Chapter Thirty-Three
In which everyone should have in-laws like Oksana’s.
Oksana…
Once we landed in Moscow, I'd expected that we would go back to Vadim's penthouse.
Instead, he takes me directly to the Turgenev mansion.
I haven't been there since the night of that painfully uncomfortable dinner, but my mother-in-law greets me like a long-lost member of the family, enveloping us both in hugs.
Vadim doesn't stiffen as much when she gives him the three-cheek kiss.
Has he become more comfortable with touch?
He certainly can't keep his hands off of me.
Really? Thinking about sex in front of his mother? Not the time!
“Thank you for having us, ma’am,” I say.
“Please, I hope you’ll call me Mamochka, if you’re comfortable,” she says, squeezing my hand.
“I would love to, thank you.” I squeeze her hand back. Really? There’s no having to “earn” her approval, she just offers it? For a family as feared as this one is, I never would have expected this much warmth and kindness.
Konstantin joins us in the hall with his own warm greeting. "If you'll forgive me, Oksana, I must borrow your husband for a moment."
"Of course," I say, glancing at Vadim. He looks a little chilly and very determined. "I'm sure you have a great deal to catch up on, Pakhan."
"None of that," he admonishes. Konstantin is nearly as large and intimidating as his father and his son, but there's a gleam of humor always lurking in his smile.
"I heard that you decorated the house in Chicago," Mariya smiles, holding my hands. "I'm very happy to hear it because, as you can see, we also firmly believe in as much holiday decor as possible."
As we walk through the halls on a brief tour, I count six Christmas trees. Stopping next to one, I admire the delicate series of hand-blown glass ornaments, made in the Soviet era. "I love vintage glasswork," Mariya says, straightening one carefully.
"They're beautiful, I say. “And so rare these days."
Mother used to love decorating with the vintage glass ornaments. She used to say it was the only beautiful thing to come out of Soviet Russia.
Father smashed them all in a rage one Christmas when he couldn’t find his Patek Philippe watch.
The one he’d misplaced.
Another group of guards passes us. This is the third one I’ve noticed since we started the tour.
"Is it going to be too much, having us here?" I ask. "While I'm used to heavy security because: Vadim."
She laughs, nodding.
"I can feel the tension here," I continue. "Has something happened?"
Mariya shrugs. "I've made my peace with it. There's always something happening. We are Bratva."
"This is true," I say. But I remember Vadim's expression when he went with his father and I have a sickening feeling that it has to do with me. With the hunters.
She has thoughtfully tucked us in a separate wing of the house with a huge bedroom, a bathroom suite, and cozy seating area.
"This is Vadim's old suite. You'll note that it's a bit away from everyone else. He has always preferred his privacy."
"Why does this not surprise me?" I say. The rooms are decorated in deep blues and grays with beautiful Dagestan rugs, and a heavy, imposing bed. To my delight, there's yet another Christmas tree by the fireplace.
"Now that he's used to Christmas trees," she says with a sly grin, "we really need to keep it up. Think of it as exposure therapy."
"I respect this," I nod solemnly.
"I wish when you and Vadim were first engaged, that we’d had more time to get to know you better," she says, absently straightening the cover on the already perfectly made bed. "That's why I was happy that Vadim wanted to stay here with us. It will give me a chance to spend some time with you."
"I feel the same," I say warmly. Mariya's acceptance from the beginning felt so easy and comforting.
“We were very pleased when your family reached out about the arrangement,” she says. “We thought you and Vadim would be a good fit.”
I frown. Didn’t Father tell me the Turgenevs made the proposition?
"Have you spoken to your mother?" she asks.
My smile wavers a little bit. We've always had a once weekly phone call when I lived in the States, where she would tell me all the social doings and the gossip of The Six.
She would ask standard questions about my grades.
,and my behavior. There was never anything of substance.
"I haven't," I say, smoothing over the uncomfortable silence with a smile.
"After I get a better sense of the schedule here, I'll be able to set up some time to see her. "
"That's good," she says warmly. "I must tell you, I'm very happy to finally have a daughter in the house. Hopefully, to drown out the reek of testosterone."
Bursting into laughter, I say, "I am not sure that it's possible to do that."
"Fortunately, my wonderful in-laws, Lucya and Alexi, will be coming to stay as well."
I’m waiting for that chill to hit my backbone when she mentions Alexi's name. The superstitious fear of the Turgenev Angel of Death has never dissipated among the Moscow Six, but I don't feel it.
Mariya searches my face for a moment and grins. "You don't have that involuntary flinch most people get when I invoke the name of Alexi Turgenev." She leans forward, her eyes sparkling.
"I am not afraid of my Angel of Death," I say. "So, I can hardly be afraid of his grandfather."
"Well said," she agrees.
Dinner that night is a revelation.
I listen to the conversation around the table, the easy laughter, the stories, the occasional insults and provocations, mostly from Stepan.
I'm filled with a sadness that it couldn't have been like this for my brothers and me as children.
Holiday meals were spent in tense silence, hoping Father wouldn't lose his temper.
Which would then make Mother even more miserable and upset that she had failed him in making this a holiday worthy of the Vasiliev name.
Even Alexi unbends enough to offer an occasional half smile, though most of his time is spent watching everyone and idly playing with his steak knife. After dinner, he walks with me as we head into the drawing room to open an early present.
"It is good to see you looking well, Vnuchka, granddaughter."
"Thank you, sir. Your grandson is so good to me." It's a polite phrase, though I know he hears the intensity of my feelings behind them.
He glances down at me with a brief nod. "I am glad. I knew you would suit."
We've fallen behind the rest of the family, standing in the quiet front hallway.
"Vadim and I have talked about the kidnapping several times," I say, trying to work up my courage.
"I remember everything about him, when we talked together, every word he said.
You were there with his parents to rescue him, yes? "
He nods, keen eyes studying my face.
"What I don't remember is how he found me that last day, or when I…" I gesture helplessly, "ran away. The one time I asked him about that, I could see it caused him pain, so I stopped. Do you know?"
He looks at a portrait of two Turgenev ancestors, glaring disapprovingly down at us, a large man with blonde hair like Alexi's, and a woman who, even for that era, had a small, dangerous smile curling her lips.
"One of Grishchenkov's worthless sons, Yakov, was drowning you," he says, matter-of-factly.
"There was a fountain behind their compound, a garish thing.
I was told that Yakov would drag you to it, every day, telling you that you were a coward, weak.
That he was conditioning you to be stronger.
" He spits the last word out like it tastes bad in his mouth.
"Once we had traced back the days from when you had been taken, we realized you had survived two weeks there in Grishchenkov's hell. A 10-year-old, a child."
"Your grandson saved me," I say, my throat is thick with tears and remembrance. "Twice, he saved me. He talked to me all night once, in the cells. He was beaten so badly but he made me believe that your family would come, and he'd rescue me. Then, when Yakov tried to drown me…"
My stomach is twisting violently, and I remember it.
I remember it now. My hands desperately slapping against the marble rim of the fountain, screaming bubbles into the water.
His hand fisted in my hair, and another one on my back, pressing me down.
The hall sways, or I do, and I put my hand up against the wall, the other one on my stomach.
Alexi leans down instantly, blue eyes concerned. "You remember."
"Some of it." My voice is more of a croak. "I remember Yakov laughing. Being dragged back to my cell every day. Knowing it would happen the next morning and praying the sun would never rise."
His hand, as huge as a bear paw, lands very gently on my shoulder. "Imagine," he rumbles. "A spoiled son from a powerful crime syndicate. And you survived him. You outlasted him." Alexi's smile is dark as midnight. "His death was not pleasant. We were not kind."
In a moment of insanity, I wrap my arms around him, hugging him tightly before stepping back. Alexi doesn't look offended, Slava Bogu.
He looks proud.
"Thank you," I say hoarsely. "For telling me, and for making Yakov Grishchenkov suffer."
He nods gently. "It was my pleasure."
***
Mamochka – affectionate Russian term for mother-in-law
Slava Bogu – Russian for Thank God