33. Dmitri
33
DMITRI
I admire my mother’s two-story mansion as we go up the driveway. At the end of every month, I return for one evening to check up on her. In the months when I didn’t, her condition worsened.
The light beige painted mansion is subtle in its luxury and not so big that she’d be overwhelmed by its space. When I was five and we returned from Russia, my grandfather took us into his home located in Manhattan for six months. I later found out that it’d all been too overwhelming for her. And so, he sourced this mansion in a relatively smaller college city, Ithaca.
Large hedges act as privacy around the property, and the green grass is immaculately trimmed as always. When we come to a stop, the driver opens my door, and I adjust my suit jacket as I approach the entrance where the door is already held open and waiting.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Volkov, it’s good to see you. Your mother has been looking forward to your visit all week,” Katniss, my mother’s housekeeper, greets. “Your grandfather will be joining us this evening, as well.”
I hide any surprise at the mention of my grandfather. It’d been some months now since I’d heard from him while he continued to enjoy what he considered semi-retirement despite not having been in the office for over six months.
“It’s good to see you, Katniss. Where is my mother?” I ask.
“Where she usually is. In the rose garden courtyard,” she says as she removes my suit jacket. “I’ll go brew some tea and bring it out to you both.”
“Thank you. How’s her condition been?”
“It’s been a good month, sir. She’s even been having a few more outings with friends.”
Relief washes through me. Good.
Walking through the mansion brings back memories. My mother and her staff raised me from the age of five until I moved out for college at eighteen, and I missed the naivety of those days.
I walk to the back of the mansion and through French-style doors. White pebbles and shortly trimmed hedges guide me to the table and chair. In the bed of each are different colored roses beautifully grown and nurtured. My mother is bent over with pruning scissors, a blue dress fans around her, no doubt filthy and covered in dirt. Gardening had been something that always made her happy.
I approach her cautiously, making sure to not creep up or spook her. The large white-brimmed hat keeps her protected from the sun, and I wait until she looks up to wipe her brows.
“Hello, Mother.”
She still jumps, that twist of terror marring her features before she blows out a sigh of relief. “Oh, my boy. Don’t scare me like that.” She laughs it off. When she goes to stand, I step to her side to assist her. “You look pale. Have you been sleeping?” she asks, cupping my cheek.
“I’ve only been here a few minutes, and you’re already on my back.” I press a kiss on her cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
“Well, it’s a mother’s job to be concerned.” She swats at my shoulder teasingly but breaks out in a smile. “So, how is everything? What’s my handsome son been up to in the Big Apple? I hope you’re not breaking too many hearts,” she jokes as she realizes her light blonde, changing to grey hair has come undone.
Her fingers are dirty, so I take her place. “I can do it for you.”
Katniss places a tray of tea and an assortment of savories and sweets on the table. I was in many ways grateful to her for caring for my mother when I failed and when I was absent.
My mother smiles, embracing the luxury I offer as Katniss brings a warm bowl of soapy water for her to wash her hands. I tighten the braid and continue it down to the tip. “You’ve always been such a good boy,” she encourages.
I offer her a smile. “That’s because I have a good mother.”
She offers a coy smile. “I’ve been many things a good mother might be a bit of a stretch.”
“As it is to call me a good son.”
She laughs and swats me away. It’s nice to see her like this, full of life, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. But it’s not always like this.
I take a seat in the chair and lean back with ease, grateful to see her in better condition. Some trips were worse than others. The time she got into the gun cabinet was terrible when paranoia kicked in. They’ve since been locked away from her reach.
“Did you hear your grandfather will be joining us this evening? When was the last time you saw him?” she asks as she picks up her favorite China cup and takes a sip of the sweet herbal tea. Her favorite kind. I take a sip from mine.
“Not since he left me high and dry to run the company for ‘semi-retirement’.” That happened four years ago and he hasn’t appeared in the office for months now to check up on it.
She chuckles. “As if you didn’t want him out of your hair.”
I casually shrug. True. I’d been working with him since I graduated and learned everything I could from him.
“I worry about how much you work. You look paler than last time. If you keep working yourself into the ground, you won’t have time to make me any grandbabies.”
“I always told you I have no intention of a family. Which is why maybe we should get you a dog instead.”
She nonchalantly shrugs and takes another sip. “Everyone says that until they find someone special. And I hope she’s a riot on your hands.”
I smirk, very much thinking of that particular woman who I had to leave behind in New York. I place the teacup down and study my mother’s side profile. I’d seen photos of her when she was younger. She was only twenty-five when she met my father, married and pregnant the year after. The photos taken after we’d returned from Russia showed a different version of her. The sparkle of life in her eyes had diminished, and even now, there a dark cloud forever loomed over her.
Even after all these years, he still had power over her.
I feel like it is repeating itself with Elanee.
“Don’t grind your jaw,” she reprimands me.
I offer her a polite smile as I grab the tea again, having not realized I’d been doing it.
There are so many things I want to ask her about my father. So many times when I was younger that I mistakenly had, but I wanted an inside into his mind more than ever now. I’d played this game with him for so long now, thinking that I had the upper hand as I dominated and destroyed parts of his empire. But all along, he’d had something precious of mine, and I hadn’t even known.
“You seem distant today,” my mother casually says before taking another sip of her tea. I look up at her then. Into the same blue eyes I’d been blessed with instead of my father’s brown. Sometimes, I could see simply by her gaze when she was having moments of clarity. It was a rarity amidst her flighty or whirlwind type of days. When it did happen, it often reminded me of the serene, eerie sense of being in the eye a storm, right before everything was about to be destroyed.
Days like this when she sees and speaks clearly instead of confused and frightened. But I couldn’t share with her what hinders me, especially when it’d put her back into a spiral.
“Does it have to do with your father?” she asks.
My throat constricts. I hate how she reads me like that. Always has an unyielding sharp eye. How many years had it been since she’d mentioned him? Even acknowledged his existence.
“No.”
“You’ve always been a bad liar,” she says, staring into her tea.
Unfortunately for her, I’d become a very good one. But I supposed there were some things a mother caught onto.
It remains quiet for a few minutes when she says. “Stay away from that world, Dmitri. The Bratva is dangerous, and your father is the worst.” She’s looking at nothing in particular, and I want to bring her back to me, aware of how quickly memories trigger her. That exact same line is one she repeated to me as a child all the way through to my early teens when I realized I should stop asking about him.
When she begins that spiral, it’s often too hard to get her back, and right in front of me I can see her being pulled into horrible memories that not even I’ll ever be able to fathom. In a split second, her face shifts into Elanee’s, and I can’t help but be stricken with the same fear.
“I met a girl,” I say.
The haze snaps away as she looks at me, blinking multiple times, her attention suddenly clear. She can see me now. But it doesn’t take away the weight that rests on my chest.
“Really? What’s she like?” she asks, trying to force a smile.
Stay away from that world, Dmitri.
The Bratva is dangerous.
And your father is the worst.
I might’ve stopped asking about him then, but my hatred for him never stopped. The only thing I looked forward to growing up was becoming big enough to hurt him in all the ways he hurt my mother and me.
For almost thirty years, he’s haunted us, and my sole focus is to end this cycle.
Yet somehow, I’ve never felt weaker in my life.
Vulnerability leaves a distasteful impression.