Roman #2
“That was almost a joke.”
“It was a warning.”
“About your multitudes?” She raises a brow.
“Among other things.”
The snow thickens as we walk back toward the car. She slows near a kiosk selling coffee and pastries, drawn by the smell before she admits it.
“You just had breakfast,” I remind her.
“That was before walking.”
“We have walked for twelve minutes.”
“In the snow. It counts double.”
I buy her a pastry with cherries, and she eats it standing beneath a narrow awning while snow gathers along the edges. A bit of filling catches at the corner of her mouth. She notices me looking and wipes the wrong side.
I lift my hand and remove it with my thumb.
She goes still. So do I.
The city moves around us. Cars pass. People hurry by, shoulders hunched against the cold. Somewhere nearby, church bells begin to ring, low and heavy through the winter air.
Katerina’s eyes stay on mine.
I should step back. Instead, I lower my hand slowly. “You had cherry on your mouth,” I say.
“I know.”
“No, you did not.”
“I knew after you looked at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you were deciding whether to clean it off or kiss it off.”
A rough laugh leaves me, unexpected and quiet.
Katerina looks too pleased with herself, standing under a narrow awning with cherry filling on her mouth and snow in her hair, as if she has discovered some private weakness in me and intends to use it badly.
She’s not wrong.
Before I can say anything, music starts somewhere down the street.
Not loud at first. Just the thin, quick sound of an accordion cutting through traffic and winter air. Then a violin joins it, bright and sharp enough to make Katerina turn immediately.
“What is that?”
“Music.”
She gives me a look. “Thank you. Very educational.”
I glance past her toward the corner. A small crowd has gathered near the entrance to a pedestrian street.
Tourists, children, a few locals pretending they have stopped only because the path is blocked.
Two men are playing near a painted wooden cart strung with lights, and a woman in a long red coat is dancing on the snowy pavement, her boots tapping in time.
Katerina is already moving toward them.
I catch her elbow before she steps off the curb without looking. “Careful.”
“I am careful.”
“You nearly walked into traffic.”
“It was very slow traffic.”
“It was a car.”
“It was barely committed to being a car.” She pulls free with a grin and crosses when I let her, hurrying just enough that the hem of her coat swings around her knees.
I follow.
The performance is simple. Street music, a little dancing, a few tricks for tourists.
Nothing I would usually stop for. The accordion player is wrapped in a thick scarf, fingers moving fast despite the cold.
The violinist plays with his eyes half-closed.
The woman in red spins once, laughing when a little girl tries to copy her and almost slips.
Katerina watches as if she has been handed a front-row seat at the Bolshoi.
Her delight is unguarded. It changes her face more than makeup or jewels ever could.
I take out my phone before I think better of it.
She does not notice at first. She’s too busy watching the dancer, her lips parted, one hand tucked into my scarf at her throat. A snowflake lands on her lashes, and she blinks it away, smiling.
I take the picture.
The shutter sound gives me away.
Katerina turns. “Did you just take my picture?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because you looked happy. Because I wanted proof. Because a woman smiling in the snow should not feel more dangerous than a meeting with Oleg Voronin, and yet here we are.
I put the phone away. “For evidence.”
“Of what?”
“That you’re capable of enjoying yourself without arguing.”
Her mouth falls open. “I enjoy myself while arguing.”
“I have noticed.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Roman.”
“No.”
“You cannot take a picture of me and refuse to show me.”
“I can.”
“That’s illegal.”
“It’s not.”
“It should be.” She reaches for my phone, and I lift it easily out of her reach. Her eyes narrow. “You’re abusing your height.”
“You’re abusing your charm.”
That stops her.
Only for a second, but I see it. The small flicker of surprise before she recovers.
“I have charm?”
“Unfortunately.”
Her smile comes back slowly this time. It’s softer than the last one. “Then show me the picture.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll ask me to delete it.”
She looks like she might deny it, then thinks better of it. “Maybe.”
“I prefer not to negotiate.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that like it will become useful.”
The music changes before she can answer. Faster now. Livelier. The woman in the red coat claps her hands and pulls the little girl into a careful turn while the crowd cheers.
Katerina laughs, clapping with them.
Then the dancer looks at her.
I know what is coming before Katerina does.
“No,” Katerina says immediately, stepping back.
The woman in red smiles wider and reaches for her hand.
Katerina shakes her head, laughing now. “No, no, absolutely not.”
The crowd encourages her.
Traitors, all of them.
She turns to me, eyes wide. “Help me.”
I look at the dancer, then at Katerina. “No.”
Her laugh turns shocked. “Roman.”
“You wanted to see Moscow.”
“I did not ask to become part of Moscow.”
“That’s how travel works.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Yes.”
The dancer tugs again, and Katerina finally gives in with a sound of pure disbelief. She steps into the little open space near the musicians, cheeks flushed, one hand pressed to her coat as if she can hold her dignity in place by force.
She cannot dance this style.
Not even close.
Her first step is wrong, her second is worse, and by the third she’s laughing too hard to care. The woman in red guides her through a simple turn, and Katerina spins under her arm, boots sliding slightly on the damp pavement.
I move without thinking, ready to catch her. She recovers on her own and looks directly at me with triumph.
The crowd claps.
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. I feel it on my face before I can stop it.
However, the smile fades when I realize one of my men is watching me from the edge of the crowd with undisguised interest. He looks away quickly, but not quickly enough.
Katerina finishes the small dance breathless and laughing. She tries to return to my side, but the woman in red says something in Russian and gestures toward me.
Katerina looks suspicious. “What did she say?”
“She says you need a better partner.”
“Oh.” Her eyes brighten. “Wonderful. Come here.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I do not dance in streets.”
“You do now.”
“No.”
She steps close enough to take my hand. Her fingers are cold through the glove, her smile warm enough to make refusal difficult. Around us, the crowd has already sensed blood. The violinist grins. The accordion player changes the rhythm into something slower, more mocking than helpful.
“Katerina,” I warn.
“You said I should see Moscow properly.”
“Dancing on wet pavement was not in the plan.”
“You had a plan?”
“I always have a plan.”
“Then this will be good for you.”
She pulls. I let her.
The crowd claps when I step into the open space. Katerina looks far too pleased with herself. Snow drifts between us. The woman in red says something encouraging and retreats, leaving me with a runaway bride who has no idea how close she is to a man covered in sins.
“You’re smiling,” Katerina says.
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m regretting.”
“Same face, apparently.”
The music slows. Not a waltz exactly, but close enough for tourists and street corners. I place one hand at her waist and take her gloved hand in mine.
The first step changes everything.
She’s still unsteady on the snow, but she follows well once I guide her. Her body remembers instruction. Wealth teaches daughters many useless skills, and apparently dancing is one of hers. She moves carefully at first, eyes on my chest, then dares to look up.
“There,” I say. “You can follow orders.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I never get used to temporary things,” I say without meaning to.
Her expression flickers. I almost regret the words.
Then she steps closer because the pavement narrows near a patch of slush, and regret loses importance.
The crowd blurs around us. Music fills the cold air. Her hand rests lightly on my shoulder, and my palm fits against the curve of her waist through the coat I bought her. This should be harmless. A dance on a Moscow street in front of strangers.
It’s not.
Nothing with her seems to stay harmless.
She keeps her eyes on mine now, and the smile returns, slower than before. Less playful. More aware.
“Do you dance often?” she asks.
“When required.”
“By whom?”
“Women with poor judgment.”
She laughs softly. “Many of those?”
“A few.”
“Should I be jealous?”
The question is light, but the answer in me is not.
“No.”
Her fingers tighten slightly on my shoulder.
The music carries us another turn. Snow lands on her hair, on my coat, on the dark wool between us. She looks too alive in my arms, too warm against the cold city, and for a brief moment I forget the men watching, the meeting waiting, and the family name I came here to destroy.
I turn her once, slow enough that she does not slip.
She comes back into my arms laughing, breathless.
The crowd claps again, but she barely notices.
Neither do I.
Then she looks up at me and says, “This is the best bad idea I’ve ever had.”
My hand tightens at her waist before I can stop it. “You have no idea how bad.”
Her smile fades only a little. “No,” she says. “But I think I’m starting to.”