Chapter 35
NINA
Mr. Jones, the doorman, greets me with surprise, his eyebrows practically up in his hairline.
“Nina? You’re back? But why?”
I give him my best fake smile, hoisting Ava onto my hip.
Everything is perfectly normal, I tell myself. This is another day where I show up to visit my neighbor at my old apartment building.
Because everything is perfect in my life.
“Just visiting Ms. Orlov. She’s still our favorite babysitter, right Ava?”
“We haven’t seen her in aaaages,” Ava says.
Mr. Jones calls the lift for us and sends us on our way, looking a little shocked. His expression makes me wonder if I look as panicked and anxious as I feel.
Ms. Orlov’s reaction makes me feel the same way. She opens the door and claps a hand across her mouth.
“Nina? You look lovely all done up, that color is just delightful on you…” Something in my face makes her trail off into a frown. “But why are you here all dressed up like that?”
“Please, Ms. Orlov, I didn’t know where else to go.”
She peers out of the door and looks down the hallway as though expecting to see someone else with me. “Of course, come in.”
Inside, she makes us both a cup of tea and lets me put Ava to bed in her spare room, then makes a phone call.
“Are you alright, dear?” she asks when she returns, setting the tea down carefully in front of me.
I cup the mug with both hands and absorb the warmth, taking a deep breath of the chamomile tea.
Ms. Orlov’s winged glasses fog up each time she takes a sip. I look around this cosy, crowded kitchen where I’ve spent so many early mornings and late nights dropping off Ava and picking her up. My second home.
“I have to tell you something.”
I explain everything to Ms. Orlov. Art’s family, the crazy situation, the weddings, all of it.
Except Denis’s death — as much as I might feel betrayed, I don’t want Art to end up in jail.
I shiver when I think about the way Polina has been looking at us since Art killed Denis.
Like we’re a part of a scheme that she’s still developing.
Ms. Orlov nods her head, her eyes reassuring. She doesn’t seem shocked by any of it, which makes me wonder if she’s dealt with similar situations before.
“I can’t handle it anymore. I don’t think it’s safe for Ava. And I have a plan.”
I sip my tea as I explain that situation to Ms. Orlov.
I’m glad that I have a plan — it might be a temporary one, but it’s enough for the next month. Enough to get Ava away from the madness that is happening in Art’s family right now.
I’ve made the call to confirm everything. Lisette Du Pont, the patient I treated for hypothermia in the Bratva’s private hospital, wants me to come on her honeymoon for peace of mind.
Art doesn’t need to know that. Doesn’t deserve to know that, actually.
She said she wouldn’t tell Art if I went with them. She’s so worried about her pregnancy that she said she’d be relieved to have someone with medical expertise with them — even when I gave her my usual disclaimer about not being fully qualified.
I knew she would understand my situation, better than anyone.
We leave for Italy tomorrow.
My hand trembles as I raise the cup of tea to my lips.
“So if I can just stay here for the night, Ms. Orlov. That would be the greatest help.”
She reaches over the table, her papery-soft hand warm and gentle on mine.
“Whatever you need, Nina. You just stay here as long as you need to.”
Then she brings out a platter of home-baking and tells me that I look like I need to eat more.
I don’t think that’s true, but boy do I need a sweet treat right now. I gladly take one of her cookies from the platter and she catches me up on the gossip with our neighbors in the apartment — who’s finally got a job, who’s had a baby, and who’s been having too many late-night visitors.
A wave of exhaustion hits me and I excuse myself to go to bed.
Tomorrow, we’ll be in Italy. Far from this drama.
Safe. That’s exactly what I need.
I’m pulling on a floral nightdress that Ms. Orlov has lent me when I hear it. A deep rumbling voice, talking to Ms. Orlov in the kitchen.
There’s no way.
We slipped out of the wedding reception without anyone noticing. Art can’t have tracked me down in just a few hours.
I wrench the door open and there he is. Wearing his black suit, bow tie still on, not a strand of hair out of place. He looks utterly out of place in the tiny, retro kitchen, like some god who’s come to earth to interact with us mere mortals.
Ms. Orlov is smiling up at him, Mr. Jones talking away. As though they’ve known him for years.
“Art?” My voice comes out as a whisper. Ms. Orlov and Mr. Jones both shoot me apologetic glances.
Art’s head whips around to me in an instant. His eyes are utterly unreadable, darkest moss and a reflective lake.