Chapter 17 Ilya
SEVENTEEN
ILYA
“They won’t like it,” Micah says. “I’ll just play a classic.”
I purse my lips at him. “Why would they not like it?”
“Because… Because…” He gives me a pleading look. “I haven’t practiced it enough.”
I know that’s not true. He’s been practicing during every free moment since he asked me about performing his original piece, and the first time I’d gotten to hear it, I’d been swept away by the soft, haunting music.
“And maybe it’s too sad-sounding for the restaurant,” he adds. “I can come up with something better, something more upbeat.”
“These people don’t want upbeat,” I point out. “They are here for romantic evening. Or business deals. I think your music is good.”
He takes a deep breath, biting his bottom lip. He meets my eyes. “Do you really think so?” he asks, and there’s a weight to the question that lets me know he’s still thinking about what that pig said about his music.
“I do,” I say confidently. “I would not ruin my business, not even for a face as pretty as yours.” I lean in and brush my lips against his. “It’s a very tempting face, though.”
Micah smiles against my mouth, and he wraps his arms around me.
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Then I’ll do my best. I’ll make you proud.
” He pauses, then asks, “Are you going to be there?” He smiles weakly.
“I’m not sure if that’ll make it better or worse.
I’ve never really had stage fright before, but I think I have a little bit of it right now. ”
“Of course,” I promise. “I can pretend to be working, but mostly I want to hear you.”
I should probably go check on the gambling hall, but Boris has it all in check and his updates satisfy me.
After the shit with Artyom, I should keep a closer eye on my business.
Everybody in Russia would scoff at me. Boris is already getting antsy about my terrible work ethic these past few days. But I don’t care about the business as much as I care about Micah.
“You’ve already heard that piece so much that you could probably perform it,” he says. He kisses me again, then takes a reluctant step back. “Okay. I can do this.”
“You can,” I agree, smiling.
I gently direct him toward the mini stage, where his cello is already waiting. A few of the diners glance up at him, but most of them continue their regular conversation.
This is a horrible stage for Micah.
He deserves to play where everybody is listening with rapt attention. A concert hall, with him center stage, where they’ll clap and cheer for him when he’s done playing his pieces.
Micah steps onto the stage, and he sits down before taking the cello from its case with as much care as he might show a newborn. Without preamble, he begins playing a familiar piece. It isn’t his piece, but I assume he needs to warm up.
I hope he hasn’t lost his nerve so quickly.
When he looks at me, I nod to him, gesturing for him to continue.
He smiles faintly, and this time, the opening notes of the piece he’d composed fill the air.
It’s a beautiful piece, sad and hopeful at the same time. It makes me think of my first day in New Bristol, five short years ago, when the oppressive air that weighed down on me was finally lifted.
Even my father’s funeral hadn’t given me as much hope as that first step on American soil.
Some of the patrons stop their conversation to pay attention to him, but as before, most are too absorbed in their own conversation to even care what piece he’s playing. They don’t understand how monumental this is.
They don’t understand that they are getting to hear a piece of his soul.
When the music draws to a close, Micah looks up at me, and I realize he’s blinking back tears even as he smiles at me.
One of the patrons that had stopped speaking to listen to his performance gets Taka’s attention, handing him something.
Micah had mentioned that he’d gotten tips on a few occasions, and I hope this one is worthy of his soul-baring composition. He pauses to take a few sips of water before easing into another piece, this time something I’ve heard him play on multiple occasions.
It doesn’t lack heart, exactly, but I can tell it isn’t his.
I could sit and listen to him for the rest of the evening, but I do have to put in a show of working. The managers take care of most of the restaurant business, but if I show up without putting in any work at all, they’ll get suspicious.
Suspicious of what? That I’m attracted to the young cellist?
They already know that.
Mandy, the assistant manager, walks up to me. “Hey, Boss,” she says. “There’s some Russian on the phone that wants to talk to you.”
I frown. “He wants to talk to me?”
She shrugs. “He had a Russian accent. I assumed he was a friend of yours.”
“I don’t know every Russian in New Bristol,” I grumble. “We are premier Russian restaurant. Many Russians like the food.”
“Okay, but many Russians don’t ask for you by name.” Mandy points toward the back office. “They’re on hold.”
I grumble and go to take the phone call.
“Ilya Zima,” a familiar Russian voice says on the other end. “How are you?”
“Dronov,” I answer. He’s the man who took over after my father’s heart attack.
It’s because of him that I ended up in New Bristol.
He expects me to resent him, but I’m content with my small slice of this pie.
He can amass his riches in St. Petersburg.
I’m happy being moderately wealthy here in New Bristol.
“Why are you calling?” I ask.
“You’ll never believe what happened,” Dronov says jovially. “Fucking Andreyevich got himself arrested. Well, arrested, then killed. Funny how that happened.”
“Funny,” I agree sardonically. “Sorry for your loss.”
“Nah, it’s fine, he was a prick.” Dronov laughs. “I was always telling everybody that.”
“Then he was a prick.” I sigh. “Why are you calling at…” I do the mental math on the time difference. “Two in the morning?”
“Well, Andreyevich is gone, and that means I need somebody here who’s actually good at numbers. You’ve been doing a good job in New Bristol, but you must miss Mother Russia.”
I stare at the phone. “Excuse me? You want me to return?”
“Sure. I have a whole new business venture planned just for you.”
I don’t know if I can trust this. Is this a real offer, or is he calling me back simply to murder me once I’m in Russia again?
Either way, I know that I don’t want to go back.
There’s nothing in Russia for me.
My sister, maybe, but I’ve told her I’ll help her move to America once she finds the courage to do so.
“I’ll think about it,” I say carefully. “Because—”
I hear a scream and nearly drop the phone receiver. Another shout, and another. Something’s happening in the restaurant.
“Zima?”
“I have to go,” I say, hanging up.
He’s going to be angry about the abrupt end to the call, but I don’t give a fuck about that.
I rush out to the main dining hall.
Several police officers are marching in. The guests look terrified. Mandy is trailing behind, arguing with them about something.
I recognize the cop at the front. It’s Adam.
I go up to him and cross my arms. “What you are doing here, officer?”
Adam grins widely and holds up a paper. “I have a warrant. I’m going to search the premises for evidence.”
I take the paper from him. The warrant specifies the restaurant’s address. The text is small and hard to read, especially in the low lighting of the restaurant.
Whatever. I look over my shoulder at Micah.
His eyes are glued to Adam, his eyes wide, and he looks every bit as frightened as the waiters nearby.
Maybe even more so, and I want to rush over to him to comfort him.
Or punch Adam in his smug face.
“There is nothing to find,” I tell him. “But go, search. I’ll show you to office.”
“It’s fine. We got it.” Adam circles around the dining room, like he expects to find drugs or guns stashed under the tables or in the wall sconces.
The pigs are anything but delicate. Several people get up to try to leave, but are stopped by the police.
I go over to Micah. “Mishka, it’s all right.”
Micah gives a quick shake of his head, finally looking away from Adam so he can look at me instead. “It’s not,” he says. “This… This is my fault.”
“Your fault?” I repeat. “How is it your fault? He is an asshole.”
He looks away from me, and I think about Boris’s words about Micah talking to Adam.
I put a hand on Micah’s shoulder. He recoils so violently that my stomach sinks.
Adam stalks over to us. “Hands off him, you pervert. The kid’s half your age.”
My hands clench, and if I had my gloves on, nothing could have prevented me from punching Adam.
Micah whimpers.
I force myself to calm down. “Micah is my employee here. Do not talk to him, officer. He is not part of your warrant.” I look at Micah. “If he tries to question you, say nothing. I will call my lawyer.”
Micah still won’t look at me, instead focusing his gaze on the floor. “Okay,” he says softly.
“He’s none of your business,” Adam says. “In fact, you’re the one who needs to worry about the lawyers, asshole. Micah here’s been telling us aaaall about your business.”
The disappointment crashes into me.
“Is that true?” I ask, my voice unnecessarily choked. “You’ve been telling this mudak about me?”
Micah finally does lift his gaze, and I see tears rolling down his cheeks. “I… I told him I wasn’t doing it anymore,” he says unsteadily. “And I didn’t…” His shoulders slumps, and he whispers, “I’m so sorry, Ilya.”
I wish I could trust him. But right now, all I can think about is Artyom, and how he’d sold me out, and how I’d thought I could trust him too.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore, Micah,” Adam says. “We’re pulling you out.”
Pulling him out, like Micah was deep undercover.
But not like Micah is his lover. Adam doesn’t touch Micah at all, in fact. I glance around, and I see Adam’s attention splitting between the other officers.
So he isn’t out at work.
I let out a small chuckle. “I will go call lawyer. You will see this is waste of time,” In Russian, I add, “You fucking sad, pathetic little worm.”