Chapter 18

Mishka

The limo rolled to a stop outside my father's storefront. I hadn't had to serve today. In fact, I had been served, by the master himself. Coffee and incredible breakfast sandwiches had been waiting for us when we embarked, and Anton had encouraged me to partake.

He even handed me my food, and the incredible coffee the staff always seemed to have on hand.

I was nervous about the journey ahead of me but I could still eat. The food was that delicious.

The driver exited to open the door. I saw that there were two SUV's full of security in front and behind of us. I had known they were there, of course. A man like Anton had to have security. He was a target. But it still took some getting used to.

Three of the hulking men got out. They asked me for the key to the store. It felt so strange to be there. I waited while they went inside to make sure it was safe, doing my best not to fidget.

"I hope you know where your passport is," came the low voice from just behind me. I jumped. I hadn't realized Anton was standing so close. I'd assumed he was still in the car. But he was inches away.

"I do," I said firmly, though I was not entirely sure. I prayed that it was where I last remembered seeing it. Anton Aslanov was not the sort of man you kept waiting.

His men came out and nodded.

"I will just be a minute. There is no need to accompany me," I said when my captor followed me inside.

"But I want to, little Mishka. I want to know where you grew up. I know everything about you."

Shivers went down my spine at his softly spoken words. They sounded like a promise. They sounded like a threat.

I hurried through the shop to the private stairs in the back. It was dark and quiet, but clean. Whoever was running the my father's store for the Aslanov's was doing an excellent job. I felt reassured and thankful, suddenly realizing that they hadn't had to do any of this. They could have killed us both. They could have set the building on fire.

That was the sort of thing the Aslanov Bratva was known for doing. Not for hiring inexperienced maids, forgiving debts, or helping an ailing shopkeeper to keep their business afloat.

Of course, they were profiting from it. I knew that. They must be. But still… it could not be enough to be worth their while. I highly doubted that their empire was built on the backs of shopkeepers and small business owners. Perhaps twenty years ago, when they were boys, but not now.

Something had shifted. I saw things in a new light for the first time, and it changed me. The hardness in my heart against my captor started to shift into something else.

Gratitude. Curiosity. And if I was honest, more than a bit of a crush.

I walked into our beloved little apartment and closed my eyes. The smell of home washed over me, soothing and comforting me. I expected my father to come from the other room with a steaming cup of tea for me. I could almost see a miniature version of myself running through the rooms with her violin until papa scolded me to be more careful with my instrument.

‘Violins do not grow on trees, you know,' Pap would affectionately scold. He had never been mad at me. Never mean. There were no spankings in our household. No criticism. He had gently nudged me in the right direction, never finding or pointing out fault with me. Not once.

The echoes of the past made me nostalgic, piercing my heart with the arrow of time gone by. My eyes teared suddenly. I missed my father terribly. I knew it would not be forever. I would see him again. His progress was a miracle, and something to celebrate, not to cry over.

Papa was doing well, rallying against all odds. He was stabilized now, if not exactly thriving. He looked small when we Face-timed. Frail. But not as bad as he had looked in Moscow. There was a bit of color in his cheeks again.

Miraculously they had stopped the progression of his illness, but the tumors were still there. We knew now the size and location of every cancerous growth inside him. It would take time before we knew if they were actually shrinking, or if remission was even possible.

But for now, we knew they were not growing. He was not getting worse. The decline had been halted. For how long, no one knew.

It was enough. It had to be enough. I was afraid to hope for more, for better, but I could not help myself.

"Mishka?" I brushed my tears away quickly, glancing over my shoulder at the imposing man standing there. Anton was physically impossible to ignore. Tall and strong, not to mention indescribably handsome. He had a surprisingly concerned look on his unfairly perfect face. That look sent a shiver through me.

Usually, he was cold. Or hot. But right now, he was tender. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. I will be quick. I know the plane is waiting."

"That's not why I was asking," he said with a frown. For a moment I thought he might say more. But I was off, running to my bedroom and riffling through my dresser drawers, worried that I might displease him.

It was so strange to see my little bed, in my little room. So different from my chamber on the Aslanov Estate. I heaved a sigh of relief as I found the passport. I looked around for a moment, taking it all in. I did not know when I would be there again. If papa's health failed, the Aslanov's would take possession of the shop and the apartment.

This was no longer my home, I realized with a pang.

The view from the window was surprisingly lovely, I realized. I had been so used to being it every day, I was not sure I had truly appreciated it. I could see the surly, but somehow beautiful old apartment building across the street. It had ornate stone carvings around the windows and under the roof. Like our building and most of the block, it was unusual for Moscow, where most of the old buildings had replaced with new, brutalist style buildings.

The gray Moscow sky was broken up with the fading green of several trees, their branches empty of leaves at the moment. I remembered telling the time of year from the colors outside my window. Yellow green in early spring, green in summer, yellow, red, and orange in fall. Or black with a blanket of white when snow came. And when I lay in the bed each night, I could see the stars.

It could have been any city in the world. Paris. New York. But this was Moscow.

And this view was mine.

I was tempted to lie down on the bed, just to see my little patch of sky one more time. To say goodbye to it.

I felt Anton's presence before I heard the creak of the floorboards.

"So this is where my little Mishka grew up," he said, stepping into the room. I stiffened at his words. He must have seen it because he added "it is only a term of endearment, Mishka."

I said nothing. There was no point in arguing with him. He would not stop taking liberties. He acted as if I was close to him sometimes. A friend, a girlfriend, or even a daughter, at times. Not his servant. Not his slave.

This was not a battle worth fighting. I knew without a doubt that there would be more important hills to stand on. And I would. I would serve him dutifully and respectfully, but that was all.

I turned, ignoring the pang of longing I felt when I looked at him. He was my employer, and my captor. Nothing more, nothing less.

He looked unusually soft today. His suit was perfectly cut. Of course, but he had skipped a tie and his shirt was open around the neck. He looked impossibly sophisticated and indescribably handsome.

But he was acting differently.

Anton was looking around my room with real curiosity. He touched the scarf draped over the lamp on my dresser, used to soften the harshness of the light, then inspected the few personal items sitting on a little tray. He picked up one of the pictures of my mother that sat there, in a tarnished cloisonné frame.

"Is this your mother?"

"Yes."

"I see where you got your beauty."

"I… thank you," I said, taking the frame from him and setting it back on the dresser.

"I met her once, you know," he said, stunning me momentarily. "She was pregnant. Your father doted on her."

I stared at him, surprised by his words. I swallowed against the painful lump in my throat.

"Bring it with you if you like."

"Thank you," I said, feeling like the roles were reversed.

Anton was being uncharacteristically kind. Meanwhile, I was being uncharacteristically ungracious and unkind. "Perhaps this one," I allowed, picking up a smaller folding frame with pictures of both my parents in either frame. It was another antique, or close to it. They were so young. I wasn't even sure they had even known each other yet in their respective photos. But when I folded the frame shut, they were together again.

Forever, as my father had said when he gave me the frame, the pictures already in it.

"Good choice," he said, his smile unguarded and oddly sweet. It was a shock to my system, that sweetness. Something inside me screamed ‘danger'!

Anton Aslanov, sweet? But yes. He was.

He held out his hand. I looked at him in confusion. What was he asking me to do, hold his hand?

"Your passport, please."

I blushed and handed it over. He was watching me carefully, his expression blank. I felt so foolish for thinking he was asking for my hand. And I was tired of feeling foolish around him! I swallowed the lump of conflicting emotions in my throat, curtsied, and left the room as quickly as I could.