21. Russ
RUSS
Monday morning, and I'm sitting at my mother's kitchen table watching her move around the stove like she's conducting an orchestra.
Ekaterina Stepanov has always been small, barely five-three, but she commands every space she enters.
Her blonde hair, streaked with gray now, is pulled back in the same old-fashioned bun she's worn for as long as I can remember. Her dark eyes miss nothing.
"You're not eating," she says without turning around.
I look down at the plate of blini she set in front of me ten minutes ago. I've barely touched them. "I'm eating."
"You're pushing food around your plate." She turns from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, and fixes me with that look. The one that says she knows I'm full of shit. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"Rustik." She uses my full name, which means she's not playing around. "I've known you since the day you were born. Don't insult my intelligence."
I take a bite of blini just to appease her, but she's right. I can't taste it. My mind is somewhere else entirely. On a cottage in the woods and a woman with flame-red hair.
My mother sits down across from me, setting her teacup on the worn wooden table. She's wearing a simple gray dress with a cardigan over it, practical and comfortable. The kitchen smells like butter and honey and the faint scent of her lavender soap.
"Is it a woman?" she asks.
I nearly choke on my tea. "What?"
"You heard me." She leans back in her chair, studying me with those sharp black eyes. "You've been distracted. You barely call. When you visit, you're somewhere else in your head. So I'm asking, is it a woman?"
"Ma, I don't have time for this."
"You're thirty-eight years old, Rustik. You should be thinking about settling down, finding a good woman, and starting a family." She waves her hand at the empty kitchen around us. "I'm not getting any younger. I'd like to meet my grandchildren before I die."
"You're not dying."
"Everyone dies eventually." She takes a sip of her tea, completely unbothered by the morbid turn of conversation. "And you're not getting any younger either. The older you get, the harder it becomes to find someone suitable."
I set down my fork, my appetite completely gone now. "I'm fine the way I am."
"Fine is what you say when you've given up. When you've decided being alone is easier than taking a risk."
"I'm not alone. I have you. I have the family." We both know I'm talking about the business family and not our immediate family.
"Your organization." She shakes her head, and I can see the disappointment in her expression. "That's not the same as having a partner. Someone who knows you and who you can trust with more than just business."
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm currently sharing a woman with two other men, and the situation is so complicated I don't even know how to begin explaining it.
Not that I would. My mother doesn't need to know the details of my personal life, especially when those details involve the kind of arrangement that would give her a heart attack.
"I'm working on it," I say, which isn't exactly a lie.
Her eyes light up immediately. "You are seeing someone."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. I can see it on your face." She reaches across the table and pats my hand, her touch warm and familiar. "Tell me about her. What's her name? What does she do?"
"Ma, it's complicated."
"Love is always complicated." She sits back, looking pleased with herself. "But that's what makes it worth it. The complications mean you care. If it was easy, it wouldn't mean anything."
I think about Marla and the way she looked at me when I showed up at her cottage with Alex and Nick. About the fear in her eyes when she realized what we really are. And then the way she responded to all three of us despite that fear. Complicated doesn't even begin to cover it.
"She's a writer," I hear myself say. "Lives out in the woods and keeps to herself mostly."
My mother's expression softens. "She sounds lovely. When do I get to meet her?"
"It's not like that. We're just figuring things out."
"Figuring things out." She repeats my words back to me, and I can hear the skepticism. "That's what men say when they're afraid of commitment."
"I'm not afraid of commitment."
"Then what are you afraid of?"
The question catches me off guard. I open my mouth to answer, then close it again. What am I afraid of? That Marla will realize how dangerous my world really is and run? That sharing her with Alex and Nick will eventually tear apart the alliance we're trying to build?
"I'm not afraid," I say finally. "I'm just being careful."
My mother studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "You know what your problem is, Rustik? You think you can control everything. Plan for every possibility. But life doesn't work that way. Sometimes you have to take a risk."
"I take risks every day."
"Not with your heart, you don't." She stands, collecting our plates even though I've barely eaten. "You've been alone since your father died. I understand why. But it's been long enough. You deserve to be happy."
The mention of my father sits heavy in the room. He died when I was young, leaving me to take over the organization before I was ready. My mother never remarried, never even dated as far as I know. She poured everything into raising me, into making sure I survived in a world that eats the weak.
"Speaking of being alone," I say, desperate to change the subject. "Have you thought any more about moving into the guest house I built?"
Her expression immediately closes off. "No."
"Ma, it's right next to my house, on my private property with excellent security. You'd have your own space, but I'd be close if you needed anything."
"I don't need anything. I'm perfectly fine here."
"This house is too big for one person. And it's not in the best neighborhood anymore."
"This is my home, Rustik. I'm not leaving it just because you've decided I need supervision."
"It's not supervision. It's just—I worry about you."
"Then stop worrying." She turns to face me, her hands on her hips. "I raised you by myself after your father died. I managed this household, dealt with your father's associates, and kept you safe through everything. I think I can handle living alone in my own house."
"That's not what I meant."
"Yes, it is." Her voice is sharp now. "You want to control where I live, just like you control everything else in your life. But I'm your mother, not one of your men. You don't get to make decisions for me."
I know when I'm beaten. "Fine. But if you change your mind..."
"You'll be the first to know." She comes around the table and kisses the top of my head like I'm still a child. "Now go. I'm sure you have important business to attend to."
I stand, pulling her into a brief hug. She smells like lavender and home, and for a moment I'm eight years old again, seeking comfort after a nightmare.
"Bring her by sometime," she says as I head for the door. "Your writer. I'd like to meet her."
"We'll see."
"That means no." She shakes her head, but she's smiling. "You're stubborn, just like your father."
I leave before she can start in on me again. I climb into my SUV and sit there for a moment in her driveway. She's right that it's her home, her choice. But that doesn't stop me from worrying.
My phone buzzes with messages from my captains, but instead of heading back to the city, I find myself driving in the opposite direction.
My mother's words echo in my head. "You deserve to be happy. Sometimes you have to take a risk."
The thing is, I'm not sure what happiness looks like anymore. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff. One wrong move and everything falls apart.
And then there's Marla. Sweet, innocent Marla who stumbled into our world by accident and somehow ended up at the center of everything. At least, I hope she's innocent in all this.
The drive to her cottage takes forty minutes. By the time I pull into her driveway, the sun is higher in the sky, warming the air. The cottage looks peaceful, surrounded by trees, and isolated from everything.
I let myself in quietly. The living room is empty, but I can hear soft breathing coming from the bedroom. I move to the doorway and stop.
Marla is asleep in bed, her red hair spread across the pillow, and her body curled against Nick's.
He's on his back, one arm around her, his eyes closed.
They look comfortable together. Domestic.
Something twists in my chest at the sight.
Not jealousy exactly, but something close to it.
Something uncomfortable and unfamiliar. This wasn't supposed to be personal.
None of this was supposed to matter beyond the physical.
But looking at them together, I realize it does matter. More than I want to admit.
Marla stirs, her eyes opening slowly. She sees me standing in the doorway and goes completely still.
"Russ," she whispers.
Nick's eyes open immediately, his body tensing before he recognizes me. The three of us stay frozen for a moment, the air thick with unspoken tension.
Then I smile, the same easy smile I used the first night I met her. "Room for one more?"
Marla's eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't say no. Nick shifts, making space, and I kick off my shoes before climbing into bed beside them.
"You're wearing too many clothes," I tell Marla, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt.
She laughs, the sound breaking the tension. "It's barely noon."
"So?" I slide my hand under her shirt, feeling the warmth of her skin. "You have somewhere to be?"
"I'm being held prisoner, remember?"
"Protected," Nick corrects, his voice rough with sleep.
"Same thing," she mutters, but she's smiling now.
I pull her closer, fitting her body against mine while Nick stays pressed against her back. She's warm and soft, and the scent of her shampoo fills my lungs.
"This is insane," she whispers.
"Probably," I agree, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
Nick's hand slides over her hip, his fingers brushing against mine. The three of us are tangled together beneath the blankets, and it should feel awkward or wrong, but instead it somehow feels right.
Marla turns her head, her lips finding mine. The kiss is slow and deep, and I can feel her body responding, pressing back against Nick while she opens for me.
My mother's words echo again. "Sometimes you have to take a risk."
I deepen the kiss, my hand sliding lower, and Marla gasps against my mouth. Nick's hand joins mine, both of us touching her, and the laughter from moments ago transforms into moans of pleasure and desire.
"Were you three seriously about to start without me?" Alex asks from the doorway.