15. Nina
NINA
The second Luka leaves, I become a crime scene cleaner.
Not literally, although with my life lately, I should probably never say things like that too confidently.
I strip the bed first.
That’s the priority.
Sheets, pillowcases, blanket, everything gets yanked off and shoved into the laundry basket so aggressively that the basket falls sideways and spills yesterday’s clothes all over the floor. I swear, pick it up, then swear again when I notice Luka’s tie under the chair.
His tie. On my floor.
I stare at it for half a second like it might explode.
Then I grab it and shove it into the back of my closet behind a box of winter clothes I haven’t opened in two years.
Fine. Normal.
Completely normal thing to do.
I open the windows even though the morning air is humid and horrible. I spray room freshener, then immediately regret it because now the apartment smells like jasmine and panic. I smooth my hair in the mirror and realize that there is no fixing it.
“Shit,” I whisper.
I run to the bathroom, splash water on my face, check my neck, then stop breathing.
There is a mark.
Not large. Not obvious from far away.
But there, low near my collarbone, a faint bruise where Luka’s mouth had been.
I slap a hand over it, then grab the first scarf I can find from the back of the chair and wrap it around my neck.
I look insane.
The doorbell rings.
I take one last look around the room.
Good enough.
I open the door.
Misha stands there with one hand braced against the doorframe, looking me up and down with the kind of focus that makes police interrogations seem friendly.
His eyes go to my scarf immediately.
Then my hair. Then my face.
Then past my shoulder into the apartment.
“Good morning,” I say too brightly.
He narrows his eyes. “Why are you wearing a scarf?”
“Fashion.”
“In this heat?”
“Climate cannot control art.”
He stares at me. I stare back.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he steps inside without waiting to be invited, because apparently the men in my life are now taking turns invading my apartment.
He looks around slowly.
My pulse starts acting suspicious on my behalf.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Looking.”
“For what?”
His eyes come back to mine. “Was someone here last night?”
I almost choke on my own tongue. “What?”
“A man.”
I make a sound that’s supposed to be a laugh and comes out like a dying kettle. “A man?”
He keeps staring.
I walk past him toward the kitchen because standing still feels dangerous. “And to answer your question, I’m not dating anyone currently.”
Misha watches me pour water into a glass I don’t need. “Why did you answer like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you swallowed a fork.”
I take a sip of water and immediately cough.
He points at me. “Exactly like that.”
“I’m tired.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I say. At least this part isn’t a lie.
His eyes move to the hallway leading to my bedroom.
I move in front of it.
Subtle? No.
Effective? Also no.
His expression changes. “Nina.”
“Don’t Nina me.”
“You look guilty.”
“I always look guilty. I have a very expressive face.”
“You have lipstick on your jaw.”
My soul leaves my body. I slap a hand to my jaw. “What?”
He points.
I rush to the mirror near the door.
There is nothing there.
Nothing.
I turn slowly.
Misha’s face is serious for exactly two seconds before one corner of his mouth twitches.
“You absolute demon,” I hiss.
“So, there was someone.”
“No.”
He crosses his hands in front of his chest. “You’re a terrible liar, sister.”
I hate brothers. I hate them.
I hate mine especially because he can look at me for six seconds and know I’ve done something morally complicated.
But there’s something off about him.
The joke fades in my head before it fades from his face.
He’s moving too much. Not pacing exactly, but close. His hand keeps going to his phone, then away. He checks the lock after closing the door. Then the window. Then the street below through the side of the curtain.
Misha is overprotective on his best days, but this is different.
He’s jumpy.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He glances back. “Yes.”
“Don’t lie. You’re bad at it.”
He gives me a flat look. “You just told me you’re wearing a scarf for fashion.”
“Fine. We’re both artists of deception.”
He does not laugh. That worries me more.
He walks into my living room and drops his bag by the couch.
I look at it. Then at him.
Then at the bag again.
“Why do you have a bag?”
He rubs one hand over the back of his neck. “I need to stay here for a few days.”
I wait for the rest of the sentence.
It does not come.
“You need to what?”
“Crash here.”
“At my place?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“That is what I said.”
I look around my apartment, then back at him. “You have an apartment three times the size of this one.”
“I know.”
“With two guest bedrooms.”
“I know.”
“And a shower that has mood lighting.”
“That was not my decision.”
“You live alone in a place with mood-lighting water, and you want to sleep on my couch?”
“Yes.”
I cross my arms. “Why?”
His jaw tightens. “I just need to.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s the one I’m giving you.”
“Misha.”
“Nina.”
We stare at each other.
His eyes are tired.
That’s what makes me stop pushing immediately.
I want to shake him until information falls out. But beneath the irritation and suspicion, I can see something else. A strain around his mouth. Shadows under his eyes. The faint edge of panic he is trying to bury under older-brother authority.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
And he is not ready to say it.
I sigh. “Fine.”
His shoulders loosen slightly.
“But you get the couch,” I say. “And if you complain about my cushions, I will throw you out.”
“I have slept in worse places.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Of course it wasn’t.
He walks to the window again and looks down at the street.
I watch him from the kitchen doorway. “Did someone follow you?”
“No.”
I step closer. “Misha.”
He looks back sharply. “Don’t.”
I go quiet.
He exhales, then softer, “Not now.”
That’s the closest thing to an admission I’m going to get. For now.
I nod, even though every part of me hates it.
He looks guilty for half a second, which is rare enough that I almost soften.
Then his eyes go to my scarf again.
“No,” I say immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Why are you wearing—”
“Finish that question and you sleep in the hallway.”
He lifts both hands.
Smart man.
I make coffee because apparently my apartment has become a safe house
Misha sits at the small table and watches me like he used to when I was sixteen and had stayed out too late with friends from college.
It’s deeply unfair that big brothers can make you feel guilty while doing nothing.
“How are the job applications going?” he asks.
I nearly drop the spoon. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you. I just didn’t like it.”
He leans back. “You said you would start applying.”
“I did start.”
“Where?”
“Places.”
“What places?”
“Job places.”
“Nina.”
I slam the coffee jar down. “Don’t interrogate me before caffeine. It’s rude, brother.”
“You had enough time.”
“For caffeine?”
“To resign.”
My hand tightens around the mug.
There it is. The real reason he came, or at least one of them.
I turn slowly. “I haven’t quit yet.”
His face changes immediately. “Why not?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Because I can’t say, well, I did try to resign, but your best friend stormed into my apartment, tore up the letter, declared I wasn’t leaving him, confessed he hadn’t slept with women in months because he couldn’t stop thinking about me, then I slapped him, then we had sex, then we had breakfast, then he kissed me softly before sneaking out because you were on your way.
So instead, I say, “HR process.”
Misha stares.
I stare back.
“HR process?” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there’s a process.”
“For resigning?”
“Yes.”
“You write a letter and leave.”
“Well, maybe it works for you, but as civilized people? There are notice periods and transition plans and documentation.”
“You already have a letter.”
Damn. I forget he knows things.
“I’m editing it.”
“Editing it?”
“Yes.”
“For what? Tone?”
“Yes.”
“You are resigning, not submitting poetry.”
“Maybe I want my resignation to be elegant.”
“You hate that job.”
I stiffen.
He notices.
“I don’t hate it,” I say.
“You complain about it constantly.”
“That’s different. Complaining is a hobby.”
He watches me for a long moment. Then he says, “This is about Luka.”
My stomach drops. “No.”
“It is.”
“No, it’s about employment, financial independence, career trajectory, and the job market being horrible.”
“And Luka.”
I look away first. That’s a mistake.
Misha’s chair scrapes back. “Nina.”
I turn on him. “Stop.”
His face hardens. “Did something happen?”
My heartbeat slams into my throat. “No.”
His eyes narrow.
I hate how much that one word sounds like a confession when it comes out of my mouth.
“No,” I say again, stronger. “Nothing happened.”
He looks like he wants to say more, then stops himself.
That’s new.
Misha stopping himself is not normal.
He rubs his hand over his face and turns away, pacing toward the window again. “You can’t stay near him.”
The fear underneath the words is back.
That makes my anger shift.
“Because of Alina?” I ask.
He goes still.
Slowly, he turns. “You know.”
“Everyone at the office knows.”
His mouth twists. “Of course they do.”
I fold my arms. “You came here to tell me?”
“I came here because you need to understand what kind of man you’re working for.”
“I already know what kind of man Luka is.”
“No, you don’t.”
That hits a nerve.
“Right,” I say. “Because I’m just the little sister who makes coffee and answers phones.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s always what you mean.”
“I mean you don’t know everything.”
“And you do?”
“More than you.”
I laugh, short and sharp. “Congratulations.”
His eyes flash. “He made some chick pregnant, Nina.”
I freeze. The words are ugly from his mouth.
Maybe because I know he’s trying to make Luka smaller.
Maybe because I don’t know if he believes it.
“He didn’t,” I say before I can stop myself.
Misha’s expression changes. “Why do you sound so sure?”
I go cold.
Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
“I mean,” I say quickly, “that we don’t know that.”
“We?”
I hate this conversation.
“The office,” I say. “People are talking. Nobody knows anything.”
Misha watches me for far too long. Then he says, “Don’t defend him.”
“I’m not defending him.”
“You just did.”
“So now you don’t trust me around him?” I ask.
His face tightens. “This is not about trust.”
“It feels like trust.”
“It is about danger.”
“Mine or his?”
“Yours.”
Misha steps closer, but not enough to crowd me. His voice lowers.
“Dangerous people are after him. What happened in the garage was proof enough.”
“Those men weren’t shooting at me,” I say.
“No. But you were there.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is if the bullet doesn’t care.”
The room goes silent.
Misha’s face softens a little, but the fear stays in his eyes.
“I don’t want you caught in the middle of his life,” he says. “I don’t want to get a call because someone wanted to hurt him and found you instead. I don’t want you standing beside him when the next man decides a garage, a car, an office, a street is a good place to send a message.”
Next man.
The words catch.
“Next man?” I ask.
His expression closes. He knows way more than he’s telling me.
Maybe about the attack. Maybe about Luka. Maybe about the car that dropped him outside. Maybe about why he wants to sleep on my couch when his apartment has mood lighting and probably a towel warmer.
“Misha,” I say quietly. “What is going on?”
“Nothing you need to carry.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“No,” I say. “It’s the only one you’re giving me.”
His eyes flick toward the door.
Then the window.
Then back to me.
Jumpy. Still jumpy.
My throat tightens. “Are you in trouble?”
He gives a short laugh, but it has no humor in it. “I’ve been in trouble since before you learned multiplication.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Misha.”
He looks at me then, and for a second, he doesn’t look like my big brother who bullies me about scarves and job applications. He looks like a man standing in front of a door he cannot close fast enough.
“Let me stay,” he says.
I nod before I can think better of it. “Okay.”
Some of the strain leaves his face.
He reaches for the coffee I made and takes a sip.
Then he grimaces. “This is terrible.”
“Deal with it,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I walk past the coffee table. That’s when his phone lights up.
It is on the edge of his desk, faceup beside a stack of legal papers, vibrating silently against the wood.
For half a second, I look down without meaning to.
Roman K.
K? Karpova? Why the hell is Luka’s enemy calling my brother?