Chapter 44 Stan
FORTY-FOUR
STAN
Taube had to be the most exasperating woman on God’s green earth—and Rory was my sister, Star my friend, and Kitty my soul mate. She and she alone was the reason I’d probably have to start taking Vangelin—especially if she continued to sit there, stirring her coffee over and over.
Every time, she caught the porcelain with the spoon so it ‘sang.’
Every. Fucking. Time.
And her smile?
God help me.
“You started haunting people as a side gig?” I sneered.
Sofia, a surprisingly touchy-feely little thing for a Russian heiress, tugged on my arm. “She’s my friend. We grew close after… everything.”
I gaped at that. “Excuse me?”
“What can I say? People love me,” Taube boasted.
My nostrils flared. “You’re lucky you still have your hands after that stunt you pulled with Kitty.”
“Stan?” Kitty asked warily.
I clenched my jaw when I took note of her pallor.
Glowering at Dmitri, whose expression was blanker than a recently cleaned whiteboard, I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Yes, duci.”
“Taube was the reason I heard… you know?”
“Yes.” I shot her a soft smile. “I won’t kill her. You don’t have to worry.”
“No, you won’t, seeing as she’s a guest in my house,” Dmitri intoned, walking across the room to stand by Sofia’s side.
“And family,” Sofia further corrected.
When it registered that he didn’t tuck her into his arms or hug her, I asked myself if they were a couple. I genuinely couldn’t discern from their body language. And what the fuck was their reason for being in Poughkeepsie of all places anyway?
Her declaration caught up with me. “Family?”
“Well, not really. But sort of.” Sofia tutted. “What did you do, Cin?”
“Barely anything! You know me. I keep my nose out of things.”
“Uh-huh.” Sofia proved she wasn’t a fool by appearing less than convinced.
“She let me listen in to someone being hurt,” Kitty answered, her bottom lip sucked between her teeth.
“A woman should know what she’s getting into,” Taube grumbled, and for the first time, I heard something else beneath those words.
Something… sad?
God save me from being a dumbass, but I offered, “I assume your presence here is the reason Chad is moping?” Her only answer was to hum so I grouched, “What’s this about?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted a break from NYC.”
“You live there,” I pointed out, then I hesitated. “At least, I think you do.”
“I’m a woman of the world.” She pointed the delicate silver spoon at me. “If I want to move upstate, I will—”
“Oh, will you?” Sofia exclaimed. “I’d love to see more of you!”
“See?” Taube smirked. “Not everyone hates me.”
“You irritate the ever-living fuck out of me, but I don’t hate you.”
“Then I’m doing something right.”
Kitty approached the table then jumped at the clearing of a throat. My head whipped to the side to locate the sound before I grabbed her and hauled her behind my back.
“Who the hell are you?”
“He’s my cousin, Stan,” Sofia chimed in.
She was surprisingly chipper. I was used to the more studious side of her nature, so this version came as a complete culture shock.
Her entire demeanor shifted.
I could only assume that Dmitri Turgenev was the reason for that—whether they were an item or not.
“Your cousin?” I stiffened. “Who’s the connection?”
She grimaced. “Father, but he’s a good man.”
“Hardly,” the stranger disagreed, a moue of distaste flashing across his face.
Taube snorted. “Don’t offend Ilya, Sony. There’s a good girl.”
“Sony?” Kitty asked.
“It’s a diminutive,” Sofia, Sony, explained.
This Ilya drummed his fingers against the table. “Are we eating at some point this year or what?”
It took me a moment to realize that he’d purposely tucked himself amid the shadows, his back to the wall, his position easily allowing him to scan the expansive dining room.
“Two minutes, Ilya.” To me, Sofia formally introduced, “Ilya Levin, meet Custanzu Valentini.”
We both dipped our chins at one another—that was the sum total of our greeting.
But as much as I had a name, I didn’t know who this Ilya Levin was.
Warily, I pressed a hand to Kitty’s hip then encouraged her to slip into a seat while I sank into the one next to her.
While servers popped the seal on a fresh bottle of soda water and topped off two glasses loaded with ice in front of us, my gaze remained locked on the intruder’s. “Why are you here?”
“For a discussion.”
“About?”
“We should talk over our meal,” Dmitri inserted calmly.
“With Taube here?”
The woman in question hooted. “Know more than you do, boy.”
That shattered my focus on Levin. “The fuck did you call me?”
She stuck out her chin. “I’m older than you.”
“By how many years?”
“One.”
“Oh, wow, should I bow down in respect of my elders?”
“That’s more like it.”
“Lucinda,” Sofia chided. “Don’t spoil it for me, please. I’ve been dying to meet him for so long—”
“You haven’t been dying to meet anyone,” Dmitri broke in as he gently nudged her with his elbow. “We talked about this.”
“It’s a figure of speech, Dmitri.” Taube tossed an ice cube at him. “Let her have this one. It’s the first I got her to remember.”
Kitty’s eyes were wide with surprise. “You’re new to speaking English?”
“I’ve been speaking English for years,” Sofia confided. “But not the English you use.”
“Hence the curse words being all over the place.” Dmitri proceeded to clap his hands and more staff appeared and set out with, thankfully, palatable meals.
I’d had borscht a few times in my life and they were a few times too many.
This appetizer, however, consisted of a delicious smoked salmon terrine.
Sofia drew Kitty into a conversation about her shoes, and seeing as she’d relaxed, I nodded when a server came around for seconds.
With my hanger quenched and neither man coming out with their intentions, I became aware that Sofia, Taube, and Kitty had drifted onto newer topics and were busy laughing about some mishap of hers in a recent lecture—which had her move to Poughkeepsie making sense.
The biochemistry program at Oakwood, the closest Ivy League school, was superlative.
Satisfied their focus remained elsewhere, I texted Rory under the table:
Me: Ilya Levin. Dmitri Turgenev. Any insights?
Studying the men, I noticed that Dmitri appeared at ease at one end of the table, his lips twitching as Sofia disparaged a professor in one of her classes for being a moron. Ilya, on the other hand, watched me.
I could feel his attention like fire ants crawling over my skin.
Could sense that he wanted something from me.
Cursing Rory for not getting back to me with any intel on the guy, I waited until the sorbet course to state, “I’m disappointed, Sofia.”
Head whipping to the side, she widened her eyes once she found me. “Why?!”
“Because I thought you invited me so we could meet in person. Instead, it seems as if I’m here on business.”
“It does seem like that, doesn’t it?” She pulled a face. “But—”
“The timing is off,” Dmitri inserted on her behalf.
“The moment I knew about the Summit, I pulled in a favor with Maxim. She’s wanted to make contact with you for a long time and she even requested it as a birthday gift.
As for Ilya…” He huffed. “Ever since Sofia came to live in Poughkeepsie, he often lingers like a bad smell.”
A smile danced on Ilya’s lips. “I have to make sure my favorite person is well looked after.”
“Don’t tell Yseult I’m your favorite,” Sofia teased. “Or Graham. He’d cry like the snot he is.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened at the first name.
Yseult? Graham?
“Graham’s the biggest brat of them all.” Dmitri tsked, shooting me a pointed look.
Why did I feel like a coded message lay tucked within that statement?
“Gets it from his father,” Ilya agreed. “The Bracktons think they own the world, not just the US. Graham Jr. is the most annoying man in the West and that’s saying something, considering you have plenty of suitable candidates.”
“How do you know the Bracktons?” Kitty inquired, her voice hesitant—sensible considering our earlier conversation.
“Graham Sr. was my stepfather.”
Taube lifted her wineglass to him. “You’re welcome.”
His lips twitched. “My endless thanks for erasing him, Cin.”
“That’s why you’re in the States?” I pressed. “His funeral?”
“God, no. That was weeks ago. I’m here on other matters.”
“Matters that concern me?”
Grateful when a server placed a massive steak in front of me—practically blue too—I decided listening to the conversation was worth it for the food alone.
As I dug into my meal and the staff disappeared, Ilya continued, “Firstly, I think it’s important for you to know that I am no fan of the Krestniy Otets—my uncle.”
“And we have to take your word on that?” I derided with a pointed look at his knuckles, which declared him Bratva.
As he cracked them, he released a dark chuckle. “You don’t have to. But, no matter what you believe, I am here to help.”
“And how could you do that?”
Ilya, who hadn’t eaten that much of his meal, carefully placed his knife and fork on the plate in front of him. He did so with the precision of a man who had not been dragged up on the streets, but as someone taught to play the game by masters of it.
“I may be his heir, but there’s no love between us. What do you know of Yseult Brackton?”
“Nothing. Aside from the obvious ties to the last name.”
“Despite being the opposite of crazy, she’s in a mental health institution.” Sofia fumed, “She happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
I frowned. “Explain?”
“Yseult is nosy.” Ilya laughed, but the glitter in his eyes belied his amusement. “She can’t help herself. She heard something she shouldn’t have and was sent off to Shady Pines.”
“Sounds like somewhere you go to die.”
“It pretty much is. She has more of an armed guard than the president himself. The only freedoms she possesses are because of me.”
“You care a lot about your sister?”
“Stepsister,” Ilya corrected on a growl that was as much of a claim as him biting her in front of a packed stadium.
Sofia chided, “Ilya.”