18. Final Goodbyes #2
“Let’s go home,” Nikolai whispered. “And then let’s go to Bali.”
I smiled, kissing his forehead gently. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Nikolai had decided that leaving Moscow required saying goodbye to everyone in the building.
I disagreed. Not because I didn’t understand the sentiment, but because the pilot was already burning fuel on the tarmac at Sheremetyevo, and Lev had called twice in the last ten minutes to report three separate paparazzi vehicles parked near the airfield gates.
“We’re going to be late,” I said, leaning against the doorframe of the main entrance hall with my coat folded over my arm.
“We have time,” Nikolai said smoothly, not even turning around.
“We don’t.”
He ignored me completely, walking straight toward Olga.
The housekeeper had been waiting near the grand staircase with two of the junior maids, her hands clasped tightly over her apron. The moment her eyes landed on Nikolai, her usual stern composure completely dissolved.
“Oh, my boy,” she murmured.
Nikolai’s expression softened into an easy, genuine smile. “I’ll be back, Olga. It’s only three months.”
She stepped forward and pulled him into a tight, deliberate hug, careful not to press too hard against his left side where his bandages still sat beneath his sweater. “You’d better be.”
“I will.”
She held him at arm’s length, scanning his face with the practiced eye of a woman who had spent thirty years watching people try to hide their pain. “And take your medication. On time. Not when you feel like it.”
“I will.”
She shifted her gaze, pointing a sharp finger over Nikolai’s shoulder directly at me. “And don’t let him work you to death.”
I watched the exchange from three paces back, my face entirely impassive. Olga had served the Romanov family since before I was born, and in all those years, I couldn’t recall a single instance where she had embraced me with anything resembling affection.
Nikolai laughed, the sound bright against the marble foyer. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t try. Do it.”
Apparently, I had been completely replaced in my own home.
Nikolai spent the next fifteen minutes making a slow circuit through the ground floor.
He said goodbye to the kitchen staff, two members of the residential security detail who looked deeply uncomfortable being addressed so casually, and even one of the head groundskeepers who had come inside to drop off the terrace keys.
The man stood near the coat rack looking genuinely baffled as Nikolai shook his hand and offered a brief embrace.
I checked my watch. Then I checked it again.
“Five minutes, Nikolai.”
He turned around, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Almost done.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“We’re leaving for three months, Zhenya.”
“Which means you can say goodbye again when we return. The plane isn’t going to hold the runway indefinitely.”
He shot me a look of mild exasperation. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re wasting our departure window.”
He let out a quiet laugh and turned back toward the hallway, completely unbothered by my warning.
Pavel arrived just as the luggage was being loaded into the rear SUV.
He had barely cleared the front threshold before Nikolai was moving toward him.
Pavel didn’t bother with formalities—he grabbed Nikolai by the shoulders and pulled him into a brief, fierce hug, his hand brushing the back of Nikolai’s head.
“Don’t get shot again,” Pavel growled against his shoulder.
Nikolai laughed softly into Pavel’s coat. “I’ll do my best to avoid it.”
“I’m serious, Niko.” Pavel pulled back, his hands resting heavily on Nikolai’s arms as he inspected him. “You look like a ghost.”
“I’m fine.”
“You better come back in one piece.”
“I will.”
Pavel finally let go and turned his attention to me. The atmosphere in the hallway shifted instantly, dropping several degrees. He crossed his arms, his posture stiffening.
“You,” Pavel said.
I raised an eyebrow, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt. “What?”
“Take care of him. If he comes back with so much as a fever, I’m holding you responsible.”
I didn’t bother answering. The threat was absurd, but I understood where it came from. Pavel didn’t need a response anyway; he simply held my gaze for a beat before turning back to Nikolai with a faint sigh.
“Have fun,” Pavel said, his voice dropping into something softer. “Send pictures.”
“Obviously.”
Pavel shot another look sideways at me. “Not you. Him. I don’t need five hundred photos of Romanov conference rooms.”
A faint, dry trace of a smile touched my mouth. “Noted.”
Nikolai finally turned to face me, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “Can we go now?”
I checked my watch one last time and uncrossed my arms. “We should have left ten minutes ago.”
His eyes widened slightly. “What? Is Lev waiting?”
“No,” I said, stepping past him toward the heavy front doors and taking his hand as I passed. “I had the pilot push the slot back thirty minutes ago because I knew you’d do this. Come on.”
Good thing we were using the private hangar. If we had been flying commercial, we would have missed the flight before we even cleared the ring road.
* * *
Nikolai fell asleep before the jet had even cleared its initial climb out of Moscow airspace.
I sat across the wide leather aisle, watching him through the dim cabin light.
His head was rested awkwardly against the window frame, his arms folded loosely over his chest, his breathing slow and deep.
He still looked washed-out, his features sharp with lingering fatigue, the physical toll of the wound taking far more out of him than he was willing to admit out loud.
I reached across the aisle, taking the cashmere throw from the adjacent seat, and draped it higher over his shoulders. He stirred slightly, a soft breath escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake.
A few minutes later, the cabin door clicked open.
The flight attendant stepped in quietly, placing two crystal glasses and a carafe of still water on the low mahogany table between us.
She offered a silent, professional nod, noted Nikolai sleeping, and withdrew without a word, pulling the curtain shut behind her.
I poured a glass of water, held it for a moment, and set it back down untouched.
For the first time in nearly two weeks, the oppressive weight in my chest was gone.
There were no urgent memos waiting on my desk.
No security briefs regarding Mikhail’s faction.
No calls from the board of directors demanding statements.
No police investigators asking for revised timelines, and no reporters parked outside the gates of the penthouse.
There was only the low, steady hum of the twin engines and the vast, empty dark outside the double-pane glass.
I pulled my phone from my coat pocket. The screen lit up instantly: three missed calls from my father’s head of legal, seven encrypted messages from the corporate secretary, and a news alert regarding Romanov Insurance’s morning trading halt.
I held the power button down until the screen went dark, then tossed the device onto the seat beside me.
Moscow could survive three months without me. And if it couldn’t, it wasn’t worth returning to anyway.
* * *
By the time the jet began its final descent, the sky outside had shifted from dark night to a pale, humid gold.