Chapter Sixteen
In which there is Forearm Resentment.
Andrey…
We are using one of the bigger SUVs, so Trofim climbs in the back, where the two rows of seats face each other.
He's anxious to discuss the Bratva's business that I've been missing here in New York City.
The interior is very quiet with the privacy screen up.
Trofim opens the bar built into the wood trim and makes us both a drink.
"Mrs. Morozova, may I get you something?"
"It's okay Trofim, thanks," Iris says, yawning. "I'm going to wait until we get back to the penthouse and then I am going to drink heavily and try to forget the last seventy-two hours of my life."
"I understand completely," he says with a gallant smile that I'm about to punch off his face. He must sense this because he hastily turns to me.
"I promised your legal assistant I'd let you know she's got a pile of paperwork for you to sign tomorrow," he says.,smiling pleasantly.
"Good, I'll sort out all the firm's current cases and see who's fucking up. I want everything in order before I leave."
"Also," he continues, checking his list, "the problem with Fournier is over and he's made a visit to Carl the swine guy."
"The swine guy?" Iris asks with a little frown between her brows. She's usually silent when I'm talking business with my Second. This is the first question she's ever asked.
Trofim's eyes dart to me and I nod slightly. "Carl's the swine guy, Mrs. Morozova. He keeps the hogs. They'll tear a screaming man apart. Hell," he chuckled, "they'll eat the bones."
She listens without a change in expression, not even a flinch. "Oh. I'm assuming this guy was pure evil, then?"
"Yes ma'am, he kidnapped the daughter of one of our Brigadiers. He was attempting to hold her for ransom," he says, fury twisting his mouth into a cruel smile.
"How old is she?" Iris asks.
"She's ten," Trofim says, glancing out the window. "She's fine… now."
Iris ponders this. "So, when you say the guy- Fournier?" Trofim nods. "When Fournier made a visit to Carl the swine guy's farm, was he alive? Because that seems like that would be the most satisfying outcome here."
With a grin that shows every one of his teeth, Trofim looks like he’s about to take a bite out of someone. "I knew I was going to like you, Mrs. Morozova."
She glances at me as I murmur, "My, you're full of surprises aren't you, darling?"
"There's a lot of things I'll tolerate," she says. "But fucking with children is my hard limit. For harming them, he needs to become the most unspeakably gruesome, horrifyingly bloody cautionary tale. One that will haunt anyone who would want to do such a thing for the rest of their lives."
"I don't think I have ever found you more attractive than right now, wife." I kiss her hand and she gives me a demure smile.
When we're finally alone in the penthouse, I gratefully pull off my suit jacket. As I'm rolling my shirt sleeves up, I catch Iris staring at them, fascinated.
"You're staring." We're in the kitchen, which oddly, smells strongly of cream cheese frosting.
"I resent your forearms," she blurts.
That startles me into a brief chuckle. "My forearms. You resent them."
"Yes," she says sharply. "They're muscular and attractive with those thick veins roping down to your hands and all those badass tattoos. It makes my insides curl and I dislike the unreasonable power your forearms have over me."
"I apologize for my unintentional abuse of power," I say. This irritable, deeply amusing Iris is something new.
"Will you tell me what this one means?" She points to a line of Cyrillic script that moves down my forearm like an ocean wave.
"It speaks of justice." We're close enough that she can reach out one finger and touch the ink very gently before she pulls back.
"What kind of justice? Like when you're in court?"
"The kind that is most deserved."
There must be something in my tone that makes her look up. "Your eyes are almost pitch-black right now," she says.
I shake my head, moving away. "It's just the lighting. Has my mother called you about the party plans?"
Iris blinks, the little moment gone. "Are you kidding?
" She groans, pulling a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the wine fridge.
"It's enough to make me start necking this.
There are calls from the event planner. Calls from Rose and Dasha.
Suggestions are texted daily from all the sisters-in-law who apparently, I will be meeting for a luncheon/battle plan tomorrow.
Mind you, those were their words: battle plan. "
Taking the bottle from her, I open it and pour her a very large glass.
"This party is a juggernaut, Andrey! So, if you were just thinking it's going to be tea and hor d’oeuvres, you might have to readjust your expectations."
I massage the back of my neck, a groan escaping my lips.
"Yeah, right?" She points a finger at me. "That, exactly. The only good thing about this is that you and I just have to show up."
"I asked Mother to include you. I thought you would enjoy planning it," I say.
"Sure, I'm great with parties where I just tell people to bring pizza and beer and I've downloaded a shit ton of movies for us to watch.
This event has a theme. It has nuance. I'm told it has a deeper meaning and I'm not certain what that would be but they're going to have to give us talking points because I have no idea what's going on here.
" She drains half her glass, holding it out to me with a, "don't be stingy" wiggle.
"My only request was for a cupcake tower and I thought the event planner was going to vomit, but I'm still getting one." She beams proudly, taking another huge swallow of my five thousand dollar Screaming Eagle Sauvignon Blanc.
I valiantly attempt to stifle my amusement. "That seems fair."
Her gaze is drifting over my neck and down to my chest, where the first tattoos bloom on my skin, visible with my unbuttoned shirt.
"I say a lot of things that I don't intend when you're here." Proving her point, her tone sounds like this is an internal narrative that she didn't intend to share with me. "Usually, I'm more careful, so why am I blurting every idea that enters my head to you?"
I stay silent, watching her. This external/internal monologue is fascinating.
"I'm going to go change," she says, heading for the stairs and taking her refilled wine glass with her. "This suit is giving me a rash."
"Are you allergic to wool?" I follow her.
"No, I'm allergic to looking like one of those relentlessly perky entertainment reporters."
This pulls another chuckle out of me. An Iris who isn't (currently) enraged at me is both amusing and a bit fascinating. Then, the guestroom door slams open.
"Where the hell is my stuff?" Iris is standing at the top of the stairs, hands on her hips, looking magnificently angry.
Ah, I should have told Jessica to explain this to her.
"Everything was moved into the master bedroom today," I say, heading up the steps to her.
"You had people touching my underwear?" Her voice is rising to a piercing pitch. "What is it with you Morozov twins and you letting people touch your wife's underwear!"
"I'm missing some part of this conversation that would make your rage understandable."
"Your brother Nikandr. He did the same thing to Caroline. She told me about it at one of the sisters-in-law's lunches. That is extremely high handed! You don't let people just go touching someone's underwear."
"I see." I shouldn't be finding this as entertaining as I am, I have court files to review.
"If it's any comfort, your underwear has been untouched.
I am evolved enough to know you would want to handle that yourself, though I was told that a new lingerie wardrobe is desperately needed.
" This does not seem to dim her outrage as her face reddens.
"Everything else is in our dressing room, as it should be. "
"We didn’t discuss this," she says, marching ahead of me into the master bedroom. "They didn't throw anything out, did they, like my ratty sweatshirts and the leggings with the holes?"
Dasha has referred to my dressing room as, "closet porn." I wasn't certain what she meant, nor was I interested in hearing about it, but she insisted on showing me several Pinterest boards and apparently mine is considered "aspirational."
When I had it designed, I wasn't expecting a woman to occupy the other half, but it is huge, with a big window that offers good light.
A tall, full-length mirror leans against the wall, and I've recently thought it would look even better with a naked Iris bent against it while I'm railing her from behind.
I've never thought about my wife sexually until the last week or so, and now the fantasies are fucking endless, taking up too much of my time.
An island of walnut dressers separates the two sides of the room, with rows of hangers and additional shelves and custom-built slots for shoes and boots.
Iris is slack-jawed, turning in little circles, taking in the rows of dresses and suits, another row of formalwear.
Clothing arranged by season and then color-coordinated lightest to dark.
"This is horrifying," she blurts. "No one should have this many clothes." She touches the sleeve of one of the dresses. "Have these been arranged by fabric?"
"Of course. This is how civilized people arrange their closets."
"Even Marie Kondo would tell you to lighten the hell up."
Turning to examine my side of the room, she gives a long, low whistle. "This explains so much about you. This level of precision is deeply troubling."
Unbuttoning my dress shirt and throwing it into the hamper, I keep my gaze locked on hers, until her eyes drop to my chest. We haven't had much time around each other, particularly unclothed, though I intend to rectify that.
She's examining my tattoos closely, the Morozov wolf crest snarling over my heart, the blindfolded Lady Justice with scales in one hand and a bloody sword in the other over my right pectoral.
My belt makes a loud snapping sound as I pull it loose from my dress pants and it seems to break the spell. She blindly seizes a handful of her clothes from a random drawer and abruptly leaves the room.
The penthouse is silent when I come out of the shower.
Pulling on a pair of sweats, I settle in a lounge chair on the terrace.
There's a breeze circling the tower, drying my skin.
My thumb hovers over Nikandr's number for a moment before I grunt irritably and press the button.
When did I start hesitating before I called him?
"Hey, brother. Are you back from terrorizing our German associates?" Nik sounds genuinely pleased to hear from me.
"It was three days of yammering that could have been handled in one if they'd had their documents in order."
I can hear splashing in the background. He must be outside by his pool. There's a low murmur and he says, "Yeah, go get the deck, I'll clear the table."
"How is Caroline?" I ask because I know it is expected.
"She's great! The hotel reopening has made her so happy. How's your lovely bride?"
"Fine." I believe so. She seems fine.
"I dropped by to see her yesterday when she was in the media division at Morozov Global. She looked drained. Jessica really put her through it, huh? Did she complain to you every night? Threaten you with disembowelment?"
Getting up, I pace along the railing of the terrace. There's a mini waterfall that starts on the roof of the penthouse and streams down the rock wall here before disappearing into a drain. I run my fingers through the water as I say, "We didn't talk."
"What?" Nik sounds horrified. "You didn't call Iris at all while you were gone? What in the hell is wrong with you?"
"Is this one of those cloying rituals you and Caroline engage in?"
"No, Andrey. This is something every married man who wants to keep his balls does! You don't fly off and leave your wife alone without checking in on her. Your new, twenty-year old bride!" Nik sounds so shocked.
"She wasn't alone. Melina was here."
"What the - If she stabs you, I'm sitting next to her at the funeral.
" Caroline says something in the background and he tells her, "He didn't call her once!
" I can hear her scoff quite clearly. "Brother, I love you.
I recognize that this relationship thing is new to you.
When you're away, you call your wife. It reassures her, it's bonding.
I suggest you plan one hell of a night out tomorrow. You've got some making up to do."
I run my hand through my hair. "This wasn't meant to be complicated."
"Here's my suggestion," he says patiently. "Apologize to her immediately for not calling. Say that you're just now getting used to being a human being. Tell her that tomorrow night is dinner and dancing, or welding or ax throwing or whatever the hell she wants to do."
"Why would you give over so much power?" I didn't mean to say that. It's awkward. I'm always so judicious with my words.
Nik's tone softens. "I can promise you that it's not giving over power.
It's sharing it between you. You're asking one hell of a lot of Iris; you need a partnership to make this all happen.
And not like the partnerships at work where you just scare the fuck out of the rest of the attorneys and then do whatever you want. "
A horn blares in front of the tower, a truck likely because it's loud as fuck. It shakes me out of this strange conversation. "I'll let you go." I hear something clinking in the background. "What are you doing?"
"Caroline and I are playing strip poker." There's a giggle.
"But she's a card shark." I frown. "You're guaranteed to lose."
"Exactly," Nik agrees.
"I'm hanging up."