Chapter Seven
Alexei
Anatoli’s call comes in at eight. “She’s back,” he says in brusque Russian.
Good. Back to her shitty motel, he means. Koshechka takes public transportation, which turns a ten-minute drive into nearly an hour-long production. But I don’t like that she does this, so Anatoli follows her. At a discreet distance, of course.
“She’s late today,” I say. She gets off work at six. That leaves an hour unaccounted for. “What did she do?”
“Walked around the city. Looked at dresses through store windows.”
Ah. Katya was window-shopping. It’s understandable.
She left her apartment in Chicago in such a hurry that probably she had not packed much.
The place was a mess; clothing and belongings strewn around.
A suitcase, I think, was missing from the set of three that there ought to have been, and not even the biggest one.
So that is what her life is reduced to now—whatever she could fit inside it.
Probably a woman on the run is not packing for dates.
But I am curious. “Did she buy anything?”
“Nyet,” he says. “Nothing.”
I don’t care what she wears anyway, but I like that she gave a thought to how she would look for me.
For our date. Still, it is smart of her not to waste her money.
She does not have much of it to spare. A little extra now today, of course, but it is wisest not to spend if she does not have to do this.
“She didn’t notice you?” I ask.
“Nyet,” Anatoli says again.
It is possible that she will, eventually. Anatoli does not stand out like I do, but Katya is cautious. Wary, still. If she is frightened into running again, she will be doubly careful. Might ditch her burner phone just to be safe.
Beep.
I fish Nicola’s phone from my pocket and glance at the glowing screen.
I have a date tomorrow, Katya writes to her dead brother. Papa would be furious.
Little does she know, Papa would be thrilled.
It means she has done the only thing she is good for in the eyes of the Russo family—placated the beast at their doors.
Still, I intend to hold what I know over their heads.
I will enjoy Katya for a time, but I have not forgotten that Russo has not, in fact, fulfilled the terms of our deal.
He was careless with what was promised to me.
Another beep. I’m nervous, she writes. I’ve never gone on a date. Papa would never let me.
Of course he would not allow this. Even his bastard daughter has value, and the Italians are oddly obsessed with virginity. They want their wives pure, their daughters chaste. Only their mistresses are exempt from this.
I don’t care about virginity, and still I find myself pleased with this confirmation that Katya is so ignorant of such things. It means her expectations will be low, that I don’t have to concern myself with too many proprieties. She will not know any better.
Beep.
She is chatty this evening. Probably she is laying on her hard little motel mattress, wondering what tomorrow will bring to her.
I wish you were still alive, she writes. I really think we could have been friends eventually.
A snort slips out my nose. Not fucking likely. And if she had known him only a little better, she would have reconsidered this sentimental wish.
“Follow her to work tomorrow,” I tell Anatoli through the phone. “And then take the night off. I’m taking Catalina on a date.”
“A date.” I can hear his scowl in the words.
He does not understand why I have not just taken her.
Why we are wasting so many days doing nothing in Minneapolis.
But Anatoli is accustomed to action, and he is bored here.
He likes the thrill of the sort of work we don’t have to do any longer, dislikes the monotony of running an empire.
I hate it, too, some days. So I take my amusements where I can. And presently, Katya is one of them. I enjoy her sweet little blushes, her nervousness, the way her pulse flutters beneath my fingers. And I am looking forward to the day she realizes she was always mine.
But I am not careless with my possessions, and so Anatoli stays in her orbit—for now.
Even if he does not understand this, he does as I tell him.
“Da,” I say. “And get yourself a hotel or something. Or a house, if there is another one local.” I have much wealth stored in real estate all across the world.
I’m uncertain of the particulars, but Anatoli will know them.
The house I am staying in now is used mostly as a short-term rental property.
Almost certainly, Katya will not take me back to her shitty motel, and I don’t want her to connect Anatoli to me. So he cannot be there if—when—I take her home with me.
Anatoli grumbles, “For fuck’s sake. I’ll stay in the goddamned guest house.” I hear the annoyance in his sigh as he adds, “For how long?” I know he is asking how long I intend to let this farce—unnecessary, in his opinion—play out.
“I don’t fucking care,” I say. “However long it takes.”
∞∞∞
I arrive early, but only a few minutes. Katya has not yet shed her apron and cap.
I observe a moment through the coffee shop’s window, watching her bend her head to punch an order into the register.
I recognize the customer standing before her; the same man from yesterday morning, who dropped a five dollar bill in her tip jar.
In profile, his teeth shine a dazzling, unnatural white.
Maybe he is an orthodontist.
He presses a business card into Katya’s hand along with his cash, and I think, briefly, about knocking a few of those bright white teeth out of his skull. It would be satisfying, at least for a few moments.
But I do not want to draw too much attention to myself while I am here. I let the door jingle the bell above it loudly as I walk in. Instead of taking a place in the short line, I walk straight up to the counter, uncomfortably close to the man who is trying—and failing—to flirt with Katya.
“Ready to go, Katya?” I ask as I lean in.
Her head pops up from where she’s counting out change.
Her eyes flit to the clock across the store, still just a few minutes early.
The business card is still in her hand; she doesn’t want to keep it.
“Yes,” she says, and her shoulders sink an inch or two, her voice drenched with relief. “In just a minute.”
The man beside me has gone stiff, his face frozen, guarded. He has not forgotten me, I see. Maybe he is smarter than he appears.
Katya extends her hand toward the man to pass him his change. The business card rests on top. It has his photo on it, those too-bright teeth glinting on the glossy surface. It seems he is a realtor.
I make a note of his name in the event that he proves himself persistent enough to require a warning more firm than this. I lift my chin to indicate the business card still held in Katya’s hand with his change. “She won’t need that,” I tell him.
He swallows hard. With one hand he snatches up the coffee that one of the other employees sets before him, and with the other he grabs his change—and his business card—straight out of Katya’s hand. He retreats swiftly, without dropping even a dollar in the tip jar.
Maybe I will break a few of his teeth. It might improve his attitude, if not his sleazy smile.
The owner emerges from the back room. “Cat,” he says. “You’re off.”
His name is Darren. Of course, since he is in Katya’s orbit, I had Anatoli run a background check and scour his social media.
There’s not so much as a parking ticket in his past. He’s in his late thirties, and is a pillar of the community who volunteers at a soup kitchen every Tuesday.
He owns six cats, two dogs, and a rescued gray parrot.
He is openly gay and protective of his employees.
“Sorry,” Katya says as she closes up the register once more. “I’ll be just a minute. I have to get my things.”
Darren is waiting for her with her purse in hand, which he exchanges with her apron and her cap. They speak softly, but the shop is small and not so crowded that I cannot hear them.
“I hope you have a great time,” he says as he collects the store uniform from her and hands her purse to her. “But you’ve got my number. If you need anything, you call me. Any time.”
Katya gives him a sheepish smile. “Okay,” she says as she slings her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll make sure to text you, too.”
“Do that,” he says, and the hand he places on her shoulder to give it a squeeze is vaguely paternal.
It’s cute, almost, that Darren thinks he can protect Katya from me. When I tire of this game, there will be no phone call, no text. I don’t allow such mercies, and I don’t leave loose ends. Still, the offer gives her some measure of reassurance of her safety, and that is good. For me.
“And have fun,” Darren says in a conspiratorial whisper, with a broad wink.
Katya is already blushing, but there are dimples in her cheeks as she brushes a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “See you tomorrow,” she says over her shoulder.
And then she is all mine. For our date.