Chapter 8 - Janella #2
“Janella,” Iosif says, enunciating my name.
For some reason, it makes my face heat. “This is my family. You’ve already met Leo and Miron.
That’s Yulia. She’s our sister-in-law. Our eldest brother and wannabe-Papa there—” He points right at the man with his hand on Yulia’s hip, the baby now passed to her arms. She waves calmly, an exhausted but serene smile on her heart-shaped lips. “That’s Trifon.”
The almost-blonde springs to her feet and strides over to me confidently. “I’m Gela Jones,” she introduces herself.
A man stands up behind Iosif and clears his throat. His eyes are a light, piercing blue.
Gela adds, “Hyphen Yuri.”
She clasps my hand with both hands and squeezes warmly.
I croak out, “Hi?”
“This fucker’s my other big brother,” Iosif continues, redirecting my attention. “Valentin. How he conned this smart fucking woman into being his better half, I’ll let them tell you another time.”
There is a dark-haired woman with eyes as piercing as Valentin’s who hasn’t looked up from her book. Her gaze only flicks to us when Iosif says, “That’s somber devil is my darling sister Darya. An Irish twin to…”
“Me,” the silver-haired woman exclaims. “I’m Nadya. Best for last, et cetera, et cetera!”
She slips from beneath Iosif’s arm and offers up a fist for me to bump.
I let out a laugh, and I can hear how close to hysterical it sounds.
Trifon sums it up immaculately when he drawls, “What, pray tell, the fuck?”
Iosif launches into the same succinct explanation he gave his brothers at the penthouse. Target practice, bloodied prize, small fish not worth worrying about. The room stays silent for his explanation—but it’s me who several lasers of focus burrow holes through.
“Cillian Driscoll,” Trifon echoes. His accent is thicker than Iosif’s. “The one with the rotating venues?”
He makes it clear that the question is for me.
Mutely, I nod. Begging my knees not to shake.
Valentin steps forward, eyes narrowed. “What’s his operation?” he bids. “Who does he work with?”
“I—” My throat closes up. I force air into my lungs. “Nobody! He just… he runs his club. He—he takes bets. Hosts games. He’s not—I swear, he doesn’t have connections or anything! He’s—”
“A bottom-feeder,” Leonid supplies.
“Small-time,” Iosif adds.
Trifon doesn’t blink. “And you had no idea he was planning to—”
“How could I?” The question comes out defensive, sharp as the dagger Iosif had launched at the targets pinning me in place that night. I’m mortified by the tears stinging my eyes. I blink rapidly, refusing to let them fall. “I didn’t know.”
There’s a beat of total silence.
Then Yulia shifts her baby in her arms and coos sweetly, almost as if to the baby, “Of course you didn’t, honey.”
Iosif has stiffened by my side. I don’t expect it when he tugs me to his side, so I go pliantly. It unspools the knot aching in my chest, little by little.
“She’s not a fucking plant,” he says darkly. “I’m not an idiot. I had her vetted before I took any steps. And no one in this fucking room gets to judge me for it.”
“Amen!” Gela cuts in. She slots in ahead of Leonid and loops her arm through mine. “‘Kay! Enough with the interrogation. Can we eat? Let’s eat. Yulia just got off a shift, and everyone’s hangry as hell. This doesn’t have to happen over an empty stomach, does it?”
Just like that, the tension fissures.
***
Dinner is absolute chaos.
Yet my heart, inexplicably, only warms in my chest.
The dining room table is enormous. A magnificent, undeniably vintage piece of scarred wood.
It’s undoubtedly survived decades of family meals.
Potentially even a shootout or five. Tonight, it brims with too many dishes to count, passed from hand to hand with effortless amity.
As earlier, voices overlap, and conversations bleed into one another.
Nadya is arguing with Miron about something, flicking peas at him when he doesn’t let her finish her point.
Valentin and Leonid are debating something in rapid Russian.
Big, scary Trifon is bouncing a baby on his knee while holding his beautiful wife’s hand.
Through it all, Iosif keeps glancing over at me. Checking on me.
I feel his eyes like a caress every time.
My cheeks ache from blushing.
“So,” Gela says, leaning toward me from across the table. “What’s your story? Besides the obvious.”
“Uh—” I falter. “I… I guess I don’t really have one.”
“Everyone has a story,” Darya says quietly, right beside me. Her eyes, as light a blue as Valentin’s, are a free-flowing river that hasn’t frozen over.
Nadya slides right in, asking, “What did you do before? Work, school?”
“You could say I worked for my dad, I guess,” I cautiously admit. “At the club. And I—I’ve always wanted to open a café. Like my mom used to have.”
“Used to?” Gela prompts gently.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “She died. When I was twelve.”
There is no lapse into awkward silence at the revelation.
“That fucking sucks, babe,” Nadya says emphatically. “I’m sorry.”
“A café,” Darya muses, looking intrigued. It’s the first time she’s set her book down. I feel strangely honored. “Interesting.”
“It is,” Gela agrees eagerly. “That’s great! Have you thought about—”
Before I can grasp it, they’re off. Asking questions and offering suggestions. Pulling me into their magnetic orbit as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like I belong here.
Like I’ve belonged anywhere, ever.
Amidst it all, overwhelm grasps me by the throat.
I watch Iosif tease Nadya about something, reaching out to tug at her long, silver braid.
His whole face transforms when he laughs with her, childlike and snickering.
Trifon kisses Yulia’s temple with such tenderness, absentmindedly, feeding her bites of food while she feeds their baby.
Valentin and Gela are involved in their own conversations, never directly facing each other, and his hand never leaves her thigh, nor hers from on top of his.
It’s a family.
This is what a family looks like.
Even when mom was alive, I never had any idea of what it looked like, did I? I had no idea at all.
I never had this.