57. We Hug Now
WE HUG NOW
I’m summoned to Igor’s office as soon as I step inside the house. It’s expected; my father always wants an update when I return from an assignment. It’s never irritated me this much, exacerbated by disappointment in yet another delay of what was already a trying trip.
I wipe all emotions from my face as I enter the office, shoving exhaustion and impatience far away. I rushed back, trimming six hours from our travel schedule. Igor isn’t who I hurried home to see.
I told Carina to call if she needed anything, and she never did. Which must mean everything was fine, and I should be relieved about that. And I am, but not hearing her voice for a week wasn’t very reassuring.
Igor appears smug as I approach his desk, which immediately makes me apprehensive.
Lately, we haven’t been on the same side when it comes to many things.
If he’s pleased about something, chances are, I won’t be happy about it.
I know my father isn’t this thrilled I reached a deal with Malcolm—that’s exactly what he’d expected of me. Competence can be a thankless trait.
A maid is standing in the corner to the left of his desk.
Unusual under any circumstances since Igor mainly ignores the staff, but especially since I recognize her.
Anna—the woman fired weeks ago. I have no idea what she’s doing here, in this house, in this office, yet I’m certain I won’t like the reason.
“A package arrived while you were away,” Igor states, steepling his fingers beneath his chin and nodding at the cardboard box set on one cleared corner of the desk.
I have a good guess of the contents once I notice the plastic lining, but I force myself to look inside anyway. Andrea’s lifeless eyes stare back.
I step away, bile burning the back of my throat. I avoid dismemberment for many reasons—it’s messy, it takes time, it’s unnecessary—but it makes a strong statement.
“A wedding gift from your wife’s family.”
I hold his steely gaze. I don’t blame Carina for Andrea’s death.
Being an informant is inherently dangerous, and it’s impossible to know how they discovered he was sharing intelligence with us.
But Igor obviously blames her, and I’m not positive he’s incorrect.
She told her father there was an informant about a month ago.
Andrea has been working for us for a year and a half. The timing is suspicious.
“Was there anything else?” I ask cooly.
My father’s eyes spark with annoyance. So different from the prideful way he used to look at me following a successful trip.
Igor opens a drawer, extracts a piece of paper, and holds it out to me. “This letter was discovered in your rooms while you were gone. The maid was concerned by the contents, so she brought it to me.”
I glance at Anna. She’s studying the carpet, the picture of demure complacency.
“I left instructions that the staff was to stay out of that wing.”
“You wanted your wife”—he sneers the word—“to starve?”
Bringing food to Carina and searching our room are two different things, but I know saying so won’t serve any point.
I take the offered paper, scan the first few lines, then crumple it and toss the ball into the omniscient fire. The flames grab hold of it greedily, orange fingers charring the letter to ashes in a matter of seconds.
“I’ll speak to her.”
Igor leans forward. His fingers tap along the edge of the desk, emphasizing his annoyance with my actions. “Of all my sons, you were the one I thought I’d never see played as a fool.”
I have to unclench my jaw to say, “Nothing was mailed.”
He shakes his head. “That you know of.”
“She’s not a prisoner. She can write letters.”
“To our enemies?” He shakes his head again.
“You are unreasonable when it comes to this woman, and I can’t understand why.
You could have anyone you wanted. I picked Victoria for Aleksandr, and she begged to marry you instead.
You say no. And now what do you do? You bring that Italian whore into this house.
You train her like she’ll fight beside you.
You won’t notice the knife in your back until it is too late, and this entire family will suffer the consequences of your idiocy. Get out of my sight.”
I walk out of his office and straight upstairs. I enter my wing and storm down the hallway, my thoughts a chaotic mess. I attempt to push them away before opening the door.
She’s not in the sitting area. Or the kitchen. Or the bedroom. Or the bathroom.
I call her name once, hearing the hollow echo of dread in it.
Did she run? Did Igor do something? Was the scene in his office all a ploy to make me paranoid?
He has no evidence she’s done anything wrong, anything he could use to justify hurting her, but my father’s rarely been described as a reasonable man.
I pace, deliberating my next move. Someone would have told me if she’d left the property, and I can’t come up with a single reason why she would have.
She doesn’t know anyone here, has no job.
If she left, she ran or was taken. I can’t rationalize the first. I saw how defeated she was in Paris, how conflicted in Dublin.
After paying off the priest to expedite everything, I spent our entire wedding staring at her.
I don’t think the most talented actress in the world could have feigned all that.
This is the safest compound in all of Europe.
The security measures outstrip any prison.
It would be extremely difficult to break in here to kidnap someone.
Extremely difficult, but not impossible.
I spin on my heel and head back into the hallway. I’ll question whoever’s on guard. Maybe there’s a reason—
I stop at the top of the stairs, glancing toward the wing that’s often unoccupied. Then I hear it—her voice.
I follow the sound down a different hallway, pausing outside the ajar door. Push it open to a very unexpected sight—my mother and Carina. Together. Sewing?
They both glance up.
An immediate smile appears on Carina’s face. “Lev! You’re home!”
“Yes.” I smile back, but it’s a weak, forced one.
My conversation with Igor, followed by finding our room empty, ruined this reunion. I’m wary, and I hate the apprehension. Hate doubting myself. Hate doubting her.
“I heard voices,” I explain.
“You just returned?” my mother asks.
When I glance at Elena, she’s studying me closely. The question could mean she knows I spoke to Igor or returned to an empty room, or it could be a simple inquiry. It’s impossible to know with my family. They’re all so fucking secretive.
“Yes.”
Carina lifts the fabric on her lap. “Your mom is teaching me embroidery.” Her smile turns sheepish. “It’s mostly knots.”
“We all start somewhere,” my mother comments as she continues to thread, which is exceptionally magnanimous, coming from a woman who’s rarely accommodating about anything.
Did Igor put her up to this? Or is this Elena’s own form of attack?
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say awkwardly, taking a step backward, toward the door.
“I’m almost finished,” Carina replies, lifting her head. “And by finished, I mean frustrated enough that I need to take a break.”
I swear I see my mother’s lips twitch before I turn away.
She never had a daughter. Doesn’t have a close relationship with Victoria. Maybe that’s all her spending time with Carina is. I’ve never mistrusted my family this much, never felt the constant need to be on guard here. It’s exhausting, and I’m already tired.
“Lev.”
I pause and glance back at my mother.
“I’m glad you’re home.” She says it in Russian, which confuses me until she continues, “And I’ve decided you could have done worse.”
Carina’s focused on her embroidery, either truly absorbed or trying to give us a private moment. Speaking in Russian isn’t a subtle signal that my mother told me something she didn’t want Carina to hear.
It’s far from a resounding endorsement in my choice of wife.
But my mother doesn’t share resounding endorsements about anything.
Her approval is normally silence, a lack of sharing criticism, so her bothering to say anything speaks volumes.
If she’d said this to me before I left, I would have been thrilled.
I would have felt far more comfortable leaving Carina alone here.
Now, Igor’s words echo in my ears.
“You won’t notice the knife in your back until it is too late, and this entire family will suffer the consequences of your idiocy.”
I nod and say good night before returning to my room. There, I follow my usual routine. I pour an icy glass of vodka and carry it into the shower, letting the warm water pour over me between sips.
“Good trip?”
I glance toward the doorway. It’s a testament to how distracted I am that I missed hearing the outer door open and close when Carina returned to our room.
I drain the rest of my drink, then set the glass on the shelf. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I’m being ridiculous. She stayed. She befriended my remote mother, for fuck’s sake.
Yet I can’t shake the strange, sinking feeling that appeared in my father’s office.
The sense that I’m stepping into something I won’t be able to escape from.
I still haven’t told her what Misha found.
I keep coming up with excuses to wait, and that guilt is eating at me too.
“Oh.” Her smile wavers. “Okay.”
I slick my hair back. I need to get a trim. Salty sweat was dripping into my eyes the entire time I was in sweltering Chicago. “Come here.”
She’s wearing a blue dress. Under it, a matching set of black lace. As she steps into the shower, I wonder what she was planning to wear tomorrow, when I was supposed to return. I’ve never come back early from a trip to Chicago before. I was always leaving her behind, never returning to her.
My eyes explore her body eagerly, trying to see everything at once. Acting like this is the first time I’ve seen her naked. Before I left, we were having sex multiple times a day. It feels like it’s been forever since I was inside of her.
Rather than kiss me, like I’m expecting, Carina hugs me. It’s more erotic, the glide of her skin impossibly smooth as the water continues to beat down over us like rain. Her breasts press against my chest, and her stomach is slick against my dick.
And then, while I’m fully focused on sex, she whispers, “I missed you.”
Carina could try to kill me.
Yet I know, with absolute certainty, I’ll never be able to do the same.