13. Vera
VERA
Iwake to dim morning light and the sound of rain against the windows.
For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. Then it comes back to me; I’m in Roman’s penthouse.
I roll over and check the time. Seven o’clock. There’s no sign of Roman. He must have left hours ago.
The tiredness from yesterday hasn’t gone away; if anything, it’s worse. I feel like I spent the whole night running instead of sleeping.
The shower helps a little. The hot water eases some of the ache from my muscles, but it doesn’t touch the exhaustion that seems to have settled into my bones. I dress in clothes I find in the closet, and make my way to the kitchen.
The penthouse is too quiet without Roman in it. Every footstep echoes off the hardwood floors.
I’m halfway through a cup of coffee when the front door opens.
Oksana steps inside, shaking the rain from her coat. There’s something different about her today. She isn’t in her usual uniform. Instead, she’s wearing gray jeans and a loose white blouse.
“Good morning,” she says, hanging her coat by the door. “I hope I’m not too early.”
“You’re right on time.”
She moves to the kitchen and begins unpacking a bag I didn’t notice she was carrying.
I see fresh fruit, pastries, and a carton of eggs.
Roman has a chef, but Oksana knows I prefer to make my own breakfasts.
She works with the same efficiency she always had at the mansion, but there’s something more relaxed about it now.
“Roman asked me to keep you company today,” she says, setting a box of croissants on the counter. “And to make sure you have something other than coffee.”
“I was going to eat.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me.
I set my coffee aside. “Where is he, did he say?”
“He didn’t.” She pauses in her unpacking. “Business, that’s all he ever says.”
Too right.
I pick at a croissant while Oksana finishes putting away the groceries. “Get dressed,” she says when she’s done. “We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“For coffee. Real coffee, not that instant stuff you’ve been drinking.”
I look down at my cup. “This isn’t bad.”
“You must miss that little café on Richardson Street.” She shoos me toward the bedroom. “Go. I’ll clean up here.”
She’s right, of course. I do miss that café; it has these cute booths in shades of aquamarine, and tealights that turn the world a hazy gold. Not to mention, it has the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.
Besides, a chance to get out of this penthouse isn’t something I’ll pass up.
I decide to change into something more appropriate for leaving the penthouse. After a minute of deliberation, I change into wide-cut jeans and a yellow top. It’s more summery than the weather demands, but I need to feel normal.
When I emerge, Oksana is waiting by the door with an umbrella.
The rain has slowed to a fine mist. We walk the two blocks to Hot Shot Café. The place is warm and crowded. The scent of espresso immediately hits me. God, I’ve missed this.
We find a table in the corner and order our drinks. I wrap my hands around the warm cup and let the heat seep into my fingers.
“Tell me about him,” I say. “Roman.”
Oksana’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in her eyes. A carefulness that wasn’t there before. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything.” I take a sip of my coffee. “He told me some things about his exile. I feel like I’m only getting pieces of the story.”
“That’s because he only gives pieces.” She stirs her tea, the spoon clinking against the sides of the cup. “Roman has always been private. Even when he was young, he kept things close.”
“What was he like before?”
Oksana considers the question, her gaze drifting to the window, to the rain sliding down the glass.
“Roman was softer,” she says finally.
I almost laugh. “Roman?”
“Once.” Her expression turns distant. “When they were boys, Dmitri would break something and Roman would take the blame. Dmitri would start a fight and Roman would finish it. Roman thought that was what brothers did.”
“Protected each other.”
“No.” Oksana looks at me. “Roman protected Dmitri. Dmitri learned to let him.”
Something cold settles beneath my ribs. “When did that change?”
“It didn’t happen all at once. That was Dmitri’s gift—nothing ugly ever did.” She turns her spoon slowly between her fingers. “First he learned Roman would lie for him. Then that Roman would bleed for him. Eventually, he wanted to know how much more his brother would give.”
“And Roman kept giving?”
“Until Dmitri asked for something he wouldn’t.”
I wait, but Oksana says nothing.
“What?”
Her fingers go still around the spoon. “That,” she says quietly, “is the part you should ask Roman yourself.”
I stare at her. “Konstantin knew what was happening between them,” I say. “He knew what Dmitri was becoming.”
“Of course he knew.”
“Then why didn’t he stop it?”
Oksana gives me a sad smile. “Because Dmitri wanted his father’s approval.” She pauses. “Roman wanted his respect.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Dmitri could be controlled by withholding the first.” Her eyes meet mine. “Roman could not be controlled at all.”
I stare down at my coffee. “And when Dmitri framed him?”
Oksana’s expression closes.
“Roman told me about the betrayal,” I go on. “About Siberia.”
“Then you know what it cost him.”
“Ten years.”
“More than that.” Her voice softens. “He lost his family long before he came back.”
I look at her.
“Exile doesn’t begin when they put you on a plane, Vera. Roman spent years learning there was no place for him in that house unless he became someone his father could control. And he wouldn’t.”
The café is warm around us, but I feel cold. I think about Roman as a boy, questioning his father. I think about him in Siberia, learning to survive in a place designed to break him.
The rain hasn’t stopped by the time Oksana and I get back to the penthouse. I spend the rest of the afternoon curled up on the couch, trying to read the same book I’ve been attempting for days. The words blur together, my mind too full of Oksana’s warnings to focus on anything else.
Around six, I hear the front door open. I don’t move from my spot on the couch, but my body goes on alert. It’s a habit I picked up from three years of marriage to a man who could turn violent without warning.
“It’s me.”
Roman’s voice comes from the hallway. A moment later, he appears in the living room doorway, shrugging off his coat. His hair is damp from the rain and there’s a bag in his hand that smells like garlic and tomatoes.
“Reading again?”
“What else would I be doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses to the kitchen and starts unpacking the bag. Containers emerge one after another: pasta and garlic bread, salad, and something chocolatey.
“I got Italian,” he calls out. “From that place on Taylor Street.”
I sit up straighter. “Mario’s?”
“That’s the one.”
I slide off the couch and pad barefoot to the kitchen. The smell of rich tomato sauce is unmistakable. It’s been years since I’ve had Mario’s. Since before Dmitri, maybe.
“How did you know that was my favorite?” I ask.
Roman is pulling plates from the cabinet. He doesn’t look at me when he answers. “I took a guess.”
My stomach flutters as I sit down at the breakfast bar.
Right. That makes sense, I suppose.
I watch him spoon pasta onto a plate. He’s dressed in his usual dark clothes, but they look rumpled now. It’s disarming seeing Roman anything less than perfect, but he looks good like this.
“Where were you today?” I ask.
“Handling things.”
“What kind of things?”
“The kind that don’t concern you.”
The words sting, but I let them go. I’m too tired to fight about it.
We eat at the kitchen island, which has so much space because there’s absolutely no decoration. The penthouse is beautiful but sparse, as if no one actually lives here.
The pasta is perfect, of course. It’s rich and savory, with just the right amount of heat. I close my eyes as I take the first bite, letting the familiar taste wash over me.
“This is amazing,” I say.
Roman watches me eat with an expression I can’t quite read. “You like it?”
I take another bite. “My mother used to take me to Mario’s on special occasions.”
“Your mother?”
It’s not a true question, but I answer anyway. “She died when I was sixteen. Cancer.” I push a piece of pasta around my plate. “She was the one who taught me to love food. Not just eating it, but cooking it, sharing it. She said meals were how people connect.”
“Sounds like she was wise.”
“She was.” I glance up at him. “What about you, did your mother cook?”
I don’t know why I even asked. Roman has never offered up information unless he wants to. I look at him, anyway, biting the inside of my cheek as I wait for his reply.
Something shifts in his expression. There’s a tightening around his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“My mother died when I was young,” he says. “I don’t remember much about her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” He takes a bite of his own food, chewing slowly. “My childhood wasn’t like yours. There were no special occasions or family meals.”
I set down my fork. The pasta is still steaming, a thick cloud billowing up from the plate.
“What was it like?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Dark.” The word hangs between us. “Konstantin wasn’t interested in raising children. He was interested in creating soldiers. From the time we could walk, Dmitri and I were trained to fight, to obey, to never show weakness.”
“That sounds...”
“Like hell.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he’s describing the weather. “It was, but it taught me how to survive.”
I think about my own childhood. The small apartment my parents shared was always clean but cramped. That was before my father got involved with the Bratva, when we were still happy. My mother would sing while she cooked, her voice filling the tiny kitchen.
Things never got better, but at least I had those moments of warmth.
“Did you have anything good?” I ask. “Any moments that weren’t about surviving?”
Roman considers the question. His fork hovers over his plate, forgotten.
“Dmitri,” he says finally. “Before he changed and the charm became a weapon. We used to sneak out at night and go to the lake near our property. We’d swim in the dark and dare each other to go deeper.”
“What happened?”
“We grew up.” Roman’s mouth curves, but it’s not a smile. “He learned that the world rewarded cruelty.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” He sets down his fork. “Look at where we are. Look at how we got here. Dmitri was cruel and he was rewarded with power and respect, with you. I was exiled to Siberia because I couldn’t keep up.”
I don’t know what to say. So I do what my mother would have done—I reach for more food.
“Tell me about your father,” Roman says.
I look up, surprised. “My father?”
“You never talk about either of your parents. So, talk.”
I pick up a piece of warm bread and tear off a corner. It’s an excuse to do something with my hands. Maybe I’m just putting off the inevitable.
I take a breath and set the bread down. “My father was... is... a gambler. Not a good one. He owed money to the wrong people, and they happened to be connected to the Volkonskys.”
“How much?”
I’m surprised he doesn’t know. Then again, perhaps only Dmitri knew the extent of Dad’s debts.
“Enough that they were going to kill him.” I push the piece of bread around my plate. “Dmitri saw me at a dinner. I was nineteen, I didn’t know what I was walking into.”
Roman’s jaw tightens. “He offered to forgive the debt in exchange for you?”
“It wasn’t an offer; it was a demand.” I meet his eyes. “My father didn’t even hesitate. He handed me over like I was a piece of furniture he no longer needed. We married a year later.”
The memory still hurts, even after all these years. My father avoided my eyes as the papers were signed. After, he patted my shoulder like I was a horse he was selling at auction.
“You were twenty,” Roman says. His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge beneath it.
“I was naive. I thought marriage meant love. Dmitri promised that he would take care of me.” I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “I was wrong.”