Chapter Eleven
In which you can always count on the cousins for some good gossip.
Oksana…
The girls are serious about not letting me go home. "We caught your mother in a weak moment," Anka says. "Let's take advantage of it."
"I have the perfect place," Caroline says. "We'll have dinner at the Hotel Tsaritsa. It's one of the Morozov properties and their restaurant is spectacular. Especially their desserts."
"This is so relaxing," Anka hisses to me. "Is this what it's like in the real world?"
I know what she means. Socializing with the daughters from the Six Families is a high-wire act, an exhausting balance of elaborate manners, rituals, and behaviors that have been embedded in us from the moment the sperm met the egg.
Every misstep is to be shared in whispers and texts - You won't believe what she did!
Then, a twittering round of scorn that won't die out until the next scandal or behavioral atrocity.
Being here with the Morozova women, laughing uncontrollably, feels so… uncomplicated.
Drinks are ordered, a tray of blini and caviar is presented to the table and Dasha launches into the story of her latest adventure, which includes a drunken tryst, the mayor's son and a conversation with the Central Park Mounted Police while in a state of undress in the koi pond.
"I had my underwear on, at least," she says defensively. "We never found Robert's pants. I think one of the fish ate them."
"This is the stuff of legends," Rose says, holding her stomach.
"Stop," I wheeze. "I think I cracked a rib from laughing too hard. You have to give me a break."
"On the bright side," Anka says, "No reporter in their right mind was going to cover that bust."
"Yeah, in retrospect, I was happy about that," Dasha says. "That might be my last official Drunk and Stupid moment for a while."
"Back to Oksana," Rose says, "since I'm guessing this is as close to a bachelorette party as you're going to get, we need to talk about all things you. In particular, why you don't seem freaked out at all. I mean, you're marrying the Angel of Death this weekend and you seem so calm about it."
Accepting another shot glass and tapping it against Caroline's, I down it and wince as the burn of vodka tears down my throat.
"What choice do I have? Are you going to be the one to tell my father and the Turgenevs that I'm not marrying Vadim because he's scary?
Do you want to look my husband-to-be in his icy blue eyes and tell him that? "
"Oh, she noticed his icy blue eyes…" Dasha fans herself with a cocktail napkin.
"So very blue," simpers Rose.
"Is this more like bleak resignation, then?" Caroline asks, ignoring them.
"No, it's my feeling that Vadim won't hurt me," I say.
"You all have that sixth sense by now, in the Bratva, it's survival, built into our DNA.
" The table grows a little quieter, they're all leaning in, putting their drinks down.
"We've all developed a finely tuned sense of who means us harm. I know I'm not the only one."
"This is true," Anka agrees. "And with a human wall of death and muscle like Vadim, you're the safest woman in the Northern Hemisphere."
"Rock solid," Rose agrees.
Iris knocks her shoulder gently against mine. "These men - the Morozovs and the Turgenevs - have an unbreakable bond of loyalty towards their women. I felt that way about Andrey, even when I initially hated his guts, I felt safe. Come for the wedding ring, stay for the cognitive dissonance!"
"Enough about Oksana, then," Caroline says, smiling at me gently. "Time to put someone else on the spot. Rose! What about you? Do you want to tie the knot?"
"Knot? More like a noose, no thank you," Rose says morosely.
"After a long line of not-great boyfriends - including the asshole who ran away when I was in the middle of an attempted kidnapping - I'm done.
My mad skills in flirtation are withering away and I'm okay with it.
Maybe I'll start a women's only co-op in New York City.
Can you imagine how fierce the bidding for an apartment would be? "
That's worth another round of shots.
"You're coming home with me tonight," I tell Anka.
"Why?" Her cheek is smooshed against my shoulder as an amused bodyguard helps me pour her into the backseat.
"Because you are deep in your drunk girl era and tonight is no exception," I say, putting on her seatbelt.
"That was fun," Iris says, giving me a hug as their drivers pull up to the front of the hotel, too. "Since you'll be in Chicago for the foreseeable future, we can all see more of each other."
Dasha nods at a blissfully snoring Anka. "I like her."
"That's because she reminds you of you," Rose says. "I like her too, for the same reason. You're taking her home?"
"Since her parents just allowed her out of Poor Life Choices jail, I think stashing her at my place to sober up is a good idea," I say.
"You know where we are," Caroline says. "We've exchanged numbers. You cannot escape us, so embrace the cousinhood. Anything you need to get through the next forty-eight hours, you call us."
Getting Anka up to my room is no problem, both of us are chatty drunks, so we have to thoroughly rehash my impromptu bachelorette party, lying in bed and cackling quietly, until we both fall asleep.
The sleep meds I take when at home to keep me quiet haven't knocked me out as hard these last few nights, which makes me worry I'm developing a tolerance to them. In the past, when I'd taken my meds I'd usually slept heavily. If I dreamt, I don't remember.
These last couple of nights, I've been dreaming of Vadim.
Last night, I dreamt I was standing in front of the painting again, The Abduction of Proserpine.
This time, we were Hades and Persephone.
Vadim's muscled arms held me tightly to his chest as his pitch-black stallions thundered down into the Underworld.
I'd woken up gasping, my hand wedged between my thighs, my undies soaking wet.
Tonight's dream is gentler. Vadim is looking at me, not smiling, because I don't think he ever has.
His blue eyes though, are warmer. Just slightly less than the polar shade that I remember.
He runs one calloused fingertip very carefully down my arm.
I realize he's tracing the scar I'd gotten....
I don't know how, exactly. I came back from my kidnapping with it.
"The scar's still there," he murmurs. "You were very brave."
"Why are you so kind to me?" I barely whisper, my lips just shaping the words. "Everyone else thinks you're a monster."
Dream Vadim places his thumb against my lips, pressing gently.
His rough hand cups my cheek, just for a moment before I surge out of my dream and sit up, heart pounding, looking around the room.
Everything is in place. The pillow on the chair next to my bed plumped just so.
The low light of the lamp shining against the far wall.
But the air feels different. Displaced, like something had been there, taking up space and is now gone.
Sliding out of bed without waking Anka, who is snoring happily, I stumble into the bathroom. Everything's the same here, too. Little bottles of lotion and cosmetics lined up in tidy rows. The smell of my peppermint soap.
There is something else. Something burnt. I take a deep breath, and it reminds me of Vadim the night we met, when he leaned in close to me. Burnt amber. Worn leather. The scent of something… how dark would smell if it was a scent.
That's ridiculous. Vadim hasn't been in my bedroom. Well, except for a couple of the sex dreams I've been having. I smother a groan. He had featured prominently in both of them.
Walking back into the bedroom, I still can't find anything out of place, so I crawl back into bed with Anka and I'm asleep in minutes.
The next morning, Anka consumes copious amounts of coffee and piroskis and heads back home, still looking a bit red-eyed.
The house is blissfully quiet; Father and my brothers are all gone. Mother is in her office, a pretty room, with furniture covered in floral prints. It's attached to the greenhouse behind the house so she can always have fresh flowers.
"Morning, mat'," I say, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "I shall ask you yet again. Is there anything I can do to make your life easier?"
"And yet again," she says, making rapid corrections on a seating chart, "I will tell you there is nothing."
"I'll be in my room if you change your mind," I say.
"Moy dóchenka."
"Yes?"
She looks up from her paperwork, she looks frailer this morning. "Did you have fun last night with the Morozova girls?"
"I did, thank you for setting me free from the chilly embrace of Mr. Maurice."
That gets a little chuckle from her, which is nice.
Mother doesn't laugh much. "I'm glad, you don't get much time out with friends here in Moscow.
I know…" she hesitates. "I know it's harder here.
" The fine lines on her face are deeper these days and I feel a surge of tenderness.
Balancing my father and her social requirements must be exhausting.
"I'm good, mat', thank you." I want to give her another kiss, but she's already back to her seating chart.
Safely back in my bedroom, I pull out my second phone and call my forger to check on the documents for the Rossi family.
"They're ready," Montel says. "Spotless little bastards. They'll stand up to any scrutiny."
"Thank you," I say fervently. "I'll figure out some kind of a bonus."
We talk business for a while, about the new international screening requirements and updated passports needed for another family. Montel complains about the poor availability of takeout at his latest location.
"Doesn't it seem strange to be getting takeout at your location when you're so paranoid that you won't even let me know where you live?
" I ask, looking out the window at our security making their rounds around the mansion and the gardens.
They're subtle, it would be terribly gauche to have the neighbors see armed guards, of course. Nothing so pedestrian and obvious.
"It's different," he says. "Gig workers would never rat on each other. We know our people."
"You're kidding me," I say bluntly. "They'd slip arsenic in your falafel for an extra fifty bucks. I wouldn't even hold it against them; fifty bucks is fifty bucks."
"You're a rich girl," Montel scoffs. "I'm telling you, it's different for us worker bees."
"Montel," I sigh, "how much did you make last year?"
Silence.
"Eleven million," he says reluctantly.
"Yeah, okay, worker bee." As I'm turning away from the window, my glance falls to the window sill and I frown.
"Oksana, are you still there?"
"Oh, sorry, Montel. I just got distracted. Let me know on the passports, okay?"
"Will do, talk soon," he says.
Crouching next to the window sill, I eye two marks on the white paint. Rusty brown. Faintly raised. Two fingerprints made from dried blood. They're big. I carefully place my fingers up against them. They're much bigger than mine. Somebody was in here.
***
Moy dóchenka - Russian endearment for my darling daughter.