Chapter Fifteen
In which everything sucks and then Mom leaves.
Liria…
Present day…
I've had to force a lot of smiles over the last few days because frankly, there is nothing in my life right now to smile about. However, I manufacture one for my mom, who looks even more worried about leaving me here than I do about her being alone in Boston.
"There's nothing to worry about," she says gently. "Alexsey and Dmitri spoke with me about the new security team. Their people ran a security sweep of the house and found ten listening devices and multiple cameras." We both shudder, wondering exactly what my father's twisted men had seen or heard.
"For Alexsey, at least," I say, feeling that resentment surge up in me again like a malevolent tide, "it's just to make sure that Father has no excuse to be anywhere on the East Coast aside from where the Morozov Bratva has stationed his assets." That word still stings like lemon juice in a cut.
We're sitting in her suite at The Four Seasons with a lavish display of room service sprawled across the table: Ora King Salmon Tartare and Nasi Goreng, which I was disappointed to learn is just vegetable fried rice with green speckles of things that could be shallots or seaweed.
We eat, even though neither one of us can taste a bite, smiling and talking about her plants and flowers, and how I can craft my life here in New York. When Mom asks how "my husband" is behaving at home, I smile pleasantly and change the subject. She doesn't need to worry about me.
"I wish you didn't have to leave so soon," I say sadly.
I've been lucky and I know it. Mom got to stay here for another week while Alexsey's team sorted everything at her place in Boston.
That reminds me of the mysterious house on Beacon Hill, where he'd taken me that night.
The house that turned out to belong to somebody else.
Was this a game he played with every woman who was just minding her own business until he decided to seduce her?
Or just something special he'd cooked up for me?
I want to believe that we were both sincerely strangers that night.
Now, though, I have no idea what he might have known about me, why he singled me out at the fundraiser.
Mom and I avoid checking our phones, not wanting to see the time tick away but helpless to stop it. Minutes before the expected knock on the door from Mom's new security, she leans forward, grabbing my hand.
"There are things I should have told you,” she says urgently. "We had a month to prepare and I should have explained more to you, about this life. Being a Bratva bride is difficult. I'm grateful that you don't have to be the Pakhan’s wife, at least."
"Ava seems to have taken to it just fine," I smile wryly. "I'm more than happy to let her have it."
"There will be as much scrutiny on you," she continues.
"And as many expectations. The sooner you find out what they are, the better.
I know how bitter Alexsey must be right now, but he seems…
" She hesitates, casting around for the right word.
"Rational. Once it's reinforced in his mind that you had nothing to do with the attack, things won't be so prickly and unpleasant.
In this family, they seem to have love matches, even if they didn't start that way. "
"It's true, the Morozov women love their husbands, and when they're together, their happiness is almost palpable. Sometimes, it almost feels too personal to watch," I agree.
What I leave unsaid is that I don't think that Alexsey and I are going to have the Morozov cinematic-worthy happy ending.
I may not be an artist, but I know that when Father took my piano and my ability to play and create music, it cut away part of me.
Like I'm missing a limb. It feels selfish to say it that way, since Alexsey has actually lost his hand.
I feel it, though, that near constant ache, my fingers twitching, wanting to play.
There's a melody running like a ribbon through my subconscious.
I catch myself humming scraps of music, and reaching for my notebook that's no longer there.
I wonder if that's what he feels, the countless miserable little moments of realizing what you've lost?
"As terrible as it sounds, you are luckier than I was," Mom says.
Her pretty face can't manufacture the appropriate bitterness, though I know she's feeling it.
"I was suckered into marriage as the third Mrs. Dritan Krasniqi when I was too young and stupid to know what I was doing.
Since your grandparents raised me here, I knew next to nothing about our Albanian heritage. "
She smiles at me, her eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners.
"You're already so much smarter, sharper than I was at your age, better prepared for this life.
Sadly, because you've seen the worst of it.
The Morozovs are not like your father or your half-brother.
Try to be patient. I know that's not easy for you.
" With a mischievous wink, she pulls me up from the chair, hugging me.
"Right now, you're grinding your teeth, aren't you?
" Mom whispers in my ear. "Remember how the dentist used to yell at you when you did it as a teenager? "
I didn't tell her at the time that the reason I ground my teeth in my sleep was due to the nightmares I had from that summer in Albania. I nod, and smile anyway. "Yeah, fine," I chuckle. "For the sake of my back molars, I will learn to be patient."
Mom's smile fades. "If you don't think you can order a piano for your new home-"
"It's Alexsey's home, Mom," I say. "I'm just a visitor there."
"Then for now," she says firmly, "find a music studio, a place where you can practice, where you can work on your music.
Start making the same connections with some of the museums and galleries here that you have at home.
Start building your life the way you want it to be.
" Her eyes well up. "Even if it's without his participation. "
"Is that what you did?" I ask.
"Exactly," she says, weaving around the room and picking up her sunglasses, and her purse, stuffing her phone in the bag and checking her luggage.
"I had my assigned duties as your father's wife.
" There's a flat twist to her pink lips that tells me most of those duties were likely unpleasant, which is something I don't even want to think about right now.
"The rest of the time, I was allowed to do what I wanted.
I wasn't allowed a greenhouse at home - even with the pretentious size and scope of his estate.
I found a greenhouse I could work in at a neighboring farm.
I made some friends. Though, most of them dropped me the instant they found out who I was married to, but I kept trying. "
Her circuit around the room returns to me, and I'm wrapped in one of her warm, comforting hugs. Mom still smells the same as when I was a little girl; like gardenias, and lavender.
"I didn't want this life for you," she whispers. "But now that you're here, it's up to you to find a way to make it what you want." Squeezing my eyes tight, I force tears back. I will not cry in front of my mom and add to her worry.
There's a knock on the door and I open it for her. We're in the inner suite attached to a larger one, with an antechamber and two other rooms for her guards.
Roan is standing there, familiar and comforting in his blue suit with his tie perfectly knotted. "Come in!" I say, opening the door wider. The two guards in the outer area are both Morozov men. They regard me with flat, untrusting eyes as I shut the door in their faces.
"I came to tell you and your mother goodbye," he says heavily.
There's a droop to his mouth I've not seen before and it makes my heart hurt.
"There is good news, I have been assigned to stay here in New York City.
I'll be working with the Morozov security in their warehouses and covering shipping lines. "
"That's not-"
"Not what I hoped for?" He raises a brow with a bit of his old sass. "That this is, perhaps, a huge demotion from keeping you safe?"
"It's undignified for a man of your age and experience," I agree.
"My age? Ah, because I am extremely aged," he drawls.
"That's not what I meant!" I splutter.
"Perhaps in the Morozov hierarchy, their most experienced, yet ancient employees are sent to rule over stolen electronics and boringly legal cannabis shipments."
"I have no idea whether I should laugh right now or dissolve into a toxic puddle of guilt," I moan. "I'll talk to Alexsey. I'm sure-"
"No. Don't," he says, shaking his head. "I'm willing to stew in my ignominy for a while as I bear an expression of noble dignity."
"That's what that is?" I ask. "I thought it was your gout flaring up again."
Impulsively, I hug him tightly.
"This feels highly unauthorized," Roan says.
His arms are limp at his sides, surprised, but he finally reaches up cautiously and pats me on the back as if I'm something dangerously explosive, like a baby with a full diaper.
"If you ever need me," he whispers, "I will always answer my phone and I will…
You know you will always be my first concern. "
There's no hiding the tears now and I get the shoulder of his nice jacket wet before I can compose myself and pull back.
"Well, that's going to be an extra fee at the dry cleaner's," he grumbles, brushing disapprovingly at the tear stains.
"Thank you, Roan," I say. "I can think of so many times that you probably wanted to kill me and put yourself out of your misery."
"So many times," he nods fervently.
Mom comes over with a warm smile, squeezing his hand tightly. "You've always been Liria's guardian angel-" There's a muffled snort from me and she gives me a stern side-eye before continuing. "I don't expect anything to change here. You can also contact us too, you know. Should you need help."
He frowns, shaking his head, but I jump in. "She's right, we're still the Albanian contingent who needs to prove ourselves."
"Does that mean you're joining me on guard duty tonight?" he asks, "I'm being sent to one of the docks. The ones that smell like dead fish and discarded heroin needles."
"Uh, well," I shrug, "I've got something planned."
We exchange a little grin and he whispers, "You are the most exhausting protection detail I've ever endured. All those pallets and fish guts might be a refreshing change."
"Yeah, alone at night in a warehouse is a perfect gig for a man with your gregarious nature and sunny outlook on life."
His expression is instantly stern and composed as the door opens and Mom's security takes her scatter of luggage out to the bell man. They glare at Roan as he does not offer to help. He smiles back pleasantly and takes his leave.
"Mrs. Morozova, your driver is waiting for you at the front door," one of the guards says. He has a thick Russian accent, which traditionally sounds stern and vaguely threatening to me, but he pairs it with a polite smile.
"Thank you," I say, linking my arm with Mom's as we step into the elevator and watch the numbers fall.
"Stop dragging your feet," she whispers as we cross the enormous marble lobby. "You look like you're heading towards a root canal. You're not trapped here. I had assurances from Dmitri that you could visit anytime you wanted."
Her car is waiting for her, a big black tank of a thing from the Morozov fleet and I see mine just behind it, a charcoal gray Bentley, one of Alexsey's.
I find another huge smile for her and give her one last hug.
"I feel much better, knowing you're under Morozov protection at home," I whisper.
"And much less surveilled." She chuckles at that, waving as her car pulls away from the curb.
Danyl leads me to the Bentley as the driver opens my door.
I pause, watching my mother's car disappear into traffic, the last tangible tether to my former life, stretching thin until it snaps.