Chapter 20
ROMAN
Arhythm forms as the days pass.
Sasha eats better. Sleeps through the night more often than not. Even his drawings have changed. They are less abstract and more cohesive. More color. More warmth.
I found one of them taped crookedly to the fridge of three shapes holding hands. One tall. One small. One feminine, with soft edges. It’s obvious who they are meant to be.
Amalie moves through the house like she belongs, like she’s lived here for years. She doesn’t move boldly or presumptuously, but with a quiet confidence. She asks questions and remembers the answers. She listens to Sasha, to the staff, to Andrei.
I tell myself the main advantage is it’s all practical, that she’s good for my son, that she’s a good, stable presence in his life.
Still, I catch myself standing in doorways longer than necessary, watching her crouch beside Sasha as they paint, as they laugh, their heads bent together like co-conspirators.
I watch the way she encourages him to try new designs, new colors.
I watch the way she never rushes him when he hesitates, only encourages.
Even the tutor has told me that Sasha is approaching his school lessons with more interest.
I know it’s all due to Amalie. She’s gentle yet strong, and she’s made a genuine impact on my son. It unsettles me all the same.
One morning, I find Andrei waiting for me downstairs. I know before he speaks that something is wrong. He’s standing by one of the front windows, posture rigid, jaw set. He’s already got his coat on, gloves tucked into one pocket. Prepared. Controlled.
“Off to somewhere?” I ask.
He shakes his head, his gaze still fixed outside. “No. Just got back.”
“Tell me.”
He turns, reaches into the inner pocket of his black leather trench coat, and produces a file. It’s thick. “We should talk in your office.”
Moments later he’s pulling the door to my office shut. Then he clicks the lock.
“Worried about visitors?” I raise an eyebrow.
“You’ll realize why I’m being so cautious when you see what’s in this.” He steps over to my desk and sets the file on the corner. Then he takes a seat, his finger on his chin like he’s thinking something over.
“Stop being coy and tell me what’s in there,” I say.
“Her. In a sense.”
My pulse jumps. I pick up the file, but I don’t open it. “You went digging.”
He nods. “I did.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You’re right, you didn’t.”
“Explain yourself.”
He shifts his weight, his eyes flicking to the folder again briefly before meeting my gaze. “It was when I did the deep dive on her background check. Everything came out fine for her. All of her references were clean, job history… everything. But her brother is another story.”
I sit on the edge of the desk. “Go on.”
“I tried to look him up. She told me his name was Sean. But everything seemed so clean. Too clean. His job listings were perfect. Started working at a BBQ restaurant in Logan Park, moved up until he made assistant manager. But when I called the place, I found out it went out of business two years ago. No jobs listed since then.”
“Could be an explanation for that.”
“You’re right, there could’ve been. But my gut told me to keep digging. Found his birth certificate.” He nods toward the folder. “Open the file.”
I do; on the top is a birth certificate. But the name listed on it is not Sean. “Kyle Denning.”
He nods. “Her brother’s name is Kyle, not Sean. So, naturally, I took this as a sign I was on the right track.”
I say nothing, letting him go on.
“I questioned why she lied. I’ll save you the trouble. Flip to page five and you’ll see why.”
The first few pages are high school and college transcripts. He graduated with a criminal justice degree, which catches my eye.
When I reach the fifth page, I nearly crush the folder in my hands.
Kyle Denning. Detective. Chicago Police Department. Intelligence Unit.
For a moment, the rest of the world fades. I flip one page, then another. Academy records, commendations. Notes from internal reviews. There’s a photograph of Kyle looking fresh out of the academy clipped neatly onto a corner of one of the pages.
“How certain?” It’s a foolish question. All the evidence I need is in my hands. But I’m hoping there’s still some way it’s not true.
“One-hundred percent.”
I close the file and toss it onto my desk.
Her brother is a cop. And she never told me. Not only that, but he’s in the Intelligence Unit. The detective who stopped me on the street a few weeks back was Intelligence.
It can’t be a coincidence.
The implications unfurl in my mind. I’ve built my exit from the criminal underworld slowly, brick by brick. This IPO is how I’m going to keep Sasha safe. I’ll make the Barinov name one of legitimacy, raise my son in a world where he’ll never have to fear for his life.
I drum my fingers on the top of the desk, giving the matter some serious thought. Andrei says nothing, his hands clasped behind his head, almost as if he’s waiting for me to order him to fire her.
Should I? On the surface, it seems the most prudent move.
A direct familial connection to law enforcement doesn’t mean direct damage.
Appearance alone is enough. If my investors discover that my new nanny is the sister of a CPD cop who might very well be looking into my affairs, it’d be enough to raise serious doubt.
I can imagine the whispers in compliance meetings, the suspicion. My investors would ask for more assurances, more time. Time I do not have.
This could tank the IPO.
“Then there’s Garin,” Andrei says, breaking the silence.
“What about him,” I snarl.
“He knows something. I’m sure of it. It might not be this. But he’s circling.”
My mind goes back to Detective Max Russo, the eager cop with the questions and the “casual” mention of that drive-by shooting. The line is starting to take shape. Max might’ve gone too far, making it clear that the CPD is looking into me, trying to put something together.
And Amalie’s brother could very well be working behind the scenes to make it happen.
I press my fingers to my temple.
“She knows something,” Andrei says.
“Indeed,” I say, slipping into Russian. “But if he’s working in intelligence he’s almost certainly keeping her out of the loop for her own safety. It’s unlikely she knows anything beyond surface information.”
“Perhaps.” Andrei leaves the word and all of its ambiguity hanging in the air.
So much can be filed under that one word.
“I’ve been keeping a close eye on her,” he says. “There’s no indication she’s collecting information, let alone sharing it.”
I believe him, of course. Not a chance Andrei would leave such things up to chance.
“It could all be coincidence,” I offer. “She just so happens to have a brother working in CPD intelligence.”
“That could very well be the case,” Andrei replies. “The question is, do you want to take that chance?”
I think of Amalie’s face when she laughs, the sight of her wearing Sasha’s clay necklace. The idea of it all being an act, a ploy to get access to information she could feed her brother doesn’t sit right. Doesn’t make sense.
Or maybe I’m being blind.
“Thoughts?” Andrei asks. It’s clear he’s ready to act, one way or another.
The options line up, chess pieces waiting to be moved. Ending it would be the cleanest, the safest, the most immediate way to dispose of any potential threat. The best choice for the IPO. But the effect it would have on Sasha…
I imagine him retreating even further back than he’d been before. And why wouldn’t he? Someone came into his life that he bonded with, only to be snatched away with the same suddenness as when he’d lost his mother. It could prove to be one trauma too many.
I could confront her. Force the truth, whatever it may be, out into the open.
If the truth is manageable, I could keep her close, bring her into my circle.
Protect her. Monitor her. She’d be another variable to keep an eye on, but it could work.
Assuming her brother isn’t looking into me, using my connection to his sister to get what he wants.
Another option appears. I could flip it around and use her. I can use her connection to an officer who could be looking into me, to look into him. See what he knows, find out if the CPD is indeed building a case.
The thought barely finishes forming before I kill it. I’m not going to turn her into leverage, into a tool.
I lift my eyes to see Andrei waiting patiently for his order. “Do nothing.”
Andrei’s brow lifts in mild surprise.
“Keep watching her. Let me know if there’s anything new to report.”
“So, no dismissal?”
“No dismissal. But she’s not quite in the circle. This connection to a cop brother is troubling but not enough to make any grand decisions.”
“Very well.”
“And thank you, Andrei, for looking into this.”
He nods. I reply with a nod of my own and send him off.
I check my watch and see that it’s early afternoon. I pour myself something stiff and neat at the bar, then stand at the window looking out over the grounds, sipping slowly. Out of the corner of my eye I spot the file laying on my desk. I force myself to look forward.
Outside, snow dusts the trees, catching the slanted afternoon light in pale flashes.
I find myself thinking of her again, about the day she and Sasha had been painting outside.
I remember the way she’d lifted his small, gloved hand, guiding it gently.
Teaching. Encouraging. Never harsh. Never distant in the way I can too often be with him.
Man plans, God laughs.
I have planned my life with ruthless precision. I’ve survived things that would have broken lesser men. I’ve carved an empire from chaos. And now I’m on the verge of creating legitimacy from a world soaked in blood.
Yet here I am, undone by the thought of a young woman painting with my son in the snow.
She could cost me everything.
But letting her go could do the same.