Chapter 5 Micah #2
I try my best to focus on my mission, but my gaze lingers on his smile. It’s nice.
It’s different.
But I have to remember that he’s mafia, that I’m doing this because I have to and not because I want to. He isn’t a warm teddy bear. He’s dangerous. He has to be.
So why am I enjoying this?
I savor my yogurt, then tell him, “I’m glad too. It’s… It’s nice to see you.” It’s nice to think that in another universe, we could be friends.
More than friends, a little voice taunts me in the back of my mind.
No. There would be no “more than friends” with someone like Ilya Zima.
He’s a violent criminal who takes advantage of others.
I almost laugh at my own hypocrisy. Like I haven’t taken advantage of anyone, like my entire life hadn’t been built on the suffering of others.
“Was your cello okay?” Ilya asks, surprising me with what seems to be real concern. “I saw Kyran Winters carrying it, and he is a brute.” The way he emphasizes the word is funny, considering everybody else would call Ilya a brute.
“If you mean your friend’s, um, friend, he treated the cello well,” I answer.
It hadn’t been that Kyran guy who’d been rough with the cello.
It hadn’t been Ilya, either, when he’d helped me carry it into the back.
“Then I am glad.” Ilya takes another few bites of his parfait.
It feels like he’s just a normal man, someone I met out in the world instead of a mobster.
“How did you start with the cello?” he asks.
It’s not a question Adam has ever asked me.
I smile despite the thought. “When I was in elementary school, you could take music lessons instead of going to gym class. I decided that anything would be better, and I ended up really liking it.” My smile fades.
My father had paid for the small cello, but he hadn’t been happy about me practicing it at home.
“That’s better than my sister. She hated violin, but our father insisted.” Ilya shakes his head. “‘We are Russian,’ he would say. ‘We must show the world we are leaders in culture.’”
I consider that for a moment. It’s such a small thing, but such a personal thing, too. I don’t understand why he’s sharing it with me.
Adam never talks about himself.
“What about you?” I ask. “You said your parents made you play sports? What kind?”
Ilya laughs, but his expression turns darker. “Yes. Many martial arts. Boxing. ‘A man must be strong!’” His hand tightens on the spoon. “My father had traditional ideas. Everything was very rigid.”
The mafia thing, probably, but it’s not like I can bring that up.
How do I even do this?
It would be easier if I was a femme fatale, if I could really sleep my way into his life and find out more through pillow talk and intrigue.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t sound like either of us had the best parents.
” I don’t look at him. I take a few more bites of my parfait, appreciating the fresh fruit in it most of all.
It’s nice. Maybe I’ll get fruit to make fruit salad with or something, to keep this memory at the forefront of my mind when I eat it.
But then Adam would want to know why I got fruit when it wasn’t on the list, and he might not like the surprise. Or maybe he would, and he’d smile at me, and everything would be all right for an evening.
“No. But my father is gone now, and I am here in America.” Ilya finishes off his parfait.
“Americans say they are the land of the free. But everybody can be trapped. If you can’t leave, if you can’t do things you love, that’s not freedom.
” He looks me in the eyes then, icy blue irises freezing the blood in my veins.
What does he think he knows?
“Ilya…” I croak out. “I don’t want to talk about that.” I stare down at the parfait. My stomach doesn’t like the idea of continuing to eat.
Ilya looks at me, then nods. “All right.” He reaches out to rest his hand on mine. “Then tell me more about your playing. Do you often perform at nights open mic?”
I glance at his hand.
Mostly, I’m surprised by how little I want to pull away.
I sort of like his warm hand on mine, even this little bit.
I almost forget to answer, but I finally shake my head.
“You mean ‘open mic nights’? That was my first time.” I let out a self-deprecating laugh.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, honestly. ”
“Did you enjoy it?” Ilya asks. “Some people like performing. My sister, she did not like practicing, but she liked winning competitions.”
“I think I was too sad to enjoy it,” I say slowly, which is the truth. I hadn’t even been able to enjoy the aftermath, the applause, either.
Or the fact that Ilya had come to me as a result of it all.
It should’ve been good. I hadn’t even had to figure out a way to approach him. He’d come to me all on his own.
I shouldn’t have insisted on taking my cello along. But a lot of musicians are drug addicts, and I thought it would be more believable than me approaching Ilya out of the blue. I needed a reason to be at that bar.
“You did very well. Many performers get too nervous,” Ilya says, his voice gentle. “I would not have the courage.”
Courage.
Courage isn’t driving me.
Desperation is.
Desperation for Adam’s attention, his approval… his love.
I scoff at that, looking away from him again. “It wasn’t courage.” I hadn’t been brave.
“It was courage,” Ilya repeats. “You could have hidden away. You wanted people to see you.” He smiles and squeezes my hand. “I’m very glad I got to see you.”
My heart races. The contact feels good, too good. “Me too,” I say, though I feel like I’m fumbling over my words, over my reactions. “Now I sort of don’t know what to say, though.”
That much is true, even if so many of my reactions aren’t genuine.
Ilya laughs, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he sounded nervous, too. “Well, do you want another parfait? I’ll make one.”
“I’m almost full,” I tell him, holding up my mostly-finished champagne flute. It’s easier to eat now that we’ve changed the subject, though, and I take another bite from the bottom. “But thank you. Really. For all of this.”
It feels like so much suddenly, and I don’t even know why.
“I should say thank you,” Ilya counters. “I didn’t realize I could enjoy myself like this.” He lowers his gaze. “In St. Petersburg, in Russia, I would not dare. But here, in a big city in America… I would like to explore.”
It’s all I can do to swallow. “I can’t be the one to… to be a part of that,” I whisper. “I can’t cheat on Adam.”
I’d wanted to, though.
I’d wanted to go home with Ilya, too, to get away from Adam for just one evening.
When Adam had seemingly given his approval for me to sleep with Ilya, I’d been hurt and relieved in equal measure.
I’m a terrible boyfriend.
I remind myself that this is all business, and that I need to find a way to turn this around to jobs, to something I could use to get close to him that doesn’t involve Ilya — as Adam had sneered — ramming his tongue down my throat.
“You’re not cheating,” Ilya says quickly. “We’re only having snacks. But…” He scratches his beard. “If you need help, I’ll be there. Even if nothing else happens between us, I want to protect you.”
I finally look back at him. “Why?” I ask. “I’m nothing special, Ilya. There are so many others who would love to have help from someone like you. People who actually need it.”
“Nobody deserves to be hurt by people they trust,” Ilya says, his expression going dark. “A parent, a sibling, a lover—they should be protectors. They should not attempt to destroy those under their care.”
“He’s not,” I say, setting the remnants of my parfait aside. It’s a lie, though, and we both know it.
Before I can think of something else to say, of some other way to defend Adam, my phone chimes with a text.
Adam
Why are you still at the grocery store?
I don’t know why he even pretends not to know where I am sometimes. I hop to my feet, my heart racing for completely different reasons now.
This isn’t going to work. I can’t do this. I have no idea how to turn this conversation around, and disappointment threatens to crush me. I wanted to do this for Adam, but he’s correct: I really can’t do anything right.
“I need to go,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry. Thank you for the snack.”
“You’re welcome.” Ilya stands up. “Let me give you my phone number.”
I shake my head. “No, I need to get going. Thank you.” I back off a few steps and take a breath. “Really. But you need to forget about me.”
“I won’t,” Ilya promises.
“You really, really need to,” I say.
Before he can respond, I quickly text Adam back.
Micah
I’m finishing up now! Love you! :-)
I hold my breath as he types back, not sure what he’s going to say.
Relief floods me when his answer is simple.
Adam
I love you too.
At least there’s that.
I glance back at Ilya, who’s still waiting. “Really,” I insist, even though something aches as I tell him, “You have to let this go. I have a boyfriend. You have to respect that.”
Ilya’s brows furrow, but he nods. “I understand. But let me give you my phone number. If you ever want yogurt, or you need somebody to bring you something, you can call me.”
I can’t help but laugh, even if it’s a choked sound. “Adam would get upset if I called another man,” I tell him.
And he would know.
He checks our phone records each month. Every time I make a call to an unfamiliar number, he has to know who it was to and what the purpose was. It’s never really bothered me before; I haven’t had anything to hide.
I would now.
Ilya smiles at me, despite my refusal. “You won’t call me.” He takes his phone out and taps over to an icon. “This app is a messaging app. But it doesn’t use your texts. It’s data. And there is option to automatically delete messages. Mine deletes after a day.”
I swallow hard, then lick my lips uncertainly. “You promise he wouldn’t be able to see anything?” I ask, all too aware of how desperate I sound.
I don’t need to ever text him. I can tell Adam about it, even, and maybe Adam can use it to gather intel.
Or I just never tell Adam at all.
I could text Ilya for myself.
“Nobody has managed to see what I text, so far. And if you change icon, nobody will know what it is.” Ilya opens up his contact info on the phone. “Here is my number.”
I nibble on my lip, but I quickly download the app. I input his information under “Doctor” and in a wobbly voice, I give him my number in turn. Adam shouldn’t notice the app, there’s no sense in being stupid by inputting it with Ilya’s name.
I still need to finish shopping and get out of here, and I can’t be careless with anything. “I have to go,” I tell him.
I don’t wait for a response, holding my phone tightly in my hand as I jog back toward the entrance to the grocery store.
I have to think about anything but the fact that I just gave my number to Ilya Zima, a man who would destroy me if he knew what I was doing.
I’m in way over my head.