Chapter 8
AMALIE
The late-winter cold hits me as soon as I step outside. It’s the kind of cold that makes you realize just how tired you are of winter, eager for the first thaw of spring.
My breath fogs instantly, little white puffs drifting ahead as I make my way across the vast expanse of the estate. Tall trees hem the borders. I can’t even see the far end. It’s hard to believe I’m in the middle of Chicago.
There’s a little dusting of snow on the ground, just enough to crunch under my boots. I pass a gorgeous garden, the plants dormant for the winter, a few stately granite sculptures rising from the white ground.
After a bit of walking, I hear the sound of rhythmic thwacks and the faint echo of a man’s voice calling out instructions. And then the tennis court comes into view.
Steam rises in lazy ribbons from the heated surface, curling into the gray sky. Snow is banked up along the edges of the fencing while the playing surface itself is bone dry.
I can’t help but smirk at the sight of it. Of course a man like Roman Barinov would bend winter itself to his will.
Sasha darts across the court with surprising speed for such a little guy. His swings are fierce, full of power and concentration. His cheeks are flushed pink, his black curls bouncing with each step. His coach calls out praise in a thick Russian accent, clapping when Sasha lands a clean return.
I watch for a moment, my heart doing that stupid little swell it seems to have reserved exclusively for this child. I’ve only known him for a couple of days, but already he’s managed to inspire my caring and protective nature.
They wrap up a few minutes after I arrive. The coach ruffles Sasha’s hair, sending him off with instructions to stretch and re-hydrate. Sasha instead runs straight to me, breathless and a little triumphant.
“There’s my tennis pro!” I say as he arrives. “How’d you do?”
“Three rounds,” he says with a small smile. “That’s how many I won.”
“You’ve got to give me a bump for that one.”
I offer him my clenched fist for a pound. He regards it for a moment, as if he’s not quite sure what to do with it. Then, with a smile of realization, he pounds it with his little fist. Then he starts shivering.
“Sashka!” The coach calls out. “The court is heated! Not the entire backyard!”
“Let’s get you bundled up.”
“Oh yeah,” Sasha says, as if he’d gotten so wrapped up in his win that he’d forgotten about the little matter of the freezing cold.
He bounds off toward the bench next to the court where his bag and winter gear are. I follow him, stepping over the threshold onto the court, heated air rising up to greet me. It’s so warm, in fact, that I unzip my coat and pull off my gloves.
While Sasha gets ready to go, the coach strolls over to me, wiping his hands on a towel hanging from the waistband of his shorts. He’s tall and athletic with long brown hair tied back with a band, a bushy mustache under his nose.
“Viktor Petrov,” he says, offering a large hand to me.
“Amalie Denning.” We shake, his grip unsurprisingly firm.
“So, you’re the new member of the staff. The one looking after our little Roger Federer-in-training?”
“That’s me.”
He nods. “Good. He’s a special boy. But as you’ve noticed, a little shy.”
“Very special. Brilliant, even.”
Another nod, this one more enthusiastic. “He’s got a full team now. I’ll push him out here on the court, you nourish his mind.”
“I like the sound of that.”
For a moment, we watch Sasha as he takes a few more practice swings with his racket.
Then Viktor clears his throat. “I have to say, you have courage.”
Something tells me this doesn’t have to do with Sasha.
“Thank you,” I reply. “I think.”
He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Most women would never step into a house like that on purpose, you know.”
My back straightens. I keep my polite smile in place. “Good thing I’ve always been bad at being most women.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the mansion in the distance. “Barinov, he’s a dangerous man.” Before I can reply, he raises his palms. “This is not gossip. Roman knows I know. When you’re a man in a position like his, you pay your staff not just for skill, but for discretion.”
I purse my lips for a moment. “I’m still getting the lay of the land. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
He chuckles. “You are brave.”
“I’m careful.”
“Good,” he says, another nod of approval. “Careful will get you far. But so will good judgment. It’s not too soon to step away from this.”
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can say a word Sasha bounds over, bundled up now, his racket slung over his shoulder.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready.”
“You needn’t decide anything now,” Viktor says. “Just be careful not to walk blindly into a world you can’t so easily walk out of. A pleasure, Miss Denning.” He flashes me one more smile before heading off toward his own gear.
Sasha’s quiet during the walk back. I try to gently press him to chat about the tennis lesson, only managing to get a few words out of him. But when we step into the room Roman had prepared as an art studio, his entire demeanor changes. He quickly shrugs off his coat, hurrying inside.
The room is gorgeous—bright and warm, sunlight pooling in through tall windows, the air thick with the scent of paper and paint. It’s decked out with easels, tables, and every art supply one could imagine, far beyond what Sasha has in his room upstairs.
“What are we making today?” he asks.
“What do you want to make?” I counter.
He gives the question careful thought. “A dragon. But a nice one.”
“A nice dragon?”
“Yeah. Scary and strong, but brave and nice.”
“I love it.”
We settle in side-by-side at the low drawing table.
I show him how to sketch the long curve of the body, how to give the wings weight and motion.
He leans into it with quietly adorable intensity, his tongue poking out between his lips as he concentrates.
Every so often, he looks up at me for approval.
“You’re really good at this,” he says, leaning over to get a look at my dragon.
“Hey, so are you.”
Crayons move across the paper. Outside, snow begins to fall gently. Everything feels calm, safe, and ordinary. But I can’t stop thinking about Viktor’s words.
I glance out of the open door of the art room, toward the hallway, as if Roman might be standing there watching, somehow able to read my mind.
Then I glance at the little boy next to me, carefully coloring his dragon’s wings blue.
Danger might live in this house. But for now, I’ll enjoy the peace.