Chapter 10

The library is the most spacious room on the second floor, with tall windows looking across the expansive property to the other house. I spend some time moving all the chairs and tables to the edge of the room, imagining the floor covered with newspaper to catch any paint droplets. It's easier than thinking of blood, gunshots, the ringing in my ears, and my own breath attempting to choke me.

Going to the window, I see a woman walking toward the house, a bag slung over her shoulder. She's thin, wearing black jeans and a tank top, highlighting her build. The doorbell to the house sounds old and grand when it goes off.

I go to the front door. The woman smooths her straight black hair from her face and smiles nervously at me. Maybe she's not a woman but a teenage girl. It's difficult to tell her age. She looks young and innocent but also world-weary, as though she's seen too much in her life. Or maybe that's just the overactive artist in me searching for something that isn't there.

"Hello," she says after a pause, making brief eye contact before looking at the ground. "I've brought you some clothes. It's Lia, right? Dimitri said your name is Lia."

"Yeah, Lia. And you are?"

"I'm his sister. Well, half-sister." After a breath, which seems designed to give her more courage, she thrusts her hand out. "Ania."

I shake her hand. "It's nice to meet you. I'd invite you in, but I don't think I need to."

Stepping aside, she walks into the grand foyer. Everything in this house is like walking through some nineteenth-century lord's mansion, with the paintings and the décor. Ania puts the bag down.

"My friend left some clothes here by accident in the winter. She lives on the East Coast, so she won't be able to pick them up for a while. Do you want them?"

"Are you sure your friend won't mind?"

Ania shakes her head. "It's fine. We spoke earlier. Well, we chatted online. She's an online friend through the ballerina group. Anyway…" She waves a hand.

"Should I make us some coffee?" I say.

"I don't drink coffee," Ania mutters.

"Hot cocoa or something?"

"Yeah, sure," she smiles. When I turn and walk away, she giggles. "The kitchen's the other way, Lia."

I grin back at her. "My bad. Why don't you lead the way?"

Together, we go to the large kitchen. In contrast to the rest of the house, this is modern, as though the Sokolovs wanted the best combination of contemporary and traditional. Ania sits at the kitchen bar as I search for everything I need.

"How old are you, Ania?" I ask once I've started heating milk for her cocoa and the coffee machine is running.

"Eighteen," she says. "Why?"

"I was just wondering," I tell her. "You seem…"

"Younger?" she cuts in, almost seeming angry about it, but it's hard to tell when she looks down most of the time, not at me.

"Uh, a little."

"I hate it," she says. "I know I look young, but I don't feel young. I feel old sometimes—ancient."

"I know what you mean," I mutter.

Finally, she looks up at me. It's like the shock of my statement forces her to. "Really?"

Fidgeting in the loose-fitting hoodie I found in the closet, clearly a man's, I nod. "Yeah, Ania. Really."

"Why?" she asks.

I shrug. "It's morbid."

"I'll share mine if you share yours," she says.

I turn to the coffee machine, stir the mug, then start mixing her cocoa.

"Lia?" she says.

Memories stab at me, demons in my mind, the look on her face, the eyes that just stared and stared and stared.

"It's okay," Ania says after a pause. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't push."

I go to the bar with our drinks and sit beside her. "It's fine. I just don't like thinking about the past. It does no good. I have to keep moving forward and take care of myself." I look over at the tall, large, shiny refrigerator. It probably costs more than a year of my rent. "Which I'm clearly doing a great job with."

"You're safe," Ania says. "Dimitri won't let anything happen to you. He…"

"What?" I urge, my heartbeat fluttering as I relive the steaminess, the gunfight.

"He seems different," Ania says. "This is a crazy time for the Sokolov brothers, that's for sure."

"Is Dimitri's brother here?"

"In the other house," Ania says. "Working on his computer stuff as usual."

"Are you okay, Ania?" I say after a pause.

"What? Why?"

Because you won't look at me, but I don't want to sound like I'm accusing her. "Your dad…"

Ania shakes her head slowly. "It's weird. I've cried, but I don't know…"

"It's okay," I tell her. "I won't judge. I know all about being confused when it comes to dead parents; believe me."

She gives me a searching look but doesn't ask a follow-up question, though part of me suspects she wants to. "Dad was the only parent I had or knew, anyway. My mom was a sex worker, you know? She didn't want me, so Dad took me in. He raised me. Well, the servants raised me. I don't think he ever loved me. Sorry, I'm rambling."

"No," I say quickly. "It's weirdly comforting not to think about myself for a change."

Ania looks up fleetingly before quickly staring down into her cocoa. "I'm not going to throw a pity party about it. He really never loved anybody. I loved him, especially as a kid, but he didn't care, so it was hard for me to keep caring."

"You don't have to feel guilty," I say.

"It's that obvious, huh?"

"Like I said…"

"Yeah, you know how I feel."

We sit quietly for a minute, and Ania says, "So, how long have you and Dimitri been together?"

"I don't know if we're together," I say, but it feels like a betrayal, and I'm devaluing everything we've shared: the steaminess, the painting, the lies. "I didn't even know he was the boss of the Bratva until a few hours ago. I didn't even know what the Bratva was, honestly."

"That's funny."

"Is it?"

"I've been surrounded by the Bratva life for as long as I can remember. It must be nice not to have any clue about it."

"Maybe, until the shooting started."

Ania winces. "I guess that can be a bit of a buzzkill, right?"

"Yeah, just a bit."

Another pause. There's an upside to how Ania looks down all the time. It puts less pressure on the conversation and allows us to sit here comfortably until we're ready to speak. I sip the strong coffee, feeling the caffeine rush through my system.

"But how long?" Ania asks.

Oh, right. I didn't answer her question. "A few days," I say.

Ania's eyes pop open. She tilts her head as though she can't believe it. "A few days?"

"Is that surprising?"

"If you know Dimitri, it's the most surprising thing ever. He doesn't look like… that."

"Like what?"

"Young? Happy? Smitten? Excited? I think he really cares about you."

"I can't afford to care about anyone," I tell her. "If I rely on people, I'll just be disappointed. I know how that sounds, me sitting here, drinking his coffee, but it's not like I've got a choice."

I wonder if that's technically true. If I tried to leave the property, would Dimitri physically stop me? I'm not even sure I want to leave. After the shock of the gunfight wore off, running seemed pointless.

"Maybe you'll like it here," Ania says. "We have a dance studio in the main house."

"I'm not much of a dancer," I murmur.

"What are you then?"

"A painter," I say. "Or I enjoy it, anyway. It's the only thing I've ever really enjoyed."

Well, until I felt Dimitri hugging me, the strength and support in his body, before I heard the passion in his groan, his touch smoothing over me.

"A painter. Wow! That's cool."

"Ballet's harder on the body, though. It's like you're painting with your performance, right?"

She beams, looking right at me, and I immediately know ballet has saved her just like painting saved me. "Yes, that's it exactly. I can tell we're going to be friends."

The excited way she says this is disarming. Then she does something weird with her hands, like a little dance.

"What was that?" I say, grinning. I can't help it.

"It's nothing."

"Just a little hand dance?" I ask in a lightly teasing tone.

When she bites her lip, looking down, I reach across the bar and lay my hand on hers. She beams again, squeezing my hand, and I know that's what she was planning on doing initially. "It's always so quiet around here, but not anymore. This place has become a little village with you and Mila here."

Her innocent tone breaks and warms my heart at the same time. "Mila is… Dimitri's future wife, right?" I let go of her hand to take another sip of coffee. I definitely need more caffeine to deal with the idea of him with anybody else.

"If her dad gets his way, sure," Ania says, "but my big brothers aren't as weak as he thinks."

"He thinks they're weak?" I ask. "I seriously don't know anything about the Bratva. I only remember watching this movie where they're all covered in tats. I think it was the Bratva, anyway."

Ania nods. "Yeah, the tattoo thing is pretty old, but Dad always thought it was stupid. It's basically telling the cops you're part of the Bratva, making going legit difficult. Imagine if the CEO of Sokolov Securities was covered head to foot in tattoos."

"I guess it would make PR stuff more difficult."

"Yeah, a bit," Ania says, laughing.

"What's she like?" I ask. "Mila?"

"She's nice, I think. Tough, but she's scared. She's really, really into computers. Whenever Mikhail tries to talk about that stuff with me, I just let it fly over my head. She understands it all."

"Impressive," I say, trying not to feel jealous or care. Dimitri lied to me. Because of him, people tried to kill me, but I can't help it. The idea of Dimitri with anybody else is just plain wrong.

"Oh, that reminds me! Dimitri asked me to give you this." She reaches into her pocket and takes out a folded-up piece of paper. "He made me promise not to read it. Annoyingly, I hate breaking promises to my brothers. That's probably why he asked me to do it. So either I'm a sucker or a good person, right?"

She hands me the note, and I unfold it, reading Dimitri's confident, clear script. Mila knows the score. She doesn't want this marriage any more than I do. I'd never choose her, Lia. Destroy this note after reading it.

Ania looks at me closely, then probably reads my expression. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"I'm sorry…"

She sighs. "It's fine. I just dance and spin and pretend not to see about a million things a day, anyway."

As I begin to tear the note into small pieces, trying not to let that pesky hope flutter through me, Ania's phone rings. "It's Mikhail," she says, then answers it. "Um, sure. I'll ask." She puts her hand over the phone, then says, "Yuri's asking if you want your dinner here or in the main house. Yuri's the butler, FYI."

Being served by a butler seems crazy to me. It's getting late now; the sun is almost completely set, but with all the chaos, I forgot how hungry I was. When Ania reminds me, my belly gurgles with a hint of anger.

"What's easier for them?" I ask.

"The main house, I guess," Ania says, "but not by much. They can easily bring something over here. Or cook something for you here. It's not an issue."

Maybe not, but it feels like one, somehow. I've been preparing my own food since I was a teenager, making it in the orphanage or the home, as they preferred to call it. Some workers there were kind and enjoyed cooking for the kids. Others didn't give a damn.

"There's plenty of food here," I say. "I can rustle something up."

"Are you sure? You're welcome to eat with us."

"I don't want to…"

I was about to say be a burden, but then I realized how insane that would sound. How am I being a burden after everything that happened?

"Who else will be there?" I ask.

"Mikhail, Mila, Dimitri, me… Yep, that's it, and you." Ania puts her ear to the phone when somebody says something. "It's Dimitri. He wants to speak with you."

Ania hands me the phone. I almost push it away and tell her I don't want to talk to him. I want to sleep, forget, and go back to when he was just the broody, intense CEO and nothing else. Another part of me yearns to hear his voice, even if it's only been a short while since I last saw him.

"Hello?" I say.

"Lia," he says, with the same passion I feel, as though the short time apart has felt just as long for him. "You're coming to eat with us, right?"

"I wasn't sure…"

"I want to see you," he says. "So if you don't want to eat with us, I'll come to the house. After, I've got to go back to the city."

I get the message. This is our last chance to see each other until at least tomorrow. Tomorrow shouldn't conjure up feelings and images of waiting for the rest of my life, but that's what it feels like. Something immature pulses deep within, screaming at me to be with Dimitri.

"Okay," I say, but I don't want to make it too easy for him. "But don't forget, we have to talk, Dimitri. About who you are. About what you've done."

I hang up before he can reply, shocked at my boldness. Ania looks at me with the same sense of surprise, her eyebrow raised.

"This isn't easy for me," I tell her. "A few hours ago, I was a cleaner, a painter, that's it. I was flirting with a CEO. That was an adventure, but I never thought I'd be shot at."

Or that a man would kill to protect me.

"They're not bad people," Ania says.

"I don't know anybody here," I reply, my voice harsh.

Ania looks down, breaking eye contact and making me feel terrible, but it's true. Even if I feel friendly with Ania, we met less than thirty minutes ago.

"Can I have a look at those clothes?" I ask.

"Yeah, of course," Ania says.

I don't tell her I'll be looking for something that will hopefully make me more attractive than the competition. Then that thought pisses me off. Who am I competing with? Who am I competing for?

I'm supposed to be happy on my own and able to handle anything that comes my way. Ultimately, I choose a simple shirt and a pair of jeans.