Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Katya
In hindsight, not realizing there is something off about the restaurant will be the first thing I reproach myself for. I should have trusted the doubt that flickered when the car pulled up outside and asked Santo to drive on.
This place is not what I'd have expected my mother to choose. She has an almost pathological need to be seen in the most exclusive places, by the right people, while wearing the latest clothes.
She eats only at the top restaurants in St. Petersburg, switching her loyalties whenever somewhere newer and trendier comes along.
The place she's chosen for our lunch is quiet, discreet. Tucked down a side street off the Via Veneto, it's too modest for her tastes. Rome is full of the type of restaurants she would normally choose, so why here?
Daniele's has the appearance of being a small, family-run trattoria. It strikes me as an odd choice but perhaps she’s not so concerned with maintaining her image here. She doesn’t know anyone in Rome, apart from me and I’m not someone she’s ever tried to impress.
When I go inside, my sense that something isn't right intensifies. The restaurant is clean and comfortable, but it's dated. I don't think the walls have seen fresh paint since the eighties and some of the wooden tables have visible wear and tear on the legs.
There's no ma?tre d', another thing I'd expect of any establishment my mother chooses to patronize. Instead, I follow a waiter through to a private room at the back.
My mother is already there, inspecting her red-tipped nails as I enter. She rises and offers her cheek. I kiss it because to do otherwise would be an insult, and one thing I have learned over twenty-three years is that you do not insult my mother without paying for it.
She looks me over with a critical eye.
"You look surprisingly well," she says.
I frown. "Why wouldn't I?"
"With all your little adventures lately, I thought there might be a toll.”
I curl my fists as I will myself not to rise to the bait. One of her favorite pastimes is telling me I look tired, or ill. She takes great pleasure in telling me if my hair is a little limp or my pallor too pale.
"Little adventures?” I ask.
"Yes." She settles back into her chair. "With your Italian.”
She makes it sound as if Gabriele is some random man I’m having a fling with while I’m in Rome.
"You mean my husband.” I tilt my head to the side, daring her to dispute that is precisely what Gabriele is.
She purses her lips. The conversation is going exactly as I expected it to, which is why I told Gabriele not to come.
It's better that he stayed at home to prepare for tonight's meeting with Maroni.
He's already tying himself in knots over that.
He doesn't need Irina Kuznetova in full swing on top of it.
I pick up the menu and study it. There's pasta, of course, and a few meat dishes. My eye snags on the Frutti di Mare. That's tempting. I haven't had seafood since arriving in Rome.
"This place is different," I say.
"A friend recommended it. The food is supposed to be exceptional."
I say nothing. My mother doesn't care about exceptional food. None of it ever passes her lips.
The waiter enters with a bottle of wine. My mother inspects the label and nods. He pours.
"I prefer French, of course," she says, "but when in Rome." She laughs as though she's said something original.
I taste the wine. It's good. The flavor is rich, fruity, with a hint of something I don't recognize. A slightly bitter note arrives at the finish.
Maybe the grapes were sour when they pressed them. I don’t know much about wine, other than what I like. Perhaps I could ask my new brother-in-law for a crash course if I ever get to meet him.
"I find myself enjoying Italian more and more," I say, to be provocative.
My mother glowers at me. Well, as much as her extensive facial work will allow. She watches me, saying nothing.
"So, how are you, Mama?" I ask.
"How am I?" She sets down her glass. "How am I supposed to be, Katya, when my daughter runs from her home like a thief in the night, burning down her father's business arrangements on the way?"
"Orlov has been dealt with."
"I'm not talking about Orlov. I'm talking about Sergei Litkov. You destroyed your chances with him by sleeping with that boy, and then you ran here and married that grotesque…”
She waves her hand as if there's no adequate word to describe my husband.
My grip on the wine glass tightens. I set it down before it shatters.
"Gabriele is not grotesque."
"I've seen the photographs."
I grit my teeth. "He's a good man."
"But not one your father can do business with." She leans forward slightly. "Sergei, however….”
"The arrangement with Sergei was finished the moment I slept with Mikhail. He wanted a virgin. You know that."
"Yes, but…”
"And then Papa shot Mikhail and offered me to Boris," I continue. "I doubt Sergei is pleased to be associated with that debacle."
My mother examines her nails, like a cat about to pounce on its prey. "That's what I thought, but it turns out Sergei is very forgiving."
Forgiving? Why should I care if he is or not? A prickle of unease winds its way down my spine. "What are you talking about?"
She smooths her napkin across her lap with the deliberateness of someone who has rehearsed this. "He's no longer interested in you as a wife. But he still needs an heir. A son."
The temperature of my blood drops several degrees.
"What are you saying?"
"Sergei is willing to mend his relationship with your father. He's willing to overlook your transgressions if you provide him with what he needs."
"So I'm just a convenient womb?"
I think back to my first conversation with Gabriele. Are you offering me the use of your womb? Then it had been almost comical. Now the thought is rather more sinister. Where Gabriele at least had the courtesy to ask if my body was on offer as an incubator, Sergei just assumes it is.
The waiter reappears and my mother orders salads for us both. My mind works through what she just said and the lengths my father is prepared to go to get what he wants. A warmth spreads through me that has me reaching for the water.
"And my husband? You think he's going to allow this?"
"What choice will he have? By this evening you will be home in St. Petersburg where you belong."
I reach for the water again and my hand trembles. Something feels off. I’m more anxious in my mother’s presence than I thought I would be. That’s all it is.
"Mama." I intend to set her straight but my voice comes out wrong. Slightly soft at the edges. I furrow my brow as a strange heaviness settles in my limbs. ”What did you do?"
She meets my eyes with the composure of a woman who made a decision and has no intention of revisiting it. "What needs to be done. I'm putting things right."
I need to get to the door. Gabriele's men are outside. Santo is waiting in the car. If I can just get to him, I'll be fine.
I take two steps and the floor tilts. Someone catches me. I don't know who. I hear my mother's voice from somewhere behind me, calm and clear, as I realize someone is carrying me.
"My daughter felt faint," my mother tells the waiter who suddenly appears in my peripheral vision. "The heat."
I try to speak, to ask him for help, but the words won't form.
"Here." My mother presses a wad of cash into the waiter's hand. "For your trouble."
The waiter takes the cash. Most people would, rather than involving themselves in a family matter.
I'm carried outside into the afternoon sun. It hits my face and I screw my eyes shut. I struggle to break free of the man's grip but my limbs are useless. I think about Santo. The car is close. Why isn't he coming?
The door of an SUV opens and I'm placed inside. The leather of the seat is cool against my face.
I try once more to call out for help. Santo will come. He'll get me safely back to Gabriele.
Unless, of course, he can't come. What if he's hurt?
It's that last thought that goes through my head before my eyes close and darkness swallows me whole.