17. Luna
The decision to come on this trip with Nik was a poor one. I’m not sure what I was thinking. In fact, I wasn’t thinking at all. I was feeling.
The idea of being left alone in the warehouse with strange men around didn’t present itself as appealing. Going to my parents’ house to be milked for information about my first few weeks with Nik and the Bratva was even less so. Thinking of the critical remarks my mother would have no doubt made about my clothes and eating habits—I couldn’t do it. There was no way I could subject myself to that.
In the moment, when Nik asked if I wanted to come, a spark of hope had burned in my chest. Maybe he wasn’t burdened by me. Maybe he actually wanted to spend time with me.
Those thoughts were murdered when he showed me to a seat on the plane and proceeded to ignore me for the entire eleven-hour flight.
When I step off the plane, the thrill of visiting a country I’ve never been to before pumps some much needed adrenaline into my system. I slept like crap, and there’s a terrible pain radiating from my neck down into my left shoulder blade. Any boost of energy feels like a win.
Three black SUVs are waiting for us off the tarmac. The front and back cars are surrounded by men in black uniforms that include bulletproof vests, each of them holding a large weapon. Igor leads us to the middle SUV, and we each load our bags into the trunk. Nik reaches out to take mine.
“I got it,” I say. My mouth tastes like sawdust and I’m pretty sure my breath stinks.
As I lift my bag, Nik’s arm brushes mine. My hair there prickles and goosebumps sting my arm where he touched me. He tosses his luggage in with everyone else’s before yanking mine from my grip. I stand there, mouth parted, unable to equate the gentle brush of my arm with the irritated way he grabbed my carry-on. Glaring at him, I watch as he shoves my bag on top of his.
“Get in the car, Luna.”
Goodness, heisgrumpy.
I nod, obeying the command, and march over to pull open a door. Igor is driving, and Nik gets into the passenger seat. Luka and I are in the back. Which isn’t awkward at all.
Leaving the airport, I lean closer to the window to take everything in.Moscow is vast, and the way the city’s modern infrastructure and rich history mesh together is breathtaking. Historic Russian architecture and modern skyscrapers blend together. A river runs along the highway, and I follow it with my eyes as we move through the city.
“The Moshva River.” Luka’s voice startles me. It’s gritty and rough. Full of authority. Oddly enough, it reminds me of my grandfather. Although, that old man is incapable of saying a single kind word. Everything is displeasing and everyone is out to get you. According to him, that is.
I nod at Luka’s piece of information, wishing I wasn’t so culturally inept. My family rarely traveled, and when my grandparents visited Italy, they only brought Antonio and my father. The families were never allowed to come. They were too worried about someone snatching one of us in order to us to extort the Cosa Nostra.
Beautiful scenery continues to usher by as our caravan of cars heads out of the city. Nik’s voice cuts through the silence in the vehicle. The timbre of his voice is softer, but not lacking dominance.
“The Morozov family property is located north of Moscow, in Sergiyev Posad.”
Nik doesn’t say anything else, and after three hours of driving, we finally pull onto an elaborate country estate. Large flower gardens, greenery, and trees surround a sprawling house with marvelous architecture, including gabled roofs and other stately ornamental details.
The cobblestone driveway leads to several large garage spaces, though our SUVs pull right up to the main entrance, undera porte cochere. Staff members come out to greet us and take our bags while security files out from the other two vehicles.
“Does anyone live here?” I ask, surprising myself with my question. I don’t want to come across as nosey, but as far as I’m aware, the Morozov family has a mansion in New York.
“Nyet,” Luka says. “We keep minimal staff and use it for our men when any of them make the trip here. Nik’s father lives near Moscow but helps manage the estate and in country operations when he can—even though he’s retired.”
I swallow, working a knot down my throat. Nik’s father? I wonder if I’ll meet him. He wasn’t at the wedding, and I’m unsure what their relationship is like. I can’t help but think about the woman in his photo, too. Where is his mother?
I turn to gauge Nik’s expression, but he plows past us, hauling both our bags inside.
A middle-aged woman scurries behind him. “Mr. Balakin, you can take those up to?—”
The front doors shut before she can finish, and I’m left standing outside with Luka and Igor. A breeze blows through, sending leaves dancing along the brown cobblestone, and I shiver. The sweater and coat I’m wearing aren’t enough for the chill here.
Crossing my arms, I shuffle into the home behind Luka. We walk through a set of richly stained doors carved with intricate designs. A marble floor swirling with blues and creams spreads before me, guiding us through the foyer. The high ceiling houses two large chandeliers. I’m already in awe of this place and I’ve only seen a small portion of it.
A grand staircase with a chunky banister embellished with elaborate designs sits off to the side of the entrance hall, its steps matching the rich wood of the front doors. A family crest hangs above an entryway table to my right. It reminds me of my own family’s crest that’s proudly displayed in my nonno’s house. It’s a sizeable shield and intricate supporters hover over a motto I can’t interpret.
“Luna.” Nik’s voice echoes down from the top of the staircase, and I pull away from Luka and Igor as they continue on. He is staring down at me, arms crossed, legs spread wide—like he’s going to tackle someone.
I pad up the steps, keeping my eyes down, trying to stay undistracted by his thundering form that I want to run my hands over and explore. Wait. What? No.
Suede boots creep into my vision and I lift my head. He winks at me and my core flutters, my breath picking up speed. Crap.
“This way, Moonbeam. There are enough rooms in this place you can have your own.”
He strides down the hall, but I can’t move.
Moonbeam?
Why does it sound like a junior high nickname coming from the guy who won’t stop pulling at my pigtails? Am I a joke to him?
My face feels hot, and suddenly the need to get out of my coat is urgent. I rip it off, flinching when the zipper smacks my burned fingers. I stalk behind Nik to my own room.
I’m left alone for a while in one of the guest rooms. The high ceiling and natural light make the space seem massive. An antique king-size bed with a mammoth headboard is situated against the far wall, across from the door. There’s even a fireplace, though it’s caked in accumulated dust, ash, and cobwebs. It looks like it hasn’t been used in over a century.
I melt into a large, tufted armchair facing the windows, admiring the view of the woods encroaching on the back of the house. Considering the size of the property and the need for security, I’m surprised none of the trees have been cleared out.
I wonder if this is what convinced Nik to live at the warehouse instead of in the city. Even my yearning for city life has been abated by the serenity of his apartment.
A little while later, a petite woman brings in several fresh towels and tells me dinner will be served in an hour. Or, at least, that’s what I gather from her broken English and hand gestures.
After the door shuts, I scramble for my phone, baffled by it being dinner time when it feels like morning. I open my bag to hang and fold some of the items I brought. Apparently it’s still cold in late spring here, so I leave my jeans and thigh-length sweater on then move into the bathroom to freshen up.
This room has an ensuite. A large soaking tub is pressed up against a small stained glass window, and the double-sink vanity, shaded a beautiful cherry color, is topped with white marble countertop. I wash my face and reapply some makeup before calling it good enough and venturing downstairs.
Voices beckon me toward a swinging door, and curiosity has me pushing it open.
Wow. Giulia would be jealous of this kitchen.
It’s enormous. Commercial grade appliances, and a large island, double the standard size, fills the middle of the space. Nik, Igor, and two female staff members are enjoying a charcuterie board, their laughter ringing freely while they sip their drinks.
One of the women says something and flashes Nik a wide smile. He winks at her.
Clearly, his wink at me earlier was nothing special.
Igor glances my way and I stiffen.
Great. Now you’re awkwardly creeping, Luna.
“Uh, sorry, was just exploring,” I half-lie. Embarrassment licks my cheeks for wanting to be included.
I dip my head downward and duck back out the door. A security guard standing across the hall gives me a nod, and I bolt to the back of the house where I saw a patio from the upper floor of my room.
I push through a set of double doors and instantly get hit with crisp spring air. There’s a pergola to my left, its wood covered in climbing vines. An outdoor lounge sits underneath. I move across the slate pavers toward it, pulling my hands up into my sweater’s sleeves. Once seated, I lean back, inhaling a deep breath through my nose as I tuck my legs up beneath me and cross them.
“Whatcha doing?”
I jump, untangling my legs and snapping my head in Nik’s direction.
“Sitting. You?”
“Exploring,” he deadpans.
I can’t help but roll my eyes.
A smile works its way across his lips, and he gestures to the spot next to me. I blink and scoot over, dragging a hand through my hair and pulling it over one shoulder.
“I’ve always loved it here; so peaceful and quiet.” His chest expands on a sigh.
“Do you come often?”
“Not as much as I’d like. Luka and I used to come a lot with our fathers when they had business over here. But ever since his father died and he inherited the responsibilities of pakhan, we haven’t had as many trips. At least, not ones that bring the party.”
I soak in his words and gobble up the information. Clinging to any insight into who Nik really is. I want to ask more questions, but I settle on listening.
“My father moved back here after Vladamir Morozov died. Luka was kind enough to let him retire back home, but he still manages things for us here.”
“Do you miss him?”
Nik’s face pulls tight into a frown, and he stares off into the trees, seemingly at nothing. I bite my tongue and wait for him, giving him however long he needs.
“At times,” he finally says. “I don’t think I truly understood all the pressure he was under, serving the pakhan as second, until that job fell to me.”
He still isn’t looking at me, and I wish he would.
“And your mother?”
Nik flinches but answers all the same. “My mother left when I was young. She couldn’t handle his devotion to the Bratva, so she left us—me.” His jaw works back and forth and the tattoo on his lower neck pulses.
His reaction to the photo flickers through my mind, and a vice grips my chest. His mother left him, and I practically threw that picture in his face.
Unspoken pain soaks through his words, and his eyes seem to simmer with resentment. I find myself wondering which would be worse: a mother who leaves, or a mother who stays—but is continuously bitter and critical of her daughter.
I don’t have the right words to ease his hurt, but I offer a truth of my own.
“Seems we both have selfish mothers. Mine doesn’t care much that I exist; except for when she needs to use me.”
Nik continues to stare into the forest, but a faint, comforting brush against my thigh quickens my breath, and I watch as his fingers trail lightly across my leg before landing back in his lap.
I clear my throat and reach for him, dragging his face toward mine. His trimmed facial hair catches on the sleeves of my knit sweater as I pull away. His eyes are wide as he watches me.
“It’s her loss, Nik.”
A low hum emanates from deep in his throat and his nostrils flare. His gaze darts back and forth, roving over my face.
“Well, it’s a pain I’d rather not experience again,” he mutters.