Chapter 18 Andrej
ANDREJ
I feel like a kid again.
Or rather I feel like a kid. Period.
A kid with a normal childhood getting to do all the fun stuff that regular kids do in the winter.
The house is covered with twinkling fairy lights—Cartier asked Ivana to go out and buy more once she’d finished decorating the den. And Ivana didn’t question it. It’s like stepping inside a grotto; the only thing missing is the Santa lookalike and his elves in bobble hats and curly-toed shoes.
I should want to get back to Chicago. I should feel guilty about leaving Leonid to cover my side of our business affairs when his babies are so young, especially while Yuri Asimov and his bunch of goons are lying low.
But I don’t.
I’m exactly where I should be: keeping Cartier safe.
“We need a carrot for the nose.”
Cartier is standing back and studying the life-sized snowman that we’ve spent the last couple hours building, clapping her gloved hands together to free the snow that’s clinging to the padded, fur-lined fingers in stubborn clumps.
“I can fetch one from the pantry.”
The snowman is missing a lot more than a nose, but I don’t have the heart to spoil Cartier’s fun. When she woke up this morning and saw the clear blue sky, she leaped out of bed and declared that it was the perfect day to build a snowman.
Who am I to argue with the woman of my dreams?
She studies the rear facade of the house, eyes flickering from window to window until she finds what she’s looking for.
Ivana. Watching us from a distance as always.
“Why don’t you text Ivana and ask her to bring one out?”
Cartier’s nose is pink from the cold, but her cheeks are rosy, and I imagine myself unbuttoning our coats, our bodies coming together inside a furry cocoon. My dick responds appropriately inside my pants.
She and Ivana seemed to turn a corner on the day the Christmas tree arrived in the den.
Not friends exactly, but tolerant of one another.
Which is testament to Cartier’s patience and understanding.
Ivana has the warmth of an icicle; the only person I’ve ever seen her become animated around is her sister, Tamara.
I remove my gloves and slide my phone from my pocket.
“We need something small and black to make buttons too,” Cartier adds. “And eyes. And a mouth.”
I grin at her. “Would you like a magic wand to make it come alive too?”
I’ve barely hit send on the message to Ivana when a snowball connects with the side of my face. Cartier squeals with laughter. She’s already crouching low, gathering more snow between her gloved hands to launch the next missile.
My cheek stings from the cold, but I barely register it.
This is war.
And Cartier Black is about to learn that I will never lose.
She tosses another snowball at me, and I dodge it easily. She’s too predictable. Has too many tells. And stares at her target before she throws.
I gather the snow loosely—a compact snowball will hurt, and the last thing I want to do is hurt her—and launch it at her shoulder. It’s a direct hit.
Then she catches me by surprise with a snowy missile that knocks my hat from my head. Her giggles follow every launch, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. I could spend the rest of my life listening to Cartier’s laughter.
When Ivana eventually joins us, I’m lying on top of Cartier, trying to stuff snow inside the neckline of her coat while her feeble attempts to push me off her are thwarted by her uncontrollable giggles.
“Stop!” She says it like she means it even though her wide smile says otherwise. “I can’t breathe.”
“Do you surrender?” Cartier is beneath me, the snow so deep that she would be invisible to anyone approaching us.
“Yes.” She sucks her bottom lip in to hide her smile.
Before I can stand up and offer her my hand, she splats my face with a handful of snow.
“You little minx.”
I cover her face with snow and kiss her through it, our cold lips and warm tongues coming together.
The sensation is so unlike anything else I’ve ever felt that I wish we could stay trapped in this moment forever.
If my brother called right now to suggest that we stay in Russia permanently, I’d grab the chance with both hands and never look back.
I don’t know what makes me pull away from Cartier and look around.
But finding Ivana standing there in a full-length black fur coat with a carrot in one hand, and a small bag of buttons in the other, makes me feel uneasy. I dropped my guard, and I can’t afford for that to happen. Not even for a moment.
I stand up and help Cartier back onto her feet.
Her smile grows even wider when she spots the carrot, and she busies herself completing the snowman, muttering to herself about twig arms and a bowler hat.
“Scarf!” She seems to take herself by surprise. “He needs a scarf.”
But I’m not paying attention. I’m scanning the snowy landscape for a glimpse of movement. Anything. A twitching branch. A shift in the deep snow. I allowed myself to be distracted, and distractions cost lives.
Just like Ivana said. I need to be fully focused.
While we were frolicking in the snow, my enemies could’ve breached security and infiltrated the house, and that scares the shit out of me.
Not for me. But because I promised to keep Cartier safe, and the thought of someone getting close enough to harm her…
“We should get back inside.”
I watch her smile fade, and I hate that I’m the cause, but until Yuri Asimov is dealt with, fun-time must be more controlled.
“Andrej?” The color drains from her face, eyes darting back and forth between me and the house. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Nothing.” This time.
But it could’ve happened, and I would never forgive myself.
My eyes meet Ivana’s. She understands. She knows this world that we live in, the world that Cartier is oblivious to.
If there were no threat to Cartier’s life, she wouldn’t be here.
None of us would. We’d all be in Chicago, going about our usual routine, Christmas tunes blasting from every store and radio station till they’re fixed inside our heads and playing on repeat in our dreams.
“There’s something I want to show you.” Ivana addresses Cartier, her voice devoid of emotion.
“What is it?”
Unlike the twin dressed all in black, Cartier’s emotions dance across her features like a silent movie. Surprise. Joy. Anticipation. Suspicion. She’s still figuring out the dynamics of their relationship, which isn’t easy when it’s all one-sided.
“I’ll show you inside.” Ivana turns around and heads back to the house without waiting or expecting a response.
I offer Cartier my hand, and she accepts it. Walking back, she throws backward glances at the snowman as if committing it to memory to hold onto when the snow melts.
“It will be there for a while.”
She peers up at me. The sparkle in her eyes has dimmed a little, her excitement subdued, and I’m reminded with a sharp stab through the heart that she’s only here because of me.
“Do you think the snow will last through the holidays?”
She doesn’t ask when we’ll go back to Chicago. Never asks that question. But it lingers between us like a toxic bubble waiting to be popped.
“Yes. There’s plenty more to come.” I feel like I’m offering her a consolation prize: avoid the million-dollar question and I’ll reward you with more snow.
I’m an asshole. But I’m an asshole who will do anything to keep her safe.
Inside the house, we ditch the coats and boots, our hands and faces stinging with the sudden injection of warmth.
Ivana waits silently in the hallway.
“Where are we going?” Cartier asks.
It’s one of the many things that I love about her, this ability to bounce back from disappointment on the flip of a coin.
“You’ll see.” Ivana doesn’t look at me before walking off, and I wonder how she’s going to wing the ‘surprise’ when Cartier realizes that it was a ploy to get her back inside the house.
Fairy lights twinkle along the hallway ceiling, and it’s like watching them walk through a tunnel to a magical kingdom.
“I’ll make hot chocolate,” I call after them, and Cartier smiles at me over her shoulder.
I head to the kitchen. I can attend to business just as easily from here while the milk warms as I can anywhere else.
If anyone had warned me a year ago that I’d be fixing hot chocolate with marshmallows and sprinkles in my family’s ancestral home, I’d have believed that they’d lost their mind.
But now… I make the drink to Cartier’s specification because the image of her moving around the kitchen, her arm brushing mine, the coconut smell of her shampoo filling my senses is indelibly printed in my psyche.
While the milk heats up in the pan, I set the wheels in motion to tighten security around the house. More bodyguards. More weapons. I want the codes changed on the alarm systems. I’ll turn it into a fucking fortress if that’s what it will take to keep her safe.
An email pops up on my cell phone. It’s from Victoria. She has information on the murder of Cartier’s biological parents.
If it’s true (Victoria needs more time to collate the evidence), this changes everything.
Now, I just need to figure out how to play it with Cartier.
As far as she’s aware, Yuri Asimov is her uncle, and my family was responsible for her being orphaned when she was a baby.
Without all the facts, anything I say will feel like I’m trying too hard to keep her on my side, as though I brought her here hoping that she’d overlook the whole family feud thing and move on without a backward glance.
It's a delicate line, and I feel like I’m crossing it a couple hundred feet above the ground without a harness.
I’m in too deep. I won’t lose her now, not for anything, or anyone.
Not even for my family.
I find Cartier in the library. She’s on the sofa, feet up with a cozy blanket tucked around her, and Doctor Zhivago open on her lap.
She saves her place with a bookmark and closes the book, her smile lighting up her face. Ivana isn’t here.
“She didn’t hang around,” Cartier says as if reading my mind.
I don’t tell her that Ivana will be busy overseeing the new, tighter security arrangements. Instead, I set the tray down on the desk, hand Cartier a drink, and join her on the other end of the sofa.
“What did she want to show you?”
Cartier slants her eyes and suppresses a wide grin. “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”
Whatever Ivana did, it worked. Cartier raises the cup to her lips, takes a tentative sip, licks the cream from her top lip, and then gags.
“Oh…” She’s already kicking off the blanket and standing up, one hand covering her mouth.
I take the mug from her hands before she spills it. “What’s wrong? I made it the way you showed me.”
“It isn’t…” She swallows hard, her hand still over her mouth. “I don’t…”
I follow her to the bathroom, where she kneels by the toilet and retches into the bowl while I hold her hair away from her face. When she’s done, she sits back against the wall, her face pale and clammy.
I soak a face towel in cold water and place it on her forehead, sitting beside her and holding her hand. “Do you want me to call a doctor?”
“No.” A stray tear trickles from the corner of her eye, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand. “I’m fine now. I think it was just the milk.”
“I should’ve checked it before I warmed it up. I’m sorry. What can I get you?”
She rolls the back of her head across the wall and gives me a small smile. “Grilled cheese.”
“Grilled cheese?”
“With sweet chili sauce.”
I smile. “That’s quite specific.”
“What can I say?” She rests her chin on my shoulder, her cheeks flushed with color again. “I’m a specific kind of gal.”
We take grilled cheese, sweet chili sauce, and a couple cans of soda into the den.
I think this is Cartier’s favorite room now that the Christmas tree is in the corner.
The fireplace has been decorated with candles, and stockings hang in a row from the mantelpiece, while more fairy lights are strung around the windows.
I’d buy every fucking strand of lights on the entire planet if it means that I get to see her face glow with joy whenever she enters the room.
Three helpings of grilled cheese later, she finally looks herself again.
“My sister emailed me earlier.” No time like the present.
It isn’t exactly how I’d planned it, but neither of us are prepared to move. A cheesy movie is playing on the TV, sound turned down low because we’re not paying attention. We don’t need to. The snowy scenes, the red and green sweaters, the twinkling lights and smiling faces are enough.
“The feud between our families goes back to my grandparents’ generation.”
It seems wrong to discuss this while we’re surrounded by comfort and heat and the magic of the holidays. But it can’t wait. Cartier doesn’t speak. Her eyes search mine as if she can preempt what I’m about to say and stop the words from being spoken out loud.
“From what my sister was able to find out from our father, he and your father wanted to end the war and form an alliance. They arranged a meeting on neutral territory. But there was an attempt on my father’s life.”
“Who was it?” she whispers.
“Victoria is still working on it, Cartier. My sister is a lawyer; she won’t act unless armed with all the information.”
“But…?”
“But… My father suspected that it was your family.”
Her eyes grow large with tears, and she turns away to stare at the TV screen. “So, he retaliated.”
I lean across the sofa and take her hand, but she snatches it away. “Cartier, we don’t know for sure what went wrong. They were trying to form an alliance.”
“But they didn’t, did they? Because my father was killed, and your father survived.”
I’ve killed people. I’ve pulled the trigger and fired a bullet that would take someone’s life, and I’ve never lost sleep over it because those people were ruthless assholes who didn’t even understand the meaning of compassion.
I didn’t fire the weapon that killed her parents, but the heavy ache in my chest is guilt. I will find out what happened and I’ll atone for the loss of her family.
If she’ll let me.
“Cartier, I’ll do whatever I can to—”
“You can’t bring them back though, Andrej.” Her voice is cold, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“No, but I can make whoever killed them pay.”
“How? By murdering them too? What if you find out that it was your father, huh? Would you kill him?”
I can’t tell her the truth until I know for sure. There’s no room for error. This is too personal … for both of us.
“That’s what I thought.” She stands up, and when she looks at me, it’s as if the fire inside her has been snuffed.
I rise too, closing the distance between us, needing to follow this through, to make sure that she believes me.
But before I can speak, she backs away. “I’m going to bed. Don’t bother following me.”