19. Katya
Katya
Dmitri drives us through winding country roads with the windows down and music playing, acting like this is the most normal thing in the world instead of the first time I’ve been outside Moscow since I woke up in that hospital bed.
“Where are we going?” I ask for the third time in an hour.
“My family’s estate. About twenty minutes from here.” He glances at me sideways with one hand on the steering wheel, and the way his eyes linger on my legs before returning to the road makes heat curl in my stomach. “I thought we could use some time away from the city. Just us.”
The idea should make me nervous. After all, I’ve never really spent time with Dmitri without security guards and staff around us.
Part of me knows I should be more cautious about isolating myself with a man I still don’t fully understand.
But the larger part of me craves this chance to be alone with him, consequences be damned.
So instead, warmth spreads through my chest, and it has nothing to do with the afternoon sun streaming through the car windows. “‘Just us’ sounds dangerous.”
“Good dangerous, or bad dangerous?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Dmitri laughs, and the sound makes me glance over at him.
When he’s relaxed like this, driving through the countryside with no business associates or security concerns demanding his attention, he looks younger.
Less like a crime boss and more like someone I might have met under normal circumstances.
Whatever “normal circumstances” would look like for someone like me.
The estate appears around a bend in the road, and I find myself staring at something that belongs in a fairy tale rather than real life. Cobblestone buildings with red-tile roofs covered in vines, surrounded by gardens that look like they’ve been tended by professional landscapers for decades.
“This is yours?”
“My family’s. Has been for three generations.” He pulls through ornate iron gates and up a circular drive. “My great-grandfather built it as a wedding gift for his wife. Now, it’s somewhere we can be alone. And alone is easier to secure. One road in. One road out.”
The main house is smaller than his Moscow penthouse but infinitely more welcoming. Dark wood floors, comfortable furniture that shows signs of use, and bookshelves filled with volumes that look like they’ve been read rather than just displayed.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him as we enter the main room.
“It’s home. Or was, before I moved to the city full-time.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I miss having somewhere to go that isn’t connected to business.” He sets our bags down near the staircase. “Somewhere that feels separate from everything else.”
I wander through the room, noting family photographs on side tables and artwork that seems chosen for personal meaning rather than monetary value. Dmitri follows closely enough that I can feel his presence like a physical thing, making me hyperaware of every move I make.
“Your parents lived here?”
“My mother did. Father preferred the city, but she loved this place.” Dmitri picks up one of the photographs and smiles at it. “She said it was the only place she could remember who she was before she married into the family business.”
“Before she married into crime, you mean.”
“Before she married my father, yes.”
The honesty catches me off-guard. Most of our conversations involve carefully constructed half-truths and deflections, but here, surrounded by family history, he seems more willing to share real information. More willing to let me see the man beneath the dangerous exterior.
“What was she like?”
He sets the photograph back on the table and clears his throat. “Strong. Stubborn. She knew what my father was when she married him, but she thought she could change him. She couldn’t, but she never stopped trying.”
“Did she succeed at all?”
“She kept him human. That was probably enough.”
I run my index finger over my tattoo while considering this insight into Dmitri’s family dynamics. “And she raised you and Alexei here?”
“Summers and weekends when we were young. Full-time after she decided city life wasn’t safe for children.”
“Was she right?”
“Probably. Alexei and I got into enough trouble out here. In the city, that trouble would have been deadlier.”
He shows me through the rest of the house, pointing out rooms and memories.
The kitchen where his mother taught him to cook traditional Russian dishes.
The library where he spent rainy afternoons reading adventure novels.
The study where his father conducted the business meetings that couldn’t happen in Moscow offices.
“Even here, work followed him,” I observe.
“Work follows all of us. The trick is learning to set boundaries.”
“And have you? Learned to set boundaries?”
“I’m learning.”
By evening, we’ve settled into a routine that feels surprisingly natural. Dmitri cooks dinner while I explore the wine cellar, both of us moving through the night like people who’ve done this many times.
I watch his hands work. I remember them all over me and look away. Even cooking feels like foreplay. Out here is the closest we’ve come to normal.
“You’re good at this,” I tell him as he plates the pasta.
“Cooking?”
“Being normal. Acting like we’re just a regular couple at their country house.”
Though the way he's been watching me all evening—like he's planning how he wants to take me apart later—is anything but normal.
“Maybe that’s what we are.”
“Are we?”
He sets the plates on the dining room table and pulls out my chair. “Tonight, we are.”
Dinner conversation ranges from books to travel to childhood memories, topics that have nothing to do with criminal organizations or memory loss or the complicated circumstances that have plagued us.
Dmitri tells me about learning to ride horses on the estate grounds and summer afternoons spent fishing in the nearby lake.
“You were happy here,” I note.
“I was young. Sometimes, that’s the same thing. Now, I’m trying to figure out if happiness is something you achieve or something you choose.”
The philosophical observation makes me raise my eyebrows. “Which do you think it is?”
“Both, maybe. You have to choose to pursue it, but you also have to create circumstances where it’s possible.”
“And these circumstances?” I gesture around the dining room with its warm wood paneling and family portraits.
“These feel like a good start.”
After dinner, we walk through the gardens while the sun sets behind the mountains in the distance.
The grounds are extensive, with formal flower beds giving way to wilder sections that blend into the forest. Dmitri's hand finds mine as we walk, and as his thumb traces circles on my palm, sparks of want ignite and zip through my veins.
The simple touch shouldn’t affect me this much. I shouldn’t feel such a desperate need to be closer to him, to let him claim me so completely. But every rational thought melts away when he looks at me like I’m something precious.
“How much land?”
“Two hundred acres. Most of it is undeveloped forest, but there are walking trails and a lake about a mile through the woods.”
“Perfect for someone who wants privacy.”
“Perfect for making my wife scream my name without worrying about neighbors.”
"Is that what you're planning?" The question comes out breathier than I intended.
"Among other things." We follow one of the trails he mentioned, and I find myself checking for escape routes despite the tranquil setting. The behavior is so ingrained that I barely notice it anymore.
Sometimes, I think my body knows things my mind doesn’t remember. Like how to move quietly through terrain like this. Which trees would provide the best cover. How long it would take to reach the main road from different points on the property.
We continue walking in comfortable silence, and I realize that, despite still being on alert, this is the most relaxed I’ve felt since I woke up in the hospital.
No guards watching from discrete distances.
No business associates interrupting with urgent matters.
No doctors probing for memories I might or might not possess.
Just two people walking through beautiful countryside, enjoying each other’s company.
“Dmitri?”
“Mmm?”
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“You always have choices. They might not be easy choices, but they exist.”
The comment makes me think about the decisions that led us to this moment. His decision to keep me close after the accident. My decision to trust him despite the gaps in my memory. The choice we’re both making to treat this as something real.
Back at the house, we settle in the main room with books and wine to enjoy the kind of quiet evening that married couples probably take for granted.
Dmitri reads a business report, except the way he keeps glancing at me over it, and the way his gaze lingers on my mouth as I sip wine makes it clear his mind is on anything but business.
“This is nice,” I tell him. “The house, the setting, and the fact that we can just exist together without constantly dealing with one crisis after another.”
“Not tonight,” he agrees. “No crises allowed.”
I set aside the photography book and move to sit beside him on the couch, resting my head on his shoulder. This feels too right, too perfect. Like I finally belong here, even though logic says that’s impossible.
I don’t even know who I am. How can I know where I belong?
“Read to me,” I prompt anyway.
“It’s a financial report.”
“I don’t care what it is.”
Dmitri closes the folder and pulls me against his side instead. “Better idea. Let me tell you about this place.”
“What about it?”
“Stories my mother used to tell. Family history.”
So, he does, sharing tales of great-aunts who scandalized society and grandfathers who built business empires. Stories about family gatherings, holiday traditions, summer parties, and winter celebrations.
But I can barely focus on the words as he touches me, when his voice gets rougher every time I adjust myself to get closer to him.
“It sounds wonderful.”
“It was, mostly. Complicated, but wonderful.”
“Complicated how?”
“Hard to separate family love from family loyalty when the family business involves activities that most people consider criminal.”
I curl closer against his side, enjoying the warmth of his body and the rumble of his voice as he continues sharing memories. “Did you ever want to do something else?”
“When I was young, sure. I wanted to be an architect, believe it or not.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because family expectations don’t leave much room for alternative career paths.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I regret some things. But not ending up here with you.”
The honesty in his voice makes me look up at him. “Why?”
“Because if you’d met me under normal circumstances, you probably would have run in the opposite direction.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I would have been intrigued by the danger.”
“Is that what you’re feeling now? Intrigued by the danger?”
“I’m intrigued by you. The danger is just context.”
“Context that could get you killed.”
“That’s what makes every moment feel more important.”
Dmitri runs his hands up and down my arm as he asks, “Katya, what do you want from this? From us?”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Tomorrow. Next week.”
“Right now, I want to stay where we are. Tomorrow, I want to wake up next to you and make coffee together and maybe explore more of the estate grounds. Next week...” I shrug. “Next week seems too far away to plan for.”
“Good answer.”
We sit in a comfortable silence while the evening settles around us. Outside, I hear owls calling from the forest and the distant sound of water moving over rocks. Inside, the house creaks with the settling sounds of old wood and lived-in spaces.
“This is the first time I’ve felt completely safe since the accident,” I realize aloud.
“Safe from what?”
“From questions I can’t answer. From expectations I might not be able to meet. From the feeling that everyone knows more about who I am than I do. Right now, it doesn’t matter who I was before. All that matters is who I am right now, in this moment, with you.”
What I’m saying is true, but it scares the shit out of me. I’m losing myself in him more each day, and I don’t know if that's healing or just another form of forgetting.
Dmitri tilts my chin up so I’m looking directly at him. “And who are you right now?”
“Someone who’s falling for her husband.”
Even as I say it, I wonder if I’m making a terrible mistake. Some mistakes are worth making. Whatever brought us here, what exists between us now feels real.
Even if everything else in my life is a lie, this moment is mine.