1. Adeline
Adeline
SIX YEARS EARLIER
I thought it was ridiculous when my parents moved out of Manhattan, picking a spot close enough to the city but far away enough that my parents could have a bigger garden out back. But I’ve got to admit, the drives have been a lot better since moving.
And I love driving.
Not that anyone appreciates my skills or finesse.
No one is out on the road this early on a Saturday morning, the highway mostly empty. Except for one black SUV behind me.
Jack can’t see it, but I’m definitely smirking as I push down on the accelerator.
There’s a buzz that I almost miss, my phone on the passenger’s seat. The only thing about driving around in a vintage car is a lack of Bluetooth, not that I truly care. It’s more important to keep the integrity of the car. My Aston Martin is my baby. I will not pollute it with fancy tech.
“Adeline.” My dad’s voice comes down the line.
“Morning!” I chirp, driving with one hand on the wheel. I glance in the rearview mirror; the black SUV is still trailing after me.
“It would be a pity,” my father says, “if my youngest daughter got into a wreck on the highway on the same day she’s meant to move into her college dorm.”
My foot eases off the accelerator just a smidge.
Dad, even though he’s at home, somehow senses his advantage. “The Aston Martin should be respected.”
“The Aston Martin is respected!” It’s my pride and joy. Driving slow in it would be more disrespectful than anything.
I’m not into NASCAR or Formula One, but the mini SUV life just isn’t for me. Even when we lived in Manhattan, I would take every opportunity to drive. There’s something freeing about blasting the A/C with the windows down while singing along to the radio.
“The Aston Martin is going to break,” Dad warns.
I hate when he uses his serious voice. I swear he only uses it with me, Mom, and his associates.
He says we’re the ones who test him the most. I’m not sure why he acts like my older sisters don’t test him either.
It’s not fair to group me along with his wife, saying I’m the one who’s making his hair go gray.
“It’s not going to break, Dad.”
“Then stop driving a hundred miles down the highway.” Each word comes down like a hammer, every bit the high-ranking Bratva man that he is.
“But there’s not even any cops out.”
“Adeline.”
I ease off the accelerator and flip the black SUV off. It changes lanes, preparing to exit. Jack is such a fucking tattle tale.
“Jack’s not coming to NYU with me.” I put on my blinker, exiting. Shopping bags shift as the car sways, turning right.
Dad chuckles. “I’ll call Barry. I’m sure he’ll find some school spirit.”
“Dad!” I groan, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “I’m a good student. I’m not going to go wild.”
I’ve been there, done that during my high school days. I’m looking to embark on a mature, scholarly aesthetic that is becoming of any sophisticated university student.
“Nothing’s going to happen.” I turn into our neighborhood, the long, winding street curving. Homes are set back among greenery and gates, keeping the riffraff away from people’s properties. “I’ll be fine without any of the guards.”
Dad doesn’t concede, but he does do me one solid favor. “Because I don’t want to ruin the day, I won’t tell your mother about the speeding. Love you, darling. Let Ferdinand park the car; we’ve got everything rearranged.”
The call ends, and I throw down my phone and drive the final few minutes of my journey in silent contemplation.
I love the city, and it’s only been two months since we’ve officially moved out here, but it is beautiful. I’ll miss the houses and the winding roads, and honestly, who’s going to make sure Dad knows where the TV remote is?
The gates open, and I pull into the driveway. Ferdinand opens my door for me. There are several SUVs, one with an open trunk where items are still being packed.
“Thank you,” I tell Ferdinand. He’s usually assigned to my sister, which means I don’t have a problem with him. It’s only my guards that drive me insane. Which is why I flip Jack off once again, making sure to maintain eye contact.
He’s younger than some of the other guards, but that’s done nothing for me. I’m not into blonds, and he’s got a hard-on for pleasing my dad. Therefore, he’s the enemy.
“No, I’ll do that!” I call out to Cedric as I leave the paved driveway and step out into the garden that’s near the kitchen door. We have several acres with beautiful greenery, but this particular patch is filled with blooming flowers, wildly curated.
“You are leaving soon,” Cedric argues in that soft-spoken way of his.
“Here, give me that.” I drop the bags on a stone bench and take the water hose away from him.
This is Dad’s spot. His garden. Occasionally, Mom will be out here, but more often than not she’s sitting on one of the benches, drinking wine, speaking to my father as he tends to his flowers.
“Thank you,” I murmur to Cedric when he grabs the bags. He keeps away from the house, preferring to potter around the grounds, but he’s also never been able to not help out. He slips through the mudroom that leads to the kitchen.
I’ve only been planning what I need to take with me to NYU since I was first accepted. But some last minute thoughts meant I got up early to grab a few things.
I didn’t forget that I needed to water the garden, though. Droplets mist me as the breeze pushes the leaves, the silence peaceful.
A few months back, Dad caught me coming home at six in the morning.
I’m eighteen, so it’s not like I broke any rules or anything.
But Dad’s lips were set in a frown, his face oddly serious.
Admittedly, I could have looked better. My skirt was short even by my own standards, my eyeliner smudged, and my muscles tired from partying.
Dad had been out watering the garden. He took one look at the high heels in my hands and read the guilt that seems to only appear when he’s around.
He shoved the water hose in my hands and told me if I was planning on living here for the summer, I needed to help out.
Which is why I tend to the garden most mornings.
The summer’s been a hot one, and I’m very accustomed now to unwinding the hose and giving the plants a treat.
I thought Dad wasn’t being serious when he first talked about gardening. Sure, in our Manhattan penthouse, we had a few potted plants. But nothing like this.
I’ll often come out here and see Dad in his suit, newly arrived home from work.
He’ll take a few moments, inspecting his plants.
Watering or weeding. Sometimes, he’ll have a tumbler of vodka.
If he takes a phone call while he’s out here, it’s never work.
He’ll be talking in Russian to Lev about the Yankees, the pair of them swapping stories about us kids.
If I’m being honest, Dad’s punishment didn’t turn out all that bad. I’ve come to enjoy the peace and quiet out here too. I’ll miss getting up and helping out.
I’ve talked about NYU so much, I can’t admit that I’m sad to leave home. Especially since I complained the loudest when we first moved here. I thought I’d die if I left the city. It’s in my blood. Now there’s a hint of nerves deep in my belly.
Butterflies are natural, I tell myself. They say change is uncomfortable. I can be both excited to move out while dreading it slightly.
“Darling.” Dad leans out of the doorway. “There’s one last cup of coffee. Your mom wants to know if you want it.”
“Nah, Lennie can have it.” I turn off the hose. My older sister arrived home after graduating from Sarah Lawrence, meaning my parents aren’t quite empty nesters yet.
Lennie is the cautious one, so I’m not surprised she hasn’t decided if she wants to move into her own place yet or not. Our other sister is in Brooklyn, since Natalie swore when she was eighteen she’d never move back home again.
I’m lucky to have two sisters. We might annoy one another, but I’ve never wished things were different. And today Natalie is going to meet up with us so she can check out my new dorm and get dinner with us.
I don’t know why the fact that both sisters are helping out today makes my chin wobble.
“Oh, shit,” I realize out loud. I’m going to have to hide my leather jacket in case Nat sees it. I swore up and down to her that I definitely wasn’t the one who stole it from her closet.
“What’s that?” Dad asks.
“Nothing!” I follow him inside. “Morning!”
Lennie’s shoulders jerk up when I surprise her with a kiss on the cheek. Her dark brown curls cover her left cheek. I was barely four when the accident happened and Elijah Zimin took a chunk out of my sister’s skin.
She wrinkles her nose, making a face at my affection. She’s the shy one, but she’s been even quieter lately. I know starting her first job after college has her anxiety on high alert.
“We have to go.” Mom appears, checking her watch. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
I know Mom means it with love. She can’t help but pick at our appearance all the time. It’s the Italian mafia princess in her.
I’ve kept it casual for move in day. Lululemon leggings and a T-shirt. My dad, on the other hand. . .
“You can’t wear that!” I tell him as he sips his coffee.
“What?” He defends the purple crewneck he’s got on. NYU is stitched in big letters.
“Dad.” I groan. “It’s so cheesy.”
“I like it,” Lennie whispers, smiling. She would, of course, the sentimental creature.
Even Mom laughs, amused at her husband, before saying something quietly to him in Italian. It’s hard to keep up with them sometimes, their words always in three different languages and normally all little asides to one another.
I’m aware my parents love one another, and it’s another way I count myself lucky. Those families that appear on the TV in every Christmas movie. . . They’ve got nothing on the Akatov clan.
“All right.” Mom hustles everyone to the door.
“Thank you, Henric,” I say as I climb into a black SUV. To my surprise, the chauffeur doesn’t get in. “Dad!”
“What?” He glances back as he adjusts his seatbelt. “I can’t drive my youngest off to college, either?”
“You hate driving.” His time is better spent negotiating on the phone while being driven around. “And when’s the last time you tried to drive around New York City?”
“Well, one thing’s for sure.” Lennie’s seatbelt clicks as she settles in. “You’re definitely not driving.”
My mouth hangs open, impressed and annoyed at my sister’s sarcasm.
Mom sighs, leaning her head back as we pull out of the driveway. She’s looking out the window but offers her hand out to Dad, who grabs it, driving with one hand on the wheel.
Sickening, I tell you. But sweet.
“So is Adam Sandler here, or?” Lennie asks before grimacing. My sister has lived most of her life in New York City, yet has never quite come to terms with the crush of people.
And since it’s move in day for many, it’s a mad house.
“I’m sure Brittany Hall has never heard that joke before,” I say, huffing and puffing as I drag in another box.
My sister hits the elevator button. I’m on the tenth floor. Not exactly the penthouse I’m used to, but this dorm room has some of the best views.
“This is nice,” my mother says, taken in by the triple dorm.
“What are you going to do about your clothes?” Lennie mutters, eyeing up the closet space.
I can do a little less with her sarcasm right now.
“It’s fine.” I smile brightly. Everyone knows dorm living comes with some serious downsides, i.e., closet space. It’s why I spent all summer curating my capsule wardrobe. “Dad!”
My father freezes, the fairy lights twinkling in his hands.
“That side is crooked.” I correct him, explaining exactly how they need to be hung up.
Lennie touches me slightly, but I shake her off. Until the tap becomes more insistent and I realize what she’s trying to tell me.
“Oh, hi.” There’s a girl in the doorway, headphones around her neck and only one suitcase. “I’m Adeline.”
“Trish,” she replies, adding nothing more.
My mother swoops in, taking in this goth girl with her heavily kohl lined eyes and jet black hair. She nods as my mom does the whole ‘Hi, how are you? I can’t believe the views of this place. Are you excited to be starting NYU?’ Never in my life have I seen someone look so bored.
Trish will never know it, but my mom is known for being able to charm Italian dons. Yet, somehow she fails to make a dent in Trish.
My new roommate picks out a bed and climbs onto it without placing any bedding on it or opening her suitcase. Her headphones are pulled over her ears. She sits there, cross legged.
Lennie’s eyes widen slightly, the only facial expression she makes, since our mother trained us to never be rude.
Which is funny, considering she’s also making a slightly bewildered facial expression.
“This place is lovely,” Lennie murmurs. Seriously, she decides right now that she’s going to open herself up to the Akatov gift of sarcasm?
“Do you know when your other roommate might be in?” Mom asks. I can read the hope on her face. I mean, no way can my other roommate be as weird as Trish. Right?
I shake my long dark hair off my shoulders.
Of course the people I meet here will be different.
That’s the whole point of going off to college.
I’ve done my time around snooty, private school kids thanks to my years at one of Manhattan’s most elite prep schools.
Plus, I’ll admit my family is a lot when you first meet them.
“It’s nice that it’s got a fridge and microwave,” Lennie says. “We can run by Trader Joe’s after dinner. Get you some snacks.”
Something warm squirms in my chest. It takes me by surprise so hard that I’m not sure if I’m imagining the pricks near the corner of my eyes. Lennie is the sweetest person in the world. She always is, so I’m not sure why I’m being so sentimental about it now.