Chapter 15 Fyodor
FYODOR
Sasha has his face pressed so close to the glass that his breath keeps fogging it up, and every few seconds, he wipes it away with his sleeve and leans right back in to stare at the eggs.
The Fabergé collection sits under soft lighting, all that gold and enamel and tiny gemstones catching the glow, and I watch Noemi admiring them with an expression I haven't seen on her face before.
She's gorgeous when she's angry, but she is absolutely radiant when she's at peace, and I find myself staring at her.
"They're so small," Sasha says. "I thought they'd be bigger."
"They were made for the Tzarina." Noemi crouches down next to him and points at the nearest egg, hovering her finger close to the glass. "See all those tiny flowers and leaves in the enamel? And look, there's a little surprise hidden inside."
I hang back with my hands in my pockets and let them have this.
The museum's quiet, only a few tourists wandering through the galleries, and a guard stands near the entrance looking bored out of his mind.
I do a sweep myself, because I'm waiting for someone, and then I turn my attention back to my son and the woman I can't seem to get out of my head no matter how hard I try.
"Mamochka would have loved these." Sasha sounds sad now, and that tugs at my heart awkwardly. "She had pictures of them in a book, and she used to show me and tell me all the stories."
Noemi's hand finds his shoulder and squeezes, and I feel slightly jealous of that connection she has and how easy it is for her.
She knows how to comfort him and I haven't quite figured that out yet.
Maybe it's because we had a rough start, or maybe she's just better at it because she's a woman, but I'm determined to understand and do better.
After admiring the eggs for several more long minutes, we walk through the gallery and into the hall with the carriages, these massive, gilded things with wheels taller than Sasha, and velvet seats roped off behind thick cords.
He runs ahead to peek through the windows of a black coach, pressing his hands against the glass even though there are signs telling him not to.
He's enjoying himself and doing no harm other than leaving fingerprints, but it makes me tense. When Noemi falls into step beside me, I feel more at ease. She sees what I see but she's not moved. Maybe I’m too uptight.
"Are you enjoying this?" I ask at almost a whisper.
When I requested that she come along, it was for a purpose.
I'm meeting with Rurik shortly, though she doesn't know that, and I will need someone to keep a close eye on Sasha. Leaving them sitting in the hotel while I am out just didn’t seem like the right thing.
This is better for both of them, and better yet that she believes I personally wanted her to be here.
Besides, I'm starting to enjoy her company too.
She glances over at me, and there's something warmer in her face than I've seen in days.
"I am. Thank you for bringing us."
"Sasha needed to experience something good." I pause, not sure if I should say the next part, and then I say it anyway. "And so did you."
Color rises in her cheeks and she looks away, but not before I catch the small smile pulling at her mouth.
Funny how that tiny smile can make my heart thud against my ribs as hard as it does when I’m in a dangerous situation.
Yet another reason this captive teacher of mine is a risk I'm taking.
She's getting tangled up in my nervous system too quickly.
"Mamochka would love those carriages too," Sasha calls out from across the gallery. "She always said she wanted to ride in one." I wince at the words because he's so loud, but he doesn't understand etiquette yet.
And he keeps mentioning his mother, bringing her up like she's still alive somewhere waiting for him to come home, and I don't know what to say to any of it.
The very idea that I'll have to eventually help him move on past this feels like a harder task than hunting down a man in state's protection.
What do you say to a ten-year-old who's grieving?
Sasha takes off toward the sword displays at the far end of the gallery, and I watch every step his squeaky sneakers take. This kid has gotten under my skin faster than I ever thought possible. Just a few weeks ago, I was alone in this world, and now I have a son. It's mind boggling.
He stops in front of a case full of ancient blades and immediately starts trying to climb over the velvet rope to get a closer look. I've tried to keep my calm this entire time, but this time, it's not just fingerprints on glass. He's breaking rules and he needs some discipline.
"Sasha!" I shout, and my voice bounces off the walls loud enough to make the guard look up. "Get down from there and don't touch anything."
He freezes with one leg over the rope, and his eyes go wide in fright.
I know I sound harsh, but this is what fathers do, right?
But Noemi gives me a scowl and Sasha scrambles back to the right side with his cheeks going red.
The guard takes a step toward us, and I hold up my hand to let him know everything's fine.
"You didn't have to yell at him," Noemi hisses, all that earlier warmth gone in an instant. "He's a kid looking at swords, not a soldier you're ordering around."
"Those things are older than this entire building and that case could tip over on him. What do you want me to do, let him get himself killed?"
"Then you walk over and explain that quietly. You don't shout across the room and embarrass him in front of everyone."
I can't stop the anger that rises quickly in my throat, and I clench my jaw to keep from saying something I'll regret.
I thought Noemi and I were finally making progress toward a good working relationship, but every time I think we're moving forward, she finds a new way to remind me that I'm doing this wrong and that I don't know how to be what Sasha needs or what she wants me to be.
"You don't get to tell me how to handle my son." I start in his direction, and she quickly falls into step next to me with hasty strides that have her feet slapping the floor.
"Someone has to, because you clearly don't have a clue."
"And you do? You've known him a few weeks—I'm his father."
"Then act like it." Her eyes flash hot with anger.
"Real fathers don't scare their kids into behaving.
Real fathers talk to them and treat them with respect and help them understand the consequences to life's decisions.
" Now her eyes flash with rage and protectiveness, which is endearing, but she's saying things on purpose to hurt me.
I've spent my whole life teaching myself not to be moved by what people say, but somehow, she has this ability to shoot right through my armor.
I want to tell her that I never had a real father and I turned out fine, but I shove the anger down into the cold place where I keep everything else and make my voice come out flat.
"Stay with Sasha by the swords. I need to take a walk before I say something we'll both regret."
"Fyodor—"
"Stay with him."
I turn and walk away before she can argue, making people look up from their exhibit guides as I breeze past them.
I'm so angry, I can feel the physical tension in my chest muscles and an ache from trying to make myself remain calm.
How on earth I let her get under my skin so easily is beyond me.
I'm doing my best here and I know I’m failing.
But if she took half the compassion she has for that boy and helped me instead of lecturing me, we'd progress much faster.
But I don't have time to sit and think about it or sulk. I have a meeting to keep.
The gallery with the crowns and coronation robes is almost empty when I get there, and I spot Rurik right away, standing by a display case with his hands in his coat pockets. He doesn't look at me when I walk up. His gaze stays fixed on the embroidered fabric locked behind the thick glass.
"You're late," he grumbles. We've done business before and I know that tone. He's annoyed.
"I had to get away from my companions."
"The woman and the boy." If there's one thing Rurik is good at, it's surveillance. He has eyes and ears everywhere. He probably knew my entire situation within an hour of my checking into that hotel. "Risky, bringing them here."
"I didn't have a choice, and I didn't come here to talk about my personal life." My frustration seeps out in my tone, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat and finally turns to face me.
"I have what you need…" he says, slipping me an envelope. "The addresses have been checked out. No word on who's inside, but intel is good that your target is in one of them."
"How fresh is the information?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder. I told Noemi to stay put, but I can't risk that she'll move and see me here against my orders.
"Fresh enough." He holds out his hand, palm up. "But nothing comes free."
I reach into my coat and pull out the envelope thick with bills and hand it over. Rurik takes it without counting and slides it into his pocket in one smooth motion.
"The first one is your better bet," he says, passing me a folded piece of paper. "Sources say the police presence is limited. I think they think he's safer here away from Gravitch territory."
"What about Knyazev?"
"Still glued to his side, far as my people can tell." Rurik's eyes flick around the gallery and then return to fix on me. "They're not protecting Knyazev, but I'm sure they won't let you just walk in and shoot the fucker either."
I tuck the paper into my pocket and catch movement at the edge of my vision. Noemi appears in the gallery entrance, scanning the room until they land on me and Rurik standing too close together. Her expression shifts from worry to suspicion in about half a second.
"I should go," Rurik says, reading the situation instantly. "Good luck with Koslov. And with the woman."
He slips away through a staff door before I can respond, and I turn to face Noemi as she walks toward me with her jaw set and her arms crossed.
"Who was that?"
"Nobody."
"Don't lie to me." She looks over her shoulder at Sasha and keeps her voice low. "I saw you hand him something. I saw the envelope… Was it money?"
"It doesn't concern you." My eyes track over to where Sasha is now pressing his steam-breathing face to the glass holding the coronation outfit of Catherine the Great. I really need to teach that child to read signs and respect rules.
"Everything that touches Sasha concerns me." She steps close enough that I can see the tiny bulging vein in her forehead, displaying how her blood pressure is up. I almost chuckle at how easy it is to get her going. "You brought us here as cover for some kind of deal, didn't you?"
"It's time to leave," I tell her before she can say whatever she's thinking. "Right now."
"Sasha hasn't finished looking at the swords," she protests, but I'm already moving, ignoring her. I won't be dressed down in public like this, and I won't tolerate her backtalk much longer before I can't control my urge to smack her silly.
"He can come back another time. We need to go." Grabbing her by her bicep, I forcibly guide her toward the case where Sasha has effectively left enough DNA to frame him for any number of crimes in his future, and she whimpers with every step.
"Pig," she hisses.
"That's Mr. Pig to you, and if you don't stop speaking to me like that, you'll learn a lesson in respect yourself." I turn to Sasha and grunt, "Time to go…" as we walk past. When I don't pause to wait for him, Noemi wrestles against my grip harder, but he eventually catches up, winded from running.
"That was awesome! Can we come here tomorrow too?" Sasha asks, sounding delighted, but all I can think about is getting out of here and getting this job done. The faster I move, the faster I get back to my home where I can control things better.
I don't like the feeling that I'm failing.
I've never failed at anything in my life before now, and with Marat on the run, evading me more than once now, imposter syndrome is hitting me hard.
And every time I make a mistake with my son, Noemi is there to remind me that it's yet another thing I'm not good at.