Prologue #4
Mickey comes to stand beside me as one of the waitresses begins to sing cante jondo, deep song, the emotionally intense sound for which southern Spain is famous. She sings of love and loss, every word sinking into my soul as if she’s singing my own story.
By the time Lourdes’s brother Carlos begins a soft beat on the wooden box drum, the crowd is silent, held by the musical spell.
The palmas begin, and Masha steps onto the stage.
Her face is set and remote, her eyes dark and wide in her face. She stamps the opening flourish of her dance and tilts her head up, staring arrogantly into the audience as if she owns it, and suddenly, she’s no longer just my little sister, nor even a child.
All this time, I thought she was spared the memories I carry from that cell.
But as her steel-capped feet move like lightning on the wooden boards, I see where Masha has been keeping the pain and fear of that experience all these years.
Even with my limited knowledge of flamenco, I can tell that Masha moves with a precision and depth far beyond her years.
I suddenly understand why her dance teacher has been so passionate about giving her extra lessons.
She dances like I play.
More than a decade might divide us, but it’s clear that the heartbreak and violence of our early years fuels her creativity, just as it does mine. Dance is the same refuge for Masha that piano is for me—the only place we can access the deepest part of ourselves and communicate what words never can.
She dances on, her small body whirling and stamping, every movement reminding me of things I’d thought long forgotten.
Masha clinging to me as a tiny child, sobbing, the night we got the phone call telling us Mikhail was dead. Screaming my name, her little hands clutching the air for me as our mother tried to strap her into the car and drive away with her.
Curled into my side years later, when our mother betrayed us for the last time, in that cold, dank Miami cell, waiting for the violent death we both thought was inevitable.
All this time, I’ve thought those memories were mine alone, that somehow I managed to spare Masha the worst of them. But now, watching her dance, I realize that those memories live inside her just as they do me. They’re a part of us both.
A part of us all, I mentally correct myself as Mickey’s hand slips into my own. The three of us survived those years together. Masha’s dance tonight isn’t just a performance for a crowd.
It’s her way of showing us both what she has never been able to say.
She spins with a flourish at the edge of the stage, her focused expression breaking into a sudden smile at something I can’t see.
My heart stops as I follow her eyes.
Alexei is standing in the shadows beside the stage, his expression for once entirely unguarded, his lone eye so full of pain and regret it makes my heart twist.
Masha makes a final, triumphant stamp, her arm in the air, and the audience erupts into ecstatic applause. She thanks the musicians, takes her own bow, and then almost immediately runs to where Alexei is standing.
“Lexi!” she cries. “Did you see me?”
I don’t hear his reply, only see him lift her from the ground and turn her in the air, propping her up on his shoulder as if she were still a little girl to face the crowd, so she can accept their cheers.
Her hand rests easily on his shoulder, and she clings to him like he’s the rock in a storm, her eyes shining as the crowd applauds her.
I almost envy my little sister.
I wish I could run to Alexei and throw myself into his arms. That he’d sweep me from the ground, hold me securely against him—and never, ever let me go.
Mickey’s grim voice interrupts my thoughts. “The only time I ever see that bastard smile is when Masha’s around,” he says, the edge to his voice unmistakable. “Talk about Stockholm syndrome.”
“Alexei didn’t kidnap us.” I sound sharper than I would like. “He was the Orlovs’ captive just as we were. And if it wasn’t for him, Masha and I would both be dead. Alexei saved us. That’s what Masha will always remember about him.”
“Not just Masha.” Mickey turns to me, his eyes rather more penetrating than I might like. “Be careful, Ofelia,” he says quietly. “I love Lex like a brother—but he’s fucked-up.” He gives me a slightly twisted smile. “Even more than us.” He kisses my cheek, then walks to the stage.
“Masha!” He holds out his arms. “You were incredible.”
She taps Alexei imperiously on the shoulder, and he lowers her carefully to the ground, smiling as she races over to embrace her brother.
Then Alexei sees me watching him, and his smile fades as if it never was.
He slips into the crowd and is gone.
It’s almost midnight, but the party is showing no signs of winding down. If Alexei weren’t here, I’d have gone clubbing with Lourdes and Benny by now and left my parents to it.
But Alexei is here.
He’s just nowhere near me.
I might have succeeded in getting Alexei and me into the same physical space, but actually conversing seems to be another thing entirely.
I can’t speak for the rest of the partygoers.
They’re intent on ensuring I have the best night of my life, which consists of handing me endless shots (most of which I discreetly pour into nearby pot-plants), making me dance, and including me in every conversation except the only one I want to be having.
It’s exhausting.
Which is why I’m currently barefoot on a private terrace in the darkness, surrounded by protective hedges and staring over the dark valley to the Alhambra’s soft curves on the opposite hill.
“To you.” I raise my champagne glass rather unsteadily to the ancient palaces. “After a thousand years, I imagine you’ve seen far worse tragedies than mine.”
“You do realize that’s the first sign of madness, don’t you?”
I freeze.
“Talking to yourself, I mean.” Alexei’s voice, low and amused, comes from the darkness behind me.
I’m torn between the desire to face him and the fear that if I turn around, he will simply slip back into the shadows.
“At least the Alhambra doesn’t disappear every time I try to talk to it.” I take my chances and turn around.
Alexei is leaning against an arbor. To my relief, he doesn’t immediately flee.
“Did you follow me out here?”
“Not guilty.” He gestures to a half-empty bottle of Scotch on a secluded bench behind him. “It was you who invaded my hiding place.”
“Wow.” Hurt makes me sound childish. “I’m sorry my party is so tedious you had to run away from it.”
His low laugh sends a disturbing thrill down my spine. “Says the girl hiding from her own party.”
“I’m not hiding.” I bite my lip to stop the rest of what I was going to say.
“Then what are you doing?” Alexei steps out from the shadows.
Not even the dim, distant light can soften the myriad of scars crossing his face, but for once, his mouth isn’t the hard line it usually is when he looks at me.
“If I’m interrupting some secret rendezvous, say the word, and I’ll take my party elsewhere.
” A hint of amusement stirs behind his eye, the surface blue turned so dark by the night that it’s almost indigo.
“A rendezvous?” I don’t even attempt to hide my sarcasm. “You think that’s what I do in my spare time, Alexei? Have secret rendezvous with random men?”
I stare at him, but he doesn’t answer, just watches me with that annoying look, halfway between amusement and something I can’t quite read.
“I meant what I said earlier.” Frustrated, I grip my champagne glass hard enough to put the stem in danger. “About you being a torturer.”
I take a dark satisfaction at his sharp intake of breath.
“I’ll leave.” He backs away from me, any trace of amusement gone.
“I don’t mean it in the way you think.” I go on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your comment about me having a secret rendezvous might have been funny—if I’d ever had so much as an actual date.”
Alexei is silent, but at least he hasn’t run.
Yet.
He’s watching me intently, but despite how deeply attuned I am to his every expression, I can’t read this one.
“I wonder if you can imagine what it’s been like.
” My voice shakes, but I’ve waited too long for this moment to let fear steal it.
“Seeing the paparazzi shots of you in nightclubs, or on your yacht, with a model under each arm. Knowing that you’re probably getting laid more than a porn star—while I’m drinking hot chocolate in my pajamas, with a security detail outside my door. ”
Alexei makes an uncomfortable noise. “Don’t talk like that.”
“About getting laid?” My laugh isn’t quite steady. “Why not, Alexei?”
“You’re family,” he says tersely. “And this is inappropriate.”
“Oh, fuck family!” I slam my glass down on the terrace wall, so hard it shatters. Shards fall to the ground around me, champagne running over my hand. Thankfully, the music is loud enough to drown out the sound of it breaking.
“Christ. Don’t move,” Alexei says warningly. “There’s glass everywhere. I’m going to pick you up, okay?”
I clench my fists, fighting conflicting urges to hit something or burst into tears.
His arms close around me, his dusky scent so familiar I close my eyes as he lifts me from the ground, savoring the bittersweet intimacy.
He carries me to the far end of the terrace and carefully deposits me on the wide stone wall at the edge of it. Still holding me with one arm, his body close to mine and hand splayed over my bare lower back, he frowns at the ground around us. “Where are your shoes?”
I have no idea where my shoes are, and care even less.
All I care about is keeping him close to me. All I can think about is his hand on my bare skin.
I crave his touch like the worst kind of drug.
He gives up looking for my shoes and raises his eye to mine, his mouth quirking wryly. “Fuck family?” He mimics me. “Somehow, I doubt that is the Borovsky family motto. Or the Petrovsky one, for that matter.”