Chapter 42
42
DARYA
I watch my brother’s car snake up the mountain road toward the finca and try to still my pulse rate.
I know my brother did what he thought was best, just as my father did. I’m glad that Roman has come to peace with them both.
And yet, despite my public stance, privately I’m still not entirely happy with either my father or Alexei.
Roman, knowing how much I’ve been dreading this reunion, has taken Rosa and the children to the penthouse for the day, giving Papa and me time to meet Alexei in private. It’s a break with Russian tradition for him, as head of the house, not to greet Alexei on arrival, but one I’m grateful for. This is a meeting best done without an audience. Alexei has clearly reached the same conclusion, going by the minimal security presence following his car at a discreet distance. Lars will be here in time for the wedding.
Papa stands beside me, leaning heavily on his cane, tense and still as the car draws to a halt. He refused to make this first meeting from the comfort of his chair.
I didn’t argue. On some matters, my father is not to be defied.
Alexei, to my surprise, has driven himself. He steps out, the myriad of old scars on his grim, unsmiling face gleaming smooth in the sunlight. But it isn’t his face that I can’t stop staring at. It’s his hand on the car door.
Or rather, the tattoo on his hand.
The Orlov sparrow is still there. But now the red wings drip blood, and rising behind them are another set, these made of vivid gold. A double eagle head looms above the sparrow, talons holding the other bird like broken prey.
The symbolism is brutal—and undeniable: the Romanov crest, the symbol of the old-world treasures our family has guarded so carefully, triumphant over the broken power of the Orlovs.
“Darya.” Alexei says my name quietly. He inclines his head in my direction, but makes no move to embrace me. “I am glad to see you are well.”
“And I you, brother.” This strange, stiff exchange is nothing like the family ease I grew up with. Even more than back at the ballroom, my brother seems like a stranger to me. “Please.” I gesture at the open door in welcome. “Come in.”
But Alexei isn’t looking at me. His eye, still shielded behind the glasses, is locked on Papa. His jaw is clenched hard, but I can see the faint flicker of tension beneath his silver scars, sense the emotion he’s fighting to keep hidden.
“ Otets .” His voice is gravelly, and he doesn’t move toward Papa, just stares at him from behind his glasses. “ Ty vyglyadish’ zdorovym .” You look healthy.
I remember, with a faint shock, that this is the first time Alexei has seen Papa since the night we fled Miami.
Papa nods at him, his face grave. “ Ya rad tebya videt, syn moy .” I am happy to see you, my son.
Neither moves to approach the other. Papa’s eyes roam over Alexei. I notice the small signs of tension in his old form: the hard set to the rangy shoulders, the stiff set to his jaw. Papa is doing a good job of hiding his shock at his son’s appearance, but it’s there.
Part of me has wanted this, to see Papa forced to confront the impact of his decisions, just as I’ve also wanted to see Alexei hesitant and apologetic before me. But now that the moment of reckoning is here, the hard core of resentment I’ve carried for so long just washes away, overwhelmed by a salty, trembling wave of love and compassion.
Whatever pathways have led to this moment of reconciliation, my brother and I have both traveled them in darkness, forced to grow up amid danger and hostility, fearing every moment might be our last.
If there is any lesson to take from those dark years, it’s that life is too short, and those we love too precious, to hold on to past grievances. The old ties no longer bind any of us. Those who sought to hold us captive to the past are dead, defeated, or both. We might be family, but that is no longer a curse we have to live under. We’ve all earned our freedom.
Now we must learn what it means to be a family united by love, rather than by pain.
I step forward and walk slowly down the steps toward my brother’s tense figure. “Alexei,” I say softly, opening my arms. “Thank you for saving our children.”
His face tightens, his entire form stiffening. “Never thank me for that,” he says roughly, almost recoiling from me.
“I understand.” I know the guilt he must feel at being forced to hold children captive in the same way we were ourselves. In the same place that he has been held and tortured all these years.
I take the final step toward him, placing my hands on the rangy shoulders so like Papa’s. “Then let me thank you for helping Papa and me escape.” I reach out and take his glasses off, revealing the fierce emotion swirling in the dark blue eye. “For staying and enduring all you did under the Orlovs. And most of all, Alexei, thank you for surviving what most men never could—and for saving our family legacy.”
I wrap my arms around his neck. For a long time, he doesn’t move, just stands stiffly in my embrace, his body a hard board held away from mine.
Then, finally, I feel his arms tentatively circle me.
For a brief moment we stand very still, simply readjusting to the new people we both are. Then Alexei’s arms fall and he steps back, his jaw clenched tightly against whatever emotion he has learned to suppress. His eye slides to Papa, and he passes me to mount the steps, saving Papa the indignity of trying to navigate them with his cane.
He halts a few steps from where Papa stands, his back to me. Papa props his cane against the stone pillar. “ Syn moy ,” he says in a low voice, gripping Alexei’s hand. My son. “I am honored to be your father.” Papa speaks in Russian, not trying to hide the emotion in his eyes. “But I also regret the pain and suffering my name has caused you to witness.”
I can’t see Alexei’s face, but when he speaks, there is a wry twist to his Russian words. “ Glaza boyatsya, a ruki delayut .”
The eyes are afraid, but the hands do.
Tears spring to my eyes. I remember my father saying those words to my brother years ago, when Alexei was small. It was the saying he used to encourage Alexei to leap from the high diving board or ride a horse for the first time. I realize I haven’t heard Papa say it since the night we ran, when he was forced to leave my brother behind.
I stay long enough to see the savage rush of emotion animate the hard lines of Papa’s face, his sudden surge of strength as he draws his son into a crushing embrace.
Then I slip back inside the finca, leaving father and son on the portico, bound by love, honor, and the burden of the lethal legacy they have both endured so much to carry.
“I am truly sorry we kept so much from you.” Alexei almost smiles at me. It is later in the afternoon, and the three of us are sitting around the small table out on the terrace. It’s littered with a half-empty bottle of vodka, a samovar of tea, and an overflowing ashtray next to Papa that I’m trying not to glare at.
Smiling once came easily to my younger brother. Now, I’ve realized, his smile is a deeply hidden thing, as are all his emotions. His stillness is almost disturbing at times, as if he could fade into the stonework on the terrace itself, like a human chameleon. But if I find his camouflage disturbing, I’ve also felt his eye on me more than once, digesting the changes I’m sure he finds equally jarring. It happens again as I speak in response to his apology.
“I understand why you felt it was safer to keep some things from me.” I look between them. “I’m not saying I agree with it, but I understand you thought that your silence would keep me safer, especially if the Orlovs caught me again. But things have changed now.” I feel Alexei’s gaze resting on me, assessing my tone, the confidence with which I speak. I know he is seeing a different person than the fragile sister he grew up with. “We are none of us what we once were, back when Papa and I fled Miami. So I guess what I want to know is what happens now?”
Papa and Alexei exchange a glance. I feel a familiar surge of annoyance. “I think,” I say stiffly, “that I’ve earned the right to be included in our family decisions.”
Papa inclines his head. “I am no longer pakhan of our family, docha . The decisions regarding what is said, and to whom, belong with your brother now.”
“Fine.” I turn to Alexei. “Then maybe you can tell me what happens now.”
His face is the inscrutable mask I am beginning to dread, but he doesn’t dodge my question. “I know the Orlov operation inside and out. It’s going to take time for me to cut loose the parts of their business I don’t want.” His mouth tightens. “The trafficking in girls and drugs, just for starters.”
I wince. I should have known the Orlovs were deep into the sewers of our world.
“Lars and I have been working on a few online projects, which is where I want to steer the Petrovsky clan.” He glances between Papa and me. “I also want to keep the Petrovsky name,” he says quietly. “I think it is... wiser to keep the Naryshkin story a mystery.” He smiles wryly. “Mystery has power, for one thing. And there’s still no way of explaining the fortune in tsarist Russian treasures beneath our house that won’t bring a horde of federal investigation down on our heads. None of us need that kind of attention.”
He shoots me a sideways look. “I had a brief discussion with your husband-to-be before I came here.”
I stifle a rather childish impulse to roll my eyes, but my annoyance must be plain, because a fleeting grin touches Alexei’s mouth, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. “Don’t go getting all butthurt, Dar,” he says. The use of my childhood nickname, and the casual way he talks, takes me back to childhood with a jolt so sweet that it chokes my protests.
“If you are in agreement,” he goes on, “Roman and I would like us all to open the vault together, after the wedding. He and I... well, we’d both like to continue the work our fathers started.” Alexei’s eye settles on Papa. “I understand that all of the pieces inside the vault are clearly marked,” he says quietly, “with the family name and last known descendant?”
Papa nods, his eyes a brilliant, hard blue of both pride and pain.
“Between us, Roman and I have considerable investigative powers.” Alexei’s lips twitch. “We also have Lance Ryder, whose skills we plan to put to good use.”
I give a surprised laugh. “You’re going to work with that little...” I catch myself just in time. “With that horrible paparazzi pond scum?”
Alexei tilts his head. “Paparazzi scum are much more useful working for us than against us. Ryder has had his fortunes restored, and we’re about to give him enough juicy gossip to keep him well fed for years. Not to mention that his own suspicions have finally been proven correct, which I think he found even more satisfying than the enormous check we gave him. Now he can follow the redistribution of the Naryshkin treasures, but always treat it as some kind of mystery, as if he doesn’t know where it’s coming from. Write about the conspiracy, but never really confirm it.”
“Smart.” Papa nods. He frowns. “But still dangerous. Are you and Roman certain you want this responsibility, Alexei?”
My brother looks at me. “Roman said it was your decision, Darya.” By the rather tight note in his voice, I take it my brother didn’t particularly like this stipulation.
But it makes my heart seize with joy.
Roman trusts me. He understands that I need to be a part of this, to have a voice in whatever decisions we make.
The comfort that gives me is a warm, beautiful thing in my chest, yet another confirmation that the man I love understands me in a way nobody ever has.
“Roman said that he will support whatever you decide.” Alexei’s voice is still hard. “If you would prefer the entire treasure be donated to a museum, we can make that happen. Or if you wish the vault to remain closed, Roman said he will abide by that, too.” There’s no mistaking his tension on the last sentence.
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to donate it. And I certainly don’t want the vault to remain closed.” I shiver involuntarily. “I don’t ever want us to be held hostage by that vault again. Thank you for agreeing to abide by my wishes. Fortunately, they align with yours and Roman’s.” I reach across the table and briefly touch my brother’s hand. I don’t miss the way he flinches, then forces himself to relax.
My brother is not accustomed to being touched, or at least, not with affection.
I’m not sure that will ever stop breaking my heart.
“I want to honor our grandfathers’ promises, too.” I glance at Papa, who is watching us with a quiet pride that spreads warmth through my heart. “Do you think there are still descendants to be found?”
Papa nods. “I know there are. I have some names that will help. But not today. Today, I wish us to drink tea together and to speak of my daughter’s wedding.” Leaning forward, he gently covers one of Alexei’s hands, and then one of mine, with his own. The late-afternoon sun mellows the lines on his face, highlighting the deep emotion he doesn’t try to hide. “Because, my beautiful children, family is the reason we fight—and the only prize worth fighting for.”