Sofia
I decide on the pasta because it's the one thing I can make that doesn't require instructions.
I'm not a cook. We’ve always had personal chefs.
But I watched a couple of cooking videos. I’m pretty sure I can figure it out.
There’s a pull I can’t explain. Nesting. I feel the need to take care of my man.
My man. My husband.
It’s all very domestic. Something I never imagined I would ever be. I’ve been spending the last ten years preparing myself to be the leader of a bratva.
And now I’m making spaghetti. From a box, but still. It’s more than I’ve ever done before.
I’ve got my favorite playlist on and a glass of wine that I pulled from his cellar. I’m not thinking about Yuri or my dad or the job that still waits for me.
I’m giving myself tonight to simply be a wife and imagine what a normal life might look like.
He'll be home by eight. He’s not expecting me to make him dinner.
This is something I want to do.
Does a cheap spaghetti dinner solve all our issues? No. Not even a little. But it’s a start.
The guards are on the standard rotation. Two on the door, one in the car out front, one in the back. The brownstone is secure. I keep telling myself that. Sergei is obsessive about security. But it does feel strange not to have a massive fence around me.
There’s a gun in the drawer to my left.
Sergei didn’t come right out and tell me where all of his stash guns are, but I’ve found a few during my snooping. I’m used to always having something on me or within reach. It’s a source of comfort knowing I can protect myself should the unthinkable happen.
I slowly stir the noodles, my mind drifting to after dinner. Dessert that has nothing to do with anything sweet. I fear he’s unleashed a beast. I can’t get enough of the man.
Suddenly, there’s a hand over my mouth and an arm around my waist.
It’s not Sergei.
I know his touch. His scent.
I react without thinking.
I kick my foot back and reach for the boiling pot of water. I try to pick it up but I’m being dragged through the kitchen.
I rely on my training and become dead weight, letting my legs go out from under me.
It shifts my attacker’s center of gravity and buys me half a second, which is enough.
I jam my elbow back as hard as I can and feel it connect against the man’s ribs.
A loud exhale pushes past my face and the hand drops from my mouth.
I scream for help, but I don’t stop fighting. I kick back again, this time my heavy boot doing some damage.
But he doesn’t release me. I'm being dragged sideways into the hallway with that same massive hand back over my mouth. He’s covering my nose. Intentional or accidental—the outcome will be the same.
You are a Baranov, I tell myself. You do not panic.
I don't panic. I plan.
One person. Male. Not talking. Professional means efficient, which means I have less time than I'd have with someone who wanted to make a point.
We're moving toward the back of the house. Away from the door. Away from the guards on the street.
The alcove is twenty feet ahead.
I claw at the hand on my face.
He slams me into the wall.
My head connects. The hallway goes white for a second and then my vision clears.
I taste blood. I’ve cut the inside of my cheek.
He spins me around and I see him for the first time: big, dark jacket, a face I don't know, eyes that are completely blank.
The blank is the worst part. The men with something in their eyes can be reasoned with. This one is past reasoning.
He hits me.
The impact stuns me for a split second before pain blooms. My head snaps to the side, and I'm against the wall again.
I force my brain to focus.
He grabs my arm and pulls me toward him.
I go limp once again.
It's the opposite of what he expects. Dead weight is harder to move than struggling weight. It’s his turn to be thrown off. In that half-second I drive the heel of my hand up into his nose.
He reels back.
I run for the alcove.
The fake plant is my goal. My hand goes into the foliage and finds the cold grip of the Glock. I have it out and turned before he's crossed half the distance.
I point it at his chest.
"Stop.”
He stops. Looks at the gun. And then me. His nose is bleeding. His eyes are filled with fury. I feel something dripping over my lip and then the coppery taste of blood.
"On the floor," I say.
He doesn't move. He's deciding whether I'll use it.
I will use it. I think to last night. Sergei warning me I would get my hands dirty. I can’t hold back.
"I won't tell you again," I say.
He makes a move. I don’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
The sound in the enclosed hallway is enormous. He goes down. I know he’s dead. My shot slammed into his chest. If he’s not dead, he will be within minutes.
The front door crashes open approximately four seconds after the shot.
Two of the guards from the door. Then a third from the back. They see me and then the man on the floor. One from the front drops to check the man.
"Call Sergei," I say with a calm I don’t know how I manage.
The man from the back door is on the phone. The other man, he’s new. I don’t recognize him.
There’s about a minute of calm before chaos ensues. Guard one comes close. “You’re bleeding.”
“I know.”
I’m a little pissed at them. I really want to know how it was possible I was attacked.
But I taste the blood and it’s making me nauseous. I keep the gun in my hand and walk to the powder room to stop the nosebleed.
Flashbacks to that night pop in and out of my head. I don’t look at myself in the mirror. I don’t want to see the bruise I already feel forming. I grab tissue and wipe my nose before rinsing my mouth out.
I walk out of the powder room with tissue held to my nose.
I'm sitting on the stairs in the foyer with the gun in my hand. I’m not putting it down. I might just have it surgically attached.
The front door opens, and Sergei walks in like an avenging angel. Kirill is behind him.
He stops when he sees me. His eyes take it all in.
“Where?”
“Back alcove.”
He’s on the move. I stand, feel a wave of dizziness and then follow him.
“I already killed him,” I call out.
I can’t hide the pride and that’s an unwanted feeling.
We make it into the alcove where the three guards are standing over the body on the floor. A massive, ugly pool of blood covers the pristine floor.
I smell burning and suddenly remember the pasta. I rush to the kitchen to shut off the burner and pout when I see the water has evaporated and the noodles are baked into the pan.
And this is why I don’t cook.
I hear a gunshot. I scream and spin around, sprinting to the alcove.
The new guard is on top of the dead man, the back of his head missing.
Sergei lowers his gun.
"The next man who fails to keep my wife safe will not die so quickly," Sergei says.
I stare at the men. I almost feel bad for them.
But I was almost killed…or possibly worse.
"Take care of it," Sergei says.
He puts his gun back in the holster he often wears when he’s working.
Then he turns back to me. “With me.”
Normally, I would have something to say about him ordering me around.
I walk to him. His arm slides around my waist.
“Handle this,” he growls at Kirill.
“On it.”
“And tell Nelson he’ll be living here now.”
“Will do.”
Sergei walks me out of the alcove and then stops when we’re out of sight. I’m about to tell him I’m okay when he bends forward and scoops me into his arms.
“Sergei!”
He says nothing as he carries me down the hall and up the stairs to his room.
Our room.
He carries me into the bathroom and deposits me on the vanity.
And then he stands in front of me and simply stares.
"Your cheek," he says.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." He reaches up and his fingers are very careful along the edge of the swelling, checking, not pressing. "Anything else?"
"My head hit the wall. I'm not concussed."
“That will never happen again.”
“If you keep shooting your guards, you’re going to run out of security.”
“I’ll never run out.”
I meant it as a joke, which he is clearly not interested in.
He steps away and turns on the shower, using the digital keypad to adjust the temperature.
And then he’s back.
He says nothing as he undresses me. His eyes inspect every inch of my naked body. I would normally feel self-conscious, but not with him.
“Shower,” he says. “I need to take care of a few things. I’ll be back.”
“Wait.”
His eyes lock on mine.
“I’m really okay,” I assure him. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but it’s not so bad.”
"You shot him.”
"He didn't give me another option."
"No, he didn't. Are you okay?”
“Are you asking if I feel bad?"
He shrugs.
“No. I know he was going to kill me.”
“What happened?”
"I was making dinner," I say.
I close my eyes for a moment. My cheek throbs and my head aches.
“He grabbed me from behind. I fought. I used my training. But he was too big.”
“He wasn’t too big, buntarka. He’s dead. You’re not.”
That almost makes me smile. Then I remember I just murdered a man and the smile is gone.
"Thank you," Sergei says.
"For what?"
"For staying alive."
"I had help," I say. "From a man who hides guns in fake plants and kitchen drawers."
He’s still way too serious.
“Shower. I’ll order dinner.”
“I wanted to make dinner,” I sigh.
“Another time. I have to go.”
“I know.”
I wait. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I need something.
His hand comes up, cupping my cheek before he brushes his lips over mine.
That’s what I needed.