Chapter Eighteen
In which everything insists on getting more complicated and no one is getting a honeymoon.
Oksana…
I can hear the shower running when I wake up the next morning. The blackout drapes are half drawn across the windows and the morning sunlight illuminates only the corners of the room, protecting my eyes.
Heaving ungracefully out of bed, I find my purse, slipping my fingers through the sealed, secret lining to pull out my second phone.
My heart sinks. There are at least a dozen frantic texts and messages.
I hastily pull on a robe and step out onto the terrace, shutting the door behind me as I dial Yvette.
"Oksana!" Yvette explodes. "Thank God. I thought that Turgenev had already killed you as some sort of human sacrifice to his Murder Gods."
"That's a bit much, Yvette," I say sternly. "Vadim has actually been a far more protective and better husband than my father ever was as a parent. It's a long story. Tell me what's going on."
"That fucking Don Rossi is moving the timeline up. Luciana called me in a panic. He came home last night, stinking drunk and told her there was a party this upcoming weekend, and he told her to, and I quote, "Make sure the girls look very pretty."
"That's… horrifying," I groan, putting my hand on my forehead, pacing the terrace. The wind is whipping the robe around my ankles as I stare out at the city, trying to strategize. “This gives us, what? Three days, four days?"
"At the most," she says.
"Montel has their new identities ready to go," I say. "Um... don't we have two or three emergency safe houses that haven't been exposed yet?"
"Yes," she sighs. "One in Sydney, and another that I can safely guarantee in Vancouver. Both are registered under a shell company which is registered under another shell company. I feel confident he couldn't track them."
"Good! This is good, Yvette!" I say encouragingly, trying to shove out that little tinge of hysteria that keeps trying to creep in. "Okay. So, we need to get together an extraction group. Can she meet us, or is this something where we're going to have to pull her out?"
Yvette's losing her composure, and this is never good.
"Oksana, if we have to try to extract her from the Rossi compound, it's never going to happen," she says.
"We don't have that kind of firepower. This could blow apart our entire operation.
If we're exposed, everybody we've helped escape is dead, too. "
"I know." My heart's pounding in my throat, like it's trying to escape. "But we can't leave them there. We could… We could do this separately, right? Luciana's son's nanny is sympathetic, right?"
"Yes," Yvette says hopefully.
"Have her take him to one of the museums. The Chicago Children's Museum is right in Navy Pier, lots of tourists, easy to distract security.
Now, for the girls… didn't he say that he wanted them to look pretty? So, Luciana takes them to a spa. Navy Pier is right next to the Gold Coast; there has to be half a dozen bougie spas within walking distance. We can do this Thursday. It won’t look unusual to the Don. "
"This sounds reasonable," she says, cautiously hopeful. "His little boy, going out to improve his mind. The sisters are getting prettied up. But if we do this with the nanny, she's got to go with them. She'll be killed if she comes back without the boy."
"Agreed," I say, still trying to rub away a headache blooming behind my eyes. "I'll call Jerome back, get more papers. Who can you pull together in time for the extractions? Because this breaks up the regular plan, we're going to need twice as many people to make it work."
"I'll get started on it," she says, "How is your husband, the Angel of Death? You actually sound rather happy."
"I don't know if it's just for me, but he's different," I say. "Not the terrifying creature of the night everyone else sees. He's treated me very well. I know he's anxious to fly back to Chicago, so I'll convince him that I'm ready to go, too."
"There are three women I've worked with before on extractions," Yvette says thoughtfully. "They're expensive, but they're good. And they have no fondness for abusive pieces of merde, shit."
"Mercenaries… that can be good and bad," I say.
"I know, but at this point, we need all the help we can get," she sounds gloomy and I feel terrible that she's been dealing with this on her own.
"Agreed. I'll start making calls," I say. "Are you going to be okay?"
She lets out a short, hysterical little bark. "Of course I'm not okay. We keep getting reports from the bartender at the club he frequents, and every fucking conversation just gets worse."
"Don't you always scream at me for spiraling?" I ask. "Get it together, woman!"
Yvette sounds relieved to be able to laugh a little. "Please let me know when you're back in the States."
"I will. Take care." The bathroom door is still closed. I breathe a sigh of relief, slipping my phone in the robe's pocket. I'm pulling clothes out of my suitcase to change into when he walks out of the bathroom, the steam rolling behind him, and...
Oh.
The water is running down his pale body, beautifully sculpted and as hard as marble. I greedily look over the firestorm of tattoos sweeping from his shoulders, arms, and chest around to his back. I get a good look as he walks past me to head into his closet.
"Good morning, husband." He turns and gives me a nod.
"I was just getting dressed," I offer awkwardly.
"I know that you probably want to head back to the U.S.
as soon as possible and I am all for it.
" Oh, dear. The Patented Vadim Brow Rise again.
"The charity I work with has a lot of meetings," I explain, smiling with what I hope looks like confidence.
"There's always some mess or another to clean up, some disaster, so I'm eager to get back to work. "
Vadim's listening as he casually drops his towel.
A deeply unattractive, shrill little noise escapes me as I spin around, staring at the steam-wreathed bathroom.
I swear I hear something that sounds like a chuckle, but I have to be wrong, since he doesn't laugh.
I hear the rustle of clothing and turn around to see him pulling up the zipper on his pants.
"So, you know, of course, anything you need me to do, obviously, as your wife, you just need to let me know. Is there, like, a schedule or...?"
A crisp white dress shirt tragically covers his perfect torso as he walks over to me, putting his hand on my chin and gently closing my mouth. Holding my jaw, he takes a deep breath, then lets it out, and mine rises and falls with his without any input from me.
"There is nothing yet," he says. "Your charity work is fine."
There's an odd inflection on how he says charity.
I choose to ignore it. Maybe he just thinks I'm one of those silly, proper young Bratva princesses who busies themselves with good causes.
I call them the Ladies who Lunch. The type who drinks heavily during planning meetings and then throws lavish fundraisers that cost more than they bring in.
Vadim leaves the bedroom and I quickly shower and dress. There's a swift breakfast in a sunlight-filled room off the kitchen and I hurry to pick up my bag as he rises. He frowns at me, taking it away and handing it to a guard.
He guides me out into another hallway with a door on one side, and one on the other. "Which exit do we take today, husband?" I ask. Vadim looks like he's pretending he's not sure, looking between the two exits.
"Are you being playful?" I blurt out.
He frowns at me disapprovingly before taking my arm and turning left, heading to the door in that direction. Another biometric panel is on the wall next to it.
He turns to me. "Put your hand on the panel."
"Is it going to zap me?" I chuckle nervously. He ignores me, punching in a code as I place my palm flat against the screen. The outline around my hand flashes from red to green.
"You are in the system now," he says.
As we step back out onto the hallway leading to the elevator, for a moment, I feel a little bit like Alice, stumbling through Wonderland. Except for here, the White Rabbit is a tall and monstrously dangerous Russian who can kill faster than I can blink.
Many of the Bratva families here use the same private airfield.
Our entourage, though, turns and takes a different direction.
Apparently the Turgenevs aren't comfortable with sharing.
The cars turn toward an area just outside of Moscow near the river.
It's relatively desolate. The long buildings ahead of us look like warehouses.
However, there's a heavy chain link fence topped with barbed wire surrounding the buildings.
Vadim's driver taps a complicated code for the gates to open, taking us through. The building is actually a hangar, designed to look like a simple warehouse, with three jets sheltered there. The medium sized one is my favorite. A dark blue, the color of the sky at its bluest.
"An October sky," I murmur. Vadim looks at me, and I try to explain.
"There's nothing bluer than an October sky.
I've always thought that. Just before winter comes in, and autumn is in its last blaze of glory.
" The corner of his mouth curls up slightly.
"It's fanciful, but that's why the blue jet is so pretty to me. It's the same color. October blue."
Just then, that is the jet that taxis out onto the runway, before pausing and allowing the jet stairs to unfold.
I smile up at Vadim. "This is your jet, isn't it?"
"This jet is your favorite," he murmurs, "it also belongs to you."
The moment feels so warm. So husband and wife-like, that I practically float up the stairs.
The two pilots and the flight attendant are standing there to greet us. They all look like military veterans to me. A couple of my father's men came from the service. They all had that battled-scarred look of stoicism.
After a nod from Vadim, they introduce themselves and as the attendant shakes my hand, his shirt sleeve pulls up. I see the beginnings of an RAF tattoo.
"Her Majesty's Royal Air Force?" I ask.
"Yes, Mrs. Turgeneva," he nods. "The three of us."
"Well, I'm so happy that my husband poached you from the British," I say a bit cheekily. "They could never appreciate you as much as we do, here in the Motherland."
Both pilots seem startled into chuckles, which end quickly as they glance at Vadim's stern expression.
"Okay. No banter," I say, holding up my hands. "Understood."
The jet's interior is just as beautiful as the outside, with sleek, comfortable seats in an indigo blue leather, with clean lines of cream-colored trim. Two seats are set apart from the others, with a large table set in front of them and multiple monitors.
"I see you do a lot of work while you fly," I say.
"There's never a time where my brother does anything but work." I turn to see Stepan, his brother, behind us, grinning. "Good morning, Mrs. Turgeneva. I hope you had a restful evening."
It's an innocent question. Obviously, there's a tinge of sass behind it given that it was our wedding night. I don't think Stepan deserves the look of deadly promise lighting up Vadim's eyes.
Poor Stepan, I think. He'd better stay on guard. It's a long flight.
"Perfectly well, thank you." I smile pleasantly. "You're coming to Chicago too?"
"I have family business with the Morozovs in New York," he smiles. "You'll drop me off before heading home."
"It will be nice to have your company," I say. "I'd love to know more about your family."
He pretends to be surprised. "Would that be because my brother has said absolutely nothing?"
I don't know if this is an old game between the two of them. I, however, am already firmly on Team Vadim. "Your brother is the strong, silent type," I say. "When he does have something important to say, he tells me. It's very nice."
Vadim meanwhile, has been conversing quietly with the pilots, and as the engines begin warming up, he walks back to us.
Stepan attempts to sit down in one of the two seats.
Vadim yanks him back up again by his shirt collar, jerking his head to the seats on the right.
Unperturbed, Stepan straightens his shirt, and moves across the aisle.
"Newlyweds," he chuckles.