Chapter 16 #2
Warm food fills the mansion kitchen with butter and pepper while someone opens another bottle of sparkling water, its bubbles shining inside cut crystal.
The housekeeper adds meat dumplings browned at the edges, glossy with butter and scattered with dill, then explains that her mother served them whenever the Dymov brothers came home after midnight.
According to her, Misha drowned his in sour cream.
Artur ate standing beside the marble island because sitting suggested he might be staying, a family habit nobody had permission to name as fear.
Around the long table, silver, steam, and armed men briefly arrange themselves into something that resembles a home.
Niko reaches for a third dumpling before anyone else has taken two.
The housekeeper slaps the back of Niko’s hand with a towel, then gives him two more because apparently discipline in this kitchen follows rules older than the men carrying guns outside it.
Dill, fried onions, and hot dough soften the mansion’s beeswax smell until the room belongs to a family table rather than an empire.
“Hot water worked,” Cherry says.
“I selected the water,” Niko says.
Boris slides a plate of eggs toward him. “Eat before you file a report.”
We laugh without checking who might hear us.
For an hour, nobody mentions Pasha or electrical contractors. Cherry complains about the lighting in her online classes. Boris insists his eggs require no praise, while the housekeeper tells stories about Artur refusing vegetables at twelve, and I remember each one for future use.
One kitchen assistant produces an old photograph from a drawer. Artur stands in the mansion kitchen as a teenager, taller than everyone around him and glaring at a plate of green beans. Misha leans into the frame from behind, smiling while he steals food from Artur’s plate.
The sight catches beneath my ribs: Artur’s face is younger, but the protective angle of his body already turns toward his brother. I understand why the copied request cut so deeply without learning the full story yet.
I return the photograph before Artur arrives because tonight belongs to laughter, and the grief in that drawer has waited long enough.
Artur enters during the second story.
At the threshold, he stops with his jacket folded over one forearm.
His attention crosses the crowded table to find me sitting on the counter beside Cherry, and lamplight touches the open collar of his shirt along with the fatigue around his eyes.
For one unguarded second, the severity leaves his face, and he looks like a man arriving somewhere he wants to remain.
I expect the room to straighten around him.
Nobody does.
The housekeeper points toward the stove. “Your dinner is cold.”
Artur accepts the verdict and takes the plate Boris left beneath a cover.
He stands beside me while he eats; his shoulder touches my knee. The small contact makes the kitchen feel more intimate than the private room did.
“Katie says you can’t dance,” Cherry announces.
“Katie has never seen me try.”
I slide from the counter. Square tiles create a clean grid across the floor. “Basic count. Step on one, close on two.”
Artur looks at the tiles. “I manage several companies.”
“None of them can save you.”
I take his hand and lead him through the first count. He steps too far, forcing me backward into the pantry door; the kitchen judges him openly.
“Again,” I say.
On the second attempt, he moves with suspicious competence.
“You lied.”
“I improved under instruction.”
Artur turns me beneath his arm, his palm finding my waist at the exact beat. Simple as the movement is, it proves he has rhythm—and hid it to make me laugh.
Across four tiles, I make him repeat the count. On the final beat, he adds a turn and draws me against his chest with enough force to lift my heels from the floor, and applause rises from the staff. Artur releases me as though public dancing beneath fluorescent kitchen lights was always his plan.
“Where did you learn?” I ask.
“Misha considered dancing necessary for survival at weddings.”
His brother’s name passes through the joy without destroying it. Artur glances toward the photograph drawer, then back to me.
I laugh anyway.
Boris refuses every demand that he join us, while Niko attempts the count alone and collides with a stool. Cherry dances with the housekeeper between the counter and refrigerator.
Nothing attacks us.
The joy remains intact when Artur takes me home.
Inside the safe house, he checks the security panel while I remove my boots. A car backfires on the road beyond the fence.
Artur drops before the sound finishes.
One hand reaches beneath his jacket while the other braces against the wall. His face loses color as breath stops high in his chest and his eyes fix on a point beyond the reinforced door.
The camera shows an old sedan continuing down the road.
I approach without touching him. “Artur.”
His gaze returns slowly, and he straightens, though one hand remains flat against the wall.
“Poor sleep?” I ask.
The joke is gentle enough that he almost smiles.
“If I sleep,” he says, “the nightmare will return.”
Because he offers the admission before I force the door open, I believe him.
I take his hand; his fingers are cold despite the warm house.
I don’t rub warmth into them or promise sleep will be easy. I keep holding on while we cross the short hall, giving his body one present fact to follow.
He doesn’t let go when we reach the bed.
“You can explain the car bomb,” I say, leading him toward the bedroom, “or spend the night awake while I ask increasingly obscene questions.”
Artur follows me. “How obscene?”
“Sleep may become the safer option.”