40. Artem
Artem
I wake before she does, which is not surprising.
I've never slept well. Even as a child, before I had anything worth losing sleep over, I would lie awake in the dark cataloguing things, sounds, threats, the heaviness of silence. It's a habit that became a skill that became something I can't turn off.
I've stopped trying.
What's surprising is that I slept at all considering the way my mind raced as I tried to figure out my wife. A woman I feel like I know so well, and yet, remains a mystery to me.
I ease out from under her, trying not to disturb her. She needs the sleep. While she is as beautiful as ever, the dark shadows under her eyes haven't dissipated, which means she's not sleeping.
Grabbing the blanket I found last night before we'd crashed, I tuck it around her, making sure she is warm.
I don't question my absolute need to protect her. It's something that I've felt since those first moments, and no matter what I do, I can't escape it.
It's why I started dismantling Viktor's empire. Because I didn't want her wrapped up in it. Too bad, I did the opposite.
Shaking my head, I pull on my boxers, making my way to the kitchen.
The stark white of the divorce papers catch my eye.
Five sets.
I count them.
I smile as I recall Pyotr's incessant anger over them. First, he was angry with me for giving her whatever ridiculous thing she asked for, and then, he was irate over her refusal to settle once she got those things.
He wasn't the only one. Every time she came back with something, I was sure it was her way of punishing me, of making me insane.
After the second set, I broke my rule, and I started following her. I told myself it was to keep her safe, but in reality, I wanted to see her.
I…missed her.
Come upstairs.
Her eyes twinkled with promise, and even though I knew it was a bad fucking idea, I still followed her. Apparently, I'm a glutton for punishment, and I wasn't about to deny myself one last opportunity to touch her skin, to taste her, to be where no other man has ever been.
The very last thing I expected before we drifted off was for her to tell me that she wasn't signing the divorce papers.
Glancing at the table, I see the twinkle of Irina's necklace, the one Nadia gave Katya.
I bought it for my sister the week before her wedding.
I thought if I could give her something beautiful to wear on the worst day of her life it would mean something.
Now, I realize how fucking stupid that idea was, and I'm not surprised Nadia ended up with it.
Irina would likely have thrown it in a jewelry box and ignored it.
I reach out and pick it up, turning it in my fingers as the rising sunlight plays against the gold chain.
I'm not sure how long I look at it, lost in thoughts of my sister, myself, and my wife.
I don't look up until I see the soft pad of Katya's feet. She appears in the kitchen in my shirt, the long white fabric brushing against her thighs.
The sight of her makes me realize I don't fucking care about the necklace.
"Coffee?" I ask her.
"Please."
I turn to make it, because it gives both of us somewhere to look that isn't each other, which feels necessary for approximately sixty seconds.
I set the coffee in front of her. She wraps both hands around the mug. I stand on the other side of the counter, and we are very careful with each other in the way of two people who have said a great deal and also nothing and are not certain which of those things happened last night.
She glances down at the mug after she takes a sip, an odd expression on her face.
"Is it wrong? You take it with cream and sugar, correct?"
She looks at me again, her hazel eyes feel like they are slicing through me.
"You can go," she speaks softly, surprising me. "If you want. I know what I said last night, but I've changed my mind. I'll sign the papers, and we can…" she takes a shaky breath, "…I don't know. Move on."
"What changed?"
She looks at her coffee, her knuckles white against the handle. "Nothing changed."
"Something did. Last night you told me you weren't going to sign the papers. Is there something else you want to negotiate?"
She snorts. "Not everything is a business deal, Artem."
"I'm aware, Katya." I'm trying to be calm, but my heart slams against my ribs in a way I've only experienced once or twice in my life, and it's getting harder and harder to keep hold of my control.
"I'm not going to force you into something you don't want. I get that you want the Bratva, and we can discuss that because I have zero interest in running things."
"I'm aware, but I'm not?—"
She stops me. "I'm not interested in keeping you from the freedom you clearly want."
I look at her for a moment, trying to work through my shock.
"You think I want freedom?"
She takes a sip of her coffee, trying to appear nonchalant, but I can see a slight sheen in her eyes, and I'm worried I'm hallucinating. "I mean the only reason you even went after me was because of Viktor."
"That is how it started, Katya?—"
She looks up, her eyes big and waiting for more. I sigh, running my hands through my hair. I would rather be shot again than discuss my feelings. Clearly though, Katya isn't going to let this go. She wants that from me — feelings.
"Things are different now. If I wanted to use you, I wouldn't be willing to give you a lion's share of my wealth and set you free."
She releases a shaky breath. "Because you feel guilt?"
I laugh. "I'm not a good man, Katya. Yes, I did wrong by you, but there's a part of me that won't ever be able to feel guilty. Irina deserved to be avenged." I take a step toward her, pleased when she doesn't move. "And you deserve to be mine."
We both stop and hold our breath. The moment is charged, and I know, maybe we both do, that it is going to define what happens next.
The corner of her mouth moves.
Mine does too. I can feel it, which is unusual.
"We're idiots," she says.
"Apparently."
She laughs. It's short and real, and it reminds me of when we first met. It's the laugh I heard in her apartment over Chinese food, before everything, and hearing it now in this kitchen does something to my chest that I don't bother trying to manage.
"Irina would hate this," I tell her.
She looks at me with surprise that shifts into something softer. "Which part? The forced marriage? The threats of murder? The miscommunication?"
"All of it. She had very little patience for men who couldn't say what they meant." I pause. "She used to say that half the world's problems would be solved if men were capable of a direct sentence."
Katya is quiet for a moment. "She sounds like someone I would have liked."
"She was." I look at the necklace in my hand. "She was someone everyone liked. It was her peculiarity; she was too easy to love and too trusting of people who didn't deserve it."
I set the necklace on the counter between us.
Katya looks at it. Doesn't touch it. "You should keep it."
"I've got better things to remember her by."
She looks at me. I look back. The morning light warms the kitchen.
"I've been thinking," she says, "about the Bratva."
I wait.
"I know I can't end it," she says. "And neither can you.
I've spent a lot of time over the past four months being angry about that.
The FBI can't touch it, and even if they could, someone else would just fill the space.
" She wraps her hands tighter around the mug.
"But I've been thinking about what to do with it. With the money, specifically."
"What did you have in mind?"
"A theater." She looks at me directly. "For children.
Kids who can't afford to train, who have the talent and not the resources.
Funded through the Bratva money." She pauses.
"It won't undo anything. I know that. But it's — I keep thinking about Irina, who wanted to be a teacher and didn't get to be.
And I keep thinking about the girl I was at nine years old, watching the Bolshoi for the first time, and what that dream might have looked like if I didn't have the money to pursue it.
You were right when you said I was spoiled. "
I open my mouth to argue.
"You were right," she stresses. "I can admit that. Please let me."
I nod, but I can't help but want to bring her down to Earth, just slightly.
"That's not how criminal enterprises work," I say. "You can't launder a crime organization into a nonprofit and call it balanced."
"I know."
"The money doesn't become clean because of where it goes."
"I know that too." She meets my eyes. "I'm not saying it makes it good.
I'm saying it's better than what was. Alexei used the money to trade women.
My grandfather didn't care where it went or where it came from as long as he had power.
" She pauses. "This isn't absolution. I just…
" she trails off. "I need to do something good with it. "
I look at her for a long moment.
She holds my gaze with the particular patience of a woman who has made up her mind and is waiting for the rest of the room to catch up.
For a moment I don't think about the Bratva or the money or the machine that will keep turning regardless of what either of us decides. I just see her — standing in my shirt in the morning light, holding a coffee mug with both hands, asking me to let her build something out of the wreckage.
She's right. I know she's right. Not about the morality of it — I meant what I said, there's no moral equation that makes a crime organization good — but about the difference.
About the direction of it. Viktor built something that ran on other people's misery.
Katya wants to build something that at least brings joy.
It's not the same machine.
"You'd need someone to run the darker side," I say finally. "The Bratva's not going to just disappear."
She bites back a smile. "I know someone."
"He's not a good man."
"No," she agrees, stepping into me. I wrap my hands around her waist. "But he's good to me."