chirping pulls me from my spiral. It beeps five or six times before I decide the cold air is worth enduring if it means silencing that screech.
I jump, fingers grazing it, but it screams in defiance. Second jump—miss. Screw this. There’s a broom in the kitchen. I’ll beat it to death if I have to.
The broom is wedged between the wall and the fridge. It slides further out of reach when I try to grab it. Motherfucker. I bend down, fingers searching through three inches of dust and a questionable red dot (candy or cough drop?) and yank the broom free.
It launches itself at my head.
“Fuck!”
The broom’s handle slams into my skull. The smoke detector chirps, as if laughing at me.
Before unleashing my fury, I spot a navy blue backpack.
My head tilts like a confused dog. Because it’s… wrong.
My backpack is black. Ian’s backpack is navy blue.
Is he still in the house?
No. He’s at school.
Oh no.
He’s at school—with my backpack.
My backpack that I stuffed with leather straps and gear before leaving the club last night. Because Joey told me to reorder supplies. And I wanted to get home, so I grabbed the old stuff for reference and planned to place the order from here.
Now that bag is sitting in an elementary school surrounded by security and the next generation of nepo babies.
Shit.
I grab my keys—and freeze. Why am I cold? Oh, right. I’m naked.
Track pants and a T-shirt are easy. Shoes and socks nearly kill me as I hop around trying to put them on. Keys, wallet, cellphone, and... the damn bag.
The smoke detector gives one last “fuck you” as I slam the door behind me.
How could I be so stupid and lazy? Why can’t I do anything right?
I blow past a stop sign, barely registering the red and blue lights flashing behind me until it’s too late.
Shit. Deportation. This is it. I’ve never tested the fake ID before. If they run it, I’m screwed.
Knuckles white on the steering wheel, I lower the window.
The cop, a baby-faced twenty-something, chews gum like he’s auditioning for a role in an intimidation police training video. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“Because my life is a giant clusterfuck sandwich.”
His eyebrow twitches, but he recovers. “No, it’s because you blew through a stop sign. What’s the rush?”
I should lie. But my mouth betrays me.
“My son took my bag to school instead of his. I need to swap them.”
He lowers his sunglasses. “That’s not exactly an emergency.”
“I work at a BDSM club.”
His lips tighten as he tries not to laugh. He fails spectacularly, snorting before turning away to compose himself. Halfway to his car, he doubles over, hands on his knees, shaking with laughter.
The passenger door opens, and a second cop approaches my window. Something about him seems familiar.
“Dimitri?”
Oh, holy hell. It’s Scott, the groom—who married Tawny, who didn’t even have cake at his wedding. He’s a cop? He’s also on the Italian mob’s payroll. Thank God. Or Satan. At this point, I don’t care.
He swallows a laugh. “Would you like a police escort to your kid’s school?”
“Yes, please.”
The world considers Russia to be a backwards place stuck in a lost time of long ago… but America is fucking weird.