13. Isolde
Isolde
“This is the spot?” Tristan asks an hour later.
I made him walk to Russet’s despite his insistence that we drive. I put my foot down, but not before I noticed his jaw clenching. Every time he glances my way, his gaze holds a heat I’m not sure I understand.
I’ve told myself since arriving in New York City that Cade wasn’t going to hold me back. I’m not about to change that because of one disapproving bodyguard.
I whistle, my chin craning up to take in the skyscraper. “Yep.”
Why the fuck haven’t we been hanging out here?
“Adeline says she keeps a bowl of cream cheese frosting in her fridge at all times,” I tell Tristan. “Even if she hasn’t baked anything to go along with it.”
Tristan is not impressed by this fact about Russet.
“You want some?” I ask. He side-eyes me. “Your fucking loss.”
I step into the building, not about to miss out on this opportunity for cream cheese frosting.
“Ms. Matheson.” A Russian guy steps in front of us before we’re even halfway through the lobby.
“All right, Sergei?” I greet, recognizing him. Russet’s guard normally spares a smile, but his eyes narrow on Tristan.
He narrows his eyes right back at him.
“Is this a pissing contest?” I ask.
The two bodyguards stare at one another, silently relaying some type of information.
“Right, I’ll get the fucking elevator myself then.” I try to step around them.
Tristan grabs my arm, a familiar warmth spreading over me. But Sergei stares strangely at us, and when Tris lets go, I realize the Russian is making a professional judgment.
“I’ll be down here,” Tristan says.
He doesn’t have to say it, but I know it’s killing him that he can’t do a perimeter sweep. The Zimins would never allow it, and I trust my friend anyway.
“You got your panic button,” he reminds.
He installed an app on my phone.
His concern presses against me, a frown forming on my face.
If he spoke with the normal, clipped tones he uses when he’s in bodyguard mode, I think I’d feel better.
There’s a softness to his tone, and not because he’s whispering.
His body bends forward, pulling me into whatever meditative quality I catch the occasional glimpse of.
“Are you going to be okay?” I reach out, my fingers skimming over his arm before quickly dropping my hand. “Waiting out here. And. . . with Russ?”
“It’s fine,” he says, shutting down that line of inquiry.
Russet must remind him of Daisy, though. Of all his work as the Ghost, taking down Marissa.
“Only a couple of hours,” I promise.
He shakes his head. “Take all the time you want.”
Sergei personally deposits me in the elevator, pressing some buttons. My ears pop on the way up. When the doors open, I find myself in a grand foyer.
The black and white checkered flooring is polished smooth. If it weren’t for a bench with a line of shoes underneath and a coat hook, I’d really believe I’d ended up in a hotel lobby. There’s even some kind of sculpture in the middle.
“Isolde?” Russet calls out. She appears a second later and squeals. “Yay! You came.”
I add my shoes to the neat pile.
The living room is formal. There are paintings on the wall.
A glossy white table against the wall holds golden knickknacks, random little vases, and such.
Book spines fill the walls. Bright pink ones denote which shelves belong to Russet; her reading for book club is much different than the stuff her husband reads.
There’s a doll lying on the leather sofa. A hint of chaos in the orderly penthouse.
“Sergei says Mr. Hot Bodyguard is downstairs?” Russet’s wearing casual clothes. Her long brown hair is thrown up. She’s like Adeline, stunning even in athleisure wear. “He doesn’t want to come up?”
I ask her the same question I asked him. “You okay with him here?”
Russ picks at a square watch on her wrist. I know it belongs to her husband, Max.
“It doesn’t have to be this thing any time the Ghost is around. We both knew Marissa. It doesn’t have to be awkward.”
“You really never talked to him? Not even when he came to Sailor’s party.”
Russet sits down on the sofa. “There was a lot going on that day. It seems like Tris is sticking around. Part of the friend group now.”
I think about his frowny face. I’m not sure he’d go so far as to say he’s part of the friend group.
“He’ll disappear when this is all over.”
Russet picks up a book from the coffee table, placing it on her lap. “You really think so? He’s friends with Ren now. Wouldn’t he want to pop into Fujimori’s?”
No. That’s not how Tristan operates. Before the Ghost, when he worked for the Irish, he stayed away. The Ghost absolutely avoided the place. And after all of this. . . Maybe Ren could convince him to come to the table occasionally, depending on if she had the right type of client.
But based on the calls I see him taking and the way he’s starting to book more clients, he’s not going to have to rely on Fujimori’s.
He’ll work with people in the life. Rich, corrupt businessmen who need protection.
Oligarchs with mafia ties who want to be seen with a bodyguard at whatever gala they go to.
“How is it going?” Russet asks me, patting the couch beside me. “Living with him.”
It’s the question that is constantly brought up, thanks to the mystic of the Ghost, as Adeline would say.
Russet grins grimly. “Okay, no more Ghost talk, I get it.”
“Where’s your kid?” I ask, sitting down.
“With Max. He’s with his brothers.” A melancholy clings to her.
“You okay?”
She hugs the book she grabbed to her chest. “Max thought he was being nice getting Sailor out of my hair.”
She’s almost two.
“And it’s not?”
Russet clings to what I realize is a photo album. Her nose scrunches and her shoulders bunch together. With a deep breath, she loosens everything. “I can’t get pregnant.”
“Oh.” My brows hit my hairline, and I nod. I can do this. Talk about babies and stuff.
Russet laughs at my shock, but her face crumples. She quickly looks away.
I touch her lightly. “No, sorry. I’m just. . .”
Russet’s laugh is watery, yet still somehow bright. She reminds me of Harry. Someone who has seen so much shit, only to be continually positive.
“I’ve just trauma dumped on you, Isolde. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“It’s okay.” I decide running my hand down her back is soothing.
She wipes her eyes. “It’s fine. It’s stupid. It’s. . .”
“Harder to get knocked up than you thought?”
“Exactly.” She laughs. “I wasn’t up to leaving the house, but I didn’t want to bounce off the walls. I’m sorry. I’m trying to use you, it’s just—”
“You’re not using me.” I want to be the person my friends call when they need help. “But if I’d known, I could have brought some weed or something.”
She laughs again, the album in her lap bouncing.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Oh.” Russ looks down at it like she’s just remembered it. “You heard about Yelena and Lev?”
“How they’re getting a divorce.”
Russet’s had her ups and downs with her mother-in-law, so she keeps her face neutral.
“She’s gone back to Russia. Her mom’s really sick.
Lev went with her, but he shipped these back to me.
There are literally no photos in their house from when she was younger, from when she lived in Russia.
I thought I’d hang some up. Little reminders of her home. ”
“That’s awfully nice of you.” The statement comes out sounding like a question.
She flips open the book. “She’s lived here almost thirty years, but I think she’s homesick. I don’t blame her.”
There’s a stack of albums on the coffee table, and I help myself to one.
“Oh, wow.”
“Isn’t it crazy?” Russet agrees. “She’s so young. And everything is so. . . Russian.”
The photos are grainy thanks to the technology. There are buildings with architectural styles I’ve never seen before. Old cars that are only spotted in movies now.
Russet’s not lying about how young Yelena is in some of the photos.
I blink at a skinny, blonde child in a dress. Next to her is a grinning man, his shoulders broad and his chest puffed out.
“That’s her dad,” Russ says. “She was really close to her parents.”
“Really?” Ren told me Yelena is a lot more protective of her boys than many think. She appears aloof and distant. She’s not like Jane Fujimori, working closely at the family business and knowing all her son’s friends. “And her mum’s not doing well?”
“No.” A shadow crosses Russ’s face. “I think. . . Who knows what will happen in the next coming days.”
“Rough, that.”
“Yeah,” Russ murmurs. “Look at this one.”
The trees signify forest and there’s a vacation feel to it. Yelena is wearing denim, her smile shy but light. Her hair streams around her shoulders. She’s older here than in any of the childhood photos. I’d guess late teenager, perhaps early adulthood.
“She looks like a model,” I admit. Fresh-faced, she’s beautiful. Her cheeks are naturally rosy. A stark difference from the blurred beige woman she’s been lately.
“It’s weird to see vacation photos.” Russet flips to another page, still leaning into my side so I can see. “To see her doing normal stuff.”
I’m sure the Zimins took some posh family vacations, but I understand what she’s getting at.
“I don’t know why, but I love these photos. Would it be weird to frame these ones? I mean, I don’t need, like, a theme, right? Like a good photo is a good—”
Russet’s voice fades, my heart skipping.
The photo is like all the others. The same grainy filter. The skinny trees, the lakeside vacation vibes.
Young Yelena is smiling, but now I understand why I thought it came across as shy. Next to her stands a man. The features, the dark hair, the tattoo curving up his wrist that he doesn’t bother to hide.
A timer goes off.
“The oven!” Russet hands me the photo album, heading toward the kitchen. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even offer you anything when you first came in. I’ll grab snacks!”
The smell of sugar rises in the air. The oven bangs shut, and she opens another cabinet.
I sit completely still, staring down at the photo.
“What the actual fuck?” I ask Photo Yelena.
Her husband clearly didn’t go through these albums, and if he did. . . I’m willing to bet he has no idea who his wife used to cozy up to back in the day.
Cutlery clatters as Russet remains out of sight in the kitchen. As quietly as I can, and with a shaking hand, I struggle with the plastic film. The photo and the album have almost morphed into one thing, they’ve remained untouched for so long.
I finish sticking the photo in my pocket when Russet comes out with a tray of treats.
“I’m trying a new recipe, and I’m not sure that they’re quite ready,” she says of the baked goods in the oven. “I might be a little bit back and forth in the kitchen, sorry.”
“No, it’s all good.” I set the album back on the table and pick up another one. Some of the pages have blank spots, so I’m praying the missing picture blends in. “I guess you’ll need to buy some photo frames.”