21 #3
"And don’t get it twisted: I’m not buying you. I’m acknowledging you. And I’m asking you to stop doing things out of fear and start choosing to show up."
"Okay," I said, and it came out a rough whisper. "I will."
Rashel let out a warning tsk.
"If you come in," she added, dead serious, "be on time when we call. And bring judgment, not excuses."
"Sure," I answered. That one came out steady. Professionalism always saves me.
Irina leaned in, dropped her voice way down, almost a secret.
"And another thing: I care about you. I consider you family, Nat. Sending you to find my sister wasn’t a punishment.
You were obsessed with detective movies, as a kid you spent all day spying on us and jotting things down in a notebook.
I knew you could do it and I wasn’t wrong.
Putting you in JARSI earlier wasn’t safe for you—you were young and a little scattered.
It wasn’t just because of Sabina. That was the last straw.
You needed to learn to take orders and not to boss so much.
" She grimaced. "I gave you the most important mission you could take on at that moment. "
I felt this weird heat in my eyes, you know? I blinked a few times, trying to hide the lump climbing my throat. I was about to give her that little "thanks, boss" salute, but she cut me off with a gesture.
"That’s enough. Relax, we’re not at a parade."
"Yeah," I said, and dropped into the chair, feeling the cold air on my back. Relief. Or something like it.
Rashel turned her head and gave me a chin-jerk: "You’re earning the chair, but don’t get cocky."
"I’ll send you the intake protocol later," she added. "Read it."
"I’ll read it."
The silence in the office got thick. The folded paper with the number was burning my palm.
"Don’t get yourself into trouble again to prove you’re free; come say it first."
"Okay."
Rashel, always the devil’s advocate, added:
"For the record, if you screw it up, you fix it."
"I know."
I come back into the foyer like I’m surfacing from underwater.
Julia, with her militant cheerfulness, is already organizing everyone.
Sabina and Amaia are hanging up the twins’ coats.
Luna, who has a radar for gossip, already has them in her pocket with easy chatter.
Vera and Svet vanish down the hallway, barefoot, their laughter bouncing off the walls.
This is a circus, oof. My pulse is racing.
Mikel and Ivan, the little brats, are sizing up the twins in front of a mirror. I get close enough for them to catch my perfume, which is the warning that Aunt Nat is near.
"If what I’m hearing is what I think I’m hearing," I tell them, not raising my voice a hair, "the rest you keep to yourselves."
Ivan—my nephew, God bless Mother Russia—turns with that teenage half-smile that drives me nuts.
"Aunt Nat, we didn’t say anything."
"That’s the problem, dude. I can hear you thinking."
"We’re behaving, I swear." Mikel shrugs, amused. "They’re... striking, that’s all."
"They’re family," I correct him, pinning them with a look I learned from Malagamba. "And they’re scared, even if it doesn’t show. Treat them the way you’d want to be treated if, out of the blue, they changed your last name and dropped you into a movie, okay?"
Mikel nods, serious for a second. Ivan too. Good, at least they get the chain of command. They can be two roosters, sure, but when you talk to them like soldiers, they look you in the eye.
Vega is in full humble-guest mode. She asks if she should take her shoes off, where to put her purse, if she can touch anything or if she should just look and keep quiet.
It twists something tender in me. She doesn’t know that here she could come in with muddy boots, yell out her middle name, and everyone would welcome her just as happily.
In fact, she doesn’t even get to finish the sentence, because Julia hugs her without warning and takes her straight to the portrait room.
Walls full of gilded frames, lights placed just so, and that hush of an important gallery where everything sounds clean.
Alaska—my Alaska—hangs back halfway. She’s lining up her irony with a doorframe, prepping the perfect comment. Fuck, she’s gorgeous with that tension.
"I’m not a museum person," she murmurs, almost to herself. "But if there’s a glass case of appetizers, I can adapt, you know?"
"We’ve got everything," Julia answers. "And if we don’t, we’ll invent it."
Irina has gone still for a second, just breathing.
Fuck, what a moment. I’ve never seen her so.
.. human. Not disarmed—Irina never disarms—but with that armor cracked open so a little air can get in.
When she sees me half a step from her, she shoots me a look that says thanks without saying it.
I give her the smallest nod back. Sometimes, in this house, a gesture has more weight than three speeches.
"Show them the grounds?" Amaia suggests. That woman has a superpower for knowing when you have to move so you don’t cry.
"Let’s go," Irina rallies, back to being the sure guide.
We cross the colonnade toward the central garden.
The glass door opens with that hydraulic whisper that lets you know money moves quietly here.
The late-day air hits me, cool and damp.
It smells like fresh-cut grass and rain, a clean smell that doesn’t match the drama we’re hauling around.
The twins come out behind us, unintentionally in sync; I watch them move with that cadence that makes me nervous.
Alaska quirks her mouth, scanning the hedge maze.
"If I get lost in this maze, somebody leave me a trail of breadcrumbs," she tosses off, with that deadpan humor that’s so her. She cuts me a sideways look, fishing for my reaction. Fuck, she’s smart. "Or you, Blondie, whistle."
I bite the inside of my cheek. The professional manual says shadows don’t whistle. The part of me that’s no longer a shadow—the part that wants to jump her and kiss her mouth—keeps quiet out of obedience.
"Pool," Irina says, arm pointing like a guide. "Crystal-clear bottom, robotic cleaner that runs overnight, saltwater. Please don’t get sunscreen in it."
I bite my tongue not to fire off a comment. My palm itches. We stand staring at the artificial lake, the water flat as glass. Not a sound, not a leaf. I catch my tense expression in the reflection. I force my face to relax, but the smile comes out crooked. I adjust it; it always looks awful on me.
"There’s the lake," Irina adds. "Good for looking at and for pretending you meditate. Real ducks; sometimes they bite."
"You know you can’t feed them stale bread, right?" Vega says, and I’m surprised how fast she’s slipped into responsible-aunt mode.
"Wouldn’t dream of it," Julia says. She’s a sweetheart, but she’s firm. "The Rasta animal-rights guy"—she points at Mikel without looking—"keeps us up to date on the ducks’ diet and any critter on the property."
Vega looks him over, scanning him with that Alaska-identical gaze. I can see her doing the math. Ivan, my nephew, seizes the opening.
"The stale bread is for my dad," he says in that cocky tone that drives me up the wall.
"Your father doesn’t bite," Irina says, curt.
"Not always," Rashel finishes, and laughs to herself.
We keep moving. The wind brings damp earth and that trace of chlorine that reminds me this is like a luxury spa.
Irina walks two steps ahead, back already straight, getting her poise back.
I tug my sleeve, shove my hands into my pockets so I don’t touch anything, and count the lit lamps.
Sometimes counting is enough to keep me from running my mouth.
We keep going through the garden and the tennis court opens up ahead. The green gleams, spotless. The lines cut clean and the net is really tight. I freeze at the entrance, not stepping past the threshold.
"This is new. Who plays tennis out here?" Sabina says with her usual interest.
"I feel bad stepping on it," I say, pulling my foot back a little.
"Step on it, that’s what it’s for," Irina says, and she opens the gate with her elbow, lowering her voice. "There are rackets on the bench. In case you feel like it."
The strings of a racket call to me. I touch them with one finger. Tight, cold. My jaw tightens on its own, my pulse jumps.
We head for the greenhouse. The door squeals and we go in.
The heat drops on me, thick. Smells like wet soil, cut leaves, that sweetness that throws you off.
The floor gives a little and takes an imprint.
The leaves are bead-bright with big drops and I want to touch all of them.
In one corner, lights stacked, tripods in a row, a rolled-up backdrop.
A giant fan points at a corner marked off with red tape on the floor.
The drip of the irrigation is the only sound.
"Julia uses it as a photo studio," Irina explains, nudging a pot with her foot.
"I’ve always liked photography, not just posing." Julia steps out from behind some alocasia plants with a cable in hand. "Lights here, screen there. The fan’s already calibrated for hair-in-the-wind. If you laugh, I’ll blast you without mercy."
"I believe you," I tell her. Half a smile slips out and my jaw cracks. I massage it with two fingers, staring at the fan to play it off, because the heat is killing me.
"Little signs made by Svet," Julia adds, proud. "Fine-tip markers. Round letters. No critiques allowed."
"I take bribes," Svet says. She’s already in front of a marijuana plant with a label that says "Fern." She runs her hand over the leaves with this odd seriousness. This kid is a case.
"Very discreet," Sabina murmurs, holding back a smile. That plant is hers.