Chapter Nineteen
In which horses make everything better.
Vadim…
Oksana's eyes are drooping midway through the trip to Chicago, and she asks Matvey, our flight attendant, for a fourth coffee.
"You need rest," I say.
"Oh…" She fusses with her laptop and looks anywhere but at me. "I always try to stay awake when I fly. I'm, um, a very noisy sleeper. I think I snore," she chuckles awkwardly.
She doesn't want to sleep because she's afraid she'll have one of her nightmares. In a private jet with an audience, that in the past would have likely been reported back to her father.
"There's a private bedroom in the back," I say.
Matvey returns with her coffee and he nods enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Turgeneva, that might be an excellent option. The bedroom itself is soundproofed from the rest of the cabin, so you could get some rest."
Oksana's eyes light up at the lure of a soundproof bedroom. "That actually sounds wonderful, if you don't mind, Vadim?"
I rise to my feet, taking her back. The room is small, but the bed is large and comfortable.
I've used it many times myself. She checks the attached bathroom and beams at me with the same level of enthusiasm I'd expect if I'd bought her a jet of her own, rather than offering her a protected place to sleep.
She's so happy with small kindnesses.
"Thank you," she says. "It's very thoughtful of you. I just wouldn't want to disturb your work if I was… loud."
One day, I think. The nightmares will be gone forever.
Stepan is lounging in her seat when I return to the main cabin. "Look at you," he says teasingly. "So solicitous. You're going to make a fine husband."
Ignoring him, I pick up my iPad again, going over some of the schematics for the ghost guns that the engineers sent me today.
"How's the set-up going?" Stepan asks, leaning over to look at the schematics with me. "How close are you to production?"
"Less than a week," I say. "One of the industrial 3D printers has a wiring issue related to the increased power load."
"This is a genius addition to our weapons line," Stepan marvels.
"Untraceable, non-serialized," I say. "Our engineer's design requires only minimal metal components by strengthening the nylon-carbon fiber composites."
"Will you let me fly into Chicago and see it in action soon?" he asks. I glare at him and he laughs, undeterred. "Not now, while you're still in your honeymoon phase with Oksana. But eventually?"
"Eventually," I grudgingly agree.
"There's been some nudges from a couple of the families," he says, his teasing grin dropping. "They don't have the specifics about our production, but they know we have the technology and the manufacturing specs for the weapons."
"Who?" I ask.
"Kirill Volkov and Lukyan Kuznetsov," he says.
I know them both well. Lukyan is already Pakhan of the Kuznetsov Bratva, and Kirill is next in line for Pakhan of the Volkov empire when his father Viktor steps down.
Over the years, Lukyan has somehow wrangled me into an association with three of the other heirs in the Moscow Six.
Along with Kirill, there's Andrei Balabanov, and Vladimir Bukharov.
As next in line as Pakhan for the Vasiliev Bratva, Oksana's brother Nikolai should be in the group, but no one trusts him yet.
We meet a few times a year to discuss outside threats that could impact our families. I've found the majority of the meetings involve drinking heavily and eventually disbanding as everyone goes in search of female company. Still, some work is done.
"Volkov might be good," Stepan says thoughtfully. "I know we got those trading routes through Turkey with your marriage to Oksana, but Volkov's shipping line is the largest of any of the Six."
"No need," I say. "We'll see how production goes, and how many units we can sell before bringing in anyone else."
"Agreed," he says. "Let's not jinx this by being too confident, eh?"
We land long enough in New York to refuel and send Stepan on his way.
Ignoring my stiffness, he gives me a brief hug.
"Goodbye, brother. Call me if you need any tips on how to woo your new wife," he says, his infuriating grin back in place.
"You've got the strong, silent vibe perfected, sure.
But your seduction game? It is not strong. "
I raise a brow at him. I've never needed game. Nor charm, or flattery. Often, not even words to get who I wanted. It was only sex. No kissing, they didn't touch me. Oksana will be different. When she touches me it's delicate, almost tentative. For the first time in fourteen years, I welcome it.
Waking her up before we land in Chicago takes an intense level of self-discipline.
Oksana is curled up on the bed, the comforter tangled around her legs and her blonde hair flowing across the pillow.
She looks so beautiful at rest, lips slightly parted, peaceful.
The little worry line between her brows is gone.
I want to crawl over her and wake her up with my tongue, the way I had the morning after our wedding.
"Mr. and Mrs. Turgenev?" Matvey interrupts my moment. "If I can ask you to return to your seats?"
Oksana wakes up instantly. "Oh! Of course." She wallows in the embrace of the clinging comforter for a moment before I help her get loose, escorting her back to her chair.
I should have told the goddamn pilot to circle Chicago for an hour while she was still asleep. Then, I'd have had the time to wake her properly.
"I recognize that traditionally, this would probably be a ridiculous question," she says, flushing a little. "But where do you live?"
We're blazing along I-94 in my Maserati, heading toward Lake Bluff and my home. I chose to drive us, feeling restless and wanting Oksana to myself. We still have two security chase cars following us, and one ahead. I don't take chances in an environment that I'm not completely familiar with.
"I keep a place downtown," I say. "But my home and the stables are in Lake Bluff."
She's instantly illuminated with happiness and twists in her seat to face me fully. "You live so close to me, I never knew! And stables, so you have horses, too?"
I glance at her before changing gears. Will she remember? When she sees the horses, will it shake anything loose?
"Yes. We can bring your mare there as well," I say.
"Thank you!" she beams. "That would be wonderful to have my Zlo so close. I have to keep her at a stable about eight miles away from my father's house here."
We pause in front of the tall, heavy iron gates as they slowly open. She gives me a sly glance out of the corner of her eye. "Do you have land mines in the backyard?" she asks.
Fighting a smile, I shake my head. "It would be unwise. The guard dogs might set them off." Her smile disappears, and I get the sense my wife is not quite as comfortable with dogs as she is with horses.
I bought this house because it already had excellent stables on the grounds. But it also reminded me of St. Petersburg, a Georgian style mansion built with golden stone, with huge oak trees lining the drive.
Turning into the circular driveway, I see the front door is already open and Mrs. Christova is waiting to greet us, a huge smile wreathing her face.
She's an unnaturally cheerful woman in her early sixties who insisted on following me from Moscow after her husband, a soldier of mine, was shot.
He didn't die in conflict; it was during a hunting trip.
For a respected Brigadier, it was considered the most ignominious possible end.
We still took care of her as if Martyn had died in service to the Bratva.
They'd never had children, and when I relocated to Chicago, she came, too.
She is a bit jumpy around me - especially since the first night when I came home covered in blood after handling a "construction issue" with the new plant. So perhaps she's relieved to have another woman in the house.
"Welcome home!" she calls happily as I help Oksana out of the car, the line of chase vehicles pulling up behind us.
My bride might be taken aback by the exuberance of Mrs. Christova's greeting, but she doesn't show it.
"Hello," she says warmly, holding out her hand.
I allow her to make her own introductions.
"A pleasure to meet you, I'm Oksana Vasilieva Turgeneva," she says, glancing at me as she stumbles over the unfamiliar last name.
The housekeeper's hands fold over hers warmly. "We were so very happy to hear that Mr. Turgenev had married such a lovely bride. I'm Mrs. Christova. If there's anything that you might require, please let me know. Would you like a tour, Mrs. Turgeneva?"
"Actually…" Oksana looks at me hopefully, biting her lip. "Do you think it's possible to see your stables first?"
"Of course," I say, taking her hand and leading her down the long hallway to the back of the house. Three sets of French doors fill the hall with sunlight, opening onto the back terrace facing the forest.
It takes me a minute to realize that instead of placing my hand on the small of her back, I'd taken her hand. Like lovers would. She doesn't seem to mind, fingers pressed confidently against mine as we walk.
"Do you think Mrs. Christova is disappointed about the tour?" she whispers. "I know it's a pretty big flex, showing off how beautiful the house is when you're the one caring for it."
Kissing her hand, I say, "She will survive."
The stables are an easy walk from the house. There's a road that runs alongside the house, curving around the back, that ends by the stables and tack shed. We have golf carts for getting around, but Oksana's already walking rapidly, eager to meet the horses.
Charon is out in the corral with my stable manager, Tomas, who's been grooming him, and his dark coat shines like obsidian.
When my horse hears our footsteps, his ears twitch, and his head jerks in our direction.
Tomas is abandoned, landing on his ass as Charon bumps him in his haste to trot over to the fence, whinnying insistently.
"Of course, he's yours," Oksana says, trying to hide a smile at my stable manager's embarrassment.
"Welcome home!" Tomas calls, getting to his feet, wincing.
"Charon," I murmur, running my hand over the long, smooth profile of his head. "I've missed you too, yes?" He bumps my shoulder impatiently, bending his head closer. "Ty dolzhen khorosho otnosit'sya k moyey koroleve. You must be good for my queen."
Rearing his head back as if he's nodding, my stallion steps closer to Oksana.
Her hands are planted over her heart, her eyes a bit watery as she stares at him.
"Charon,” she says. “The gatekeeper who carries the souls of the dead across the River Styx.
Would he allow me to touch him, or does he need some time to get used to me? "
"Be good for me now, my friend," I tell him. I take her hand, bringing it closer. He is still for a moment before dipping his head slightly and I place her hand along his neck and mine over hers, running them down his silky coat.
"Oh," she says softly, rapturously. "You are so beautiful, Charon. You're…"
Her hand pauses, her lips parting as she stares, her hand still on Charon.
Does she remember?
Blinking, she looks at me. "I just remembered!
Before I left here for Moscow and the wedding, I think I saw you.
It was very early one morning, way before the sunrise, you were galloping down the trail behind my house.
Galloping in the pitch black like a man who has no fear of tree branches.
It was you, wasn't it?" Her eyes are alive with excitement.
There's a dull ache of disappointment in my gut. When she'd said, "I just remembered," I'd thought…
It's not important. For fourteen years, I've never wanted her to remember what happened to her. That shouldn't change now.