53. Andrey

53

ANDREY

She steps onto the porch, and even the breeze goes still to admire her.

Her hair is a silky waterfall cascading over one shoulder. The cherry pendant I gave her for her birthday dangles from a thin chain around her neck, catching the moonlight until it seems to glow.

"Remi was not happy to be left behind," she informs me as I hold the passenger side door open for her.

"That dog has hogged your company for long enough. It's my turn tonight."

Her lips curve up as she slides into the Porsche without mentioning the blacked-out Wrangler looming behind us.

Leonty and Leif have specific instructions to be as discreet as possible tonight. Shura will be at the restaurant, too, scoping out the perimeters, making sure everything's safe. With any luck, we won't even notice they're there.

The ride is smooth and quiet. Natalia's thigh is warm beneath my palm as I drive, and the scent of her perfume floats through the car, just subtle enough to make me wonder if I'm dreaming the whole thing up.

She holds her chin high as we emerge from the car, proud and defiant, though she lets me lead her into the restaurant. Just like the perfume, I wonder if I'm imagining the tremor in her hand.

It's as though she's determined to prove that she belongs here.

Whether "here" means at this restaurant or at my side, however, I don't know.

She spends an inordinate amount of time talking to the waiter, and when he finally leaves, it's with three pages of his notepad filled with damn near every item on the menu.

The door to the kitchen clicks shut and she winces. "I overdid it, didn't I?"

"You're pregnant. You get to order whatever you want."

"I'll never be able to finish half of it." She twirls a lock of hair between her fingers. "Mom had a rule about wasting food. If we couldn't finish it ourselves, we had to make sure someone else could. There was a homeless shelter nearby. We used to drive down after every holiday with all our leftovers."

"Then that's what we'll do," I say. "I know a bridge not far from here with a homeless camp beneath it. We'll go by after dinner."

She blinks at me, lips parted, head cocked to the side. I'm just as confused, to be honest. The offer flowed naturally from my lips; I didn't say it to mock her or patronize her or even to flatter my way into her bed tonight.

It just felt right.

When the first appetizers hit the table, Natalia samples each dish, but leaves most of it untouched.

It makes me wonder if she's purposely eating less so the homeless people she hasn't even met yet can have more. I'm happy to take care of them on her behalf, but my primary goal tonight is to take care of her.

"What did your parents do?" I ask when the first courses have been cleared away.

"Dad was a music teacher," she says. "He was the one who taught me the piano. He played a whole bunch of different instruments, though. Guitar, flute, accordion. Even fiddled around with drums a little. Mom was a temp. That's how she met my dad. She took a position at the school he worked at."

Her eyes are brighter than usual as she talks about her parents. I get the feeling she doesn't do it very often.

"She stopped working when she got pregnant with me, though," Natalia continues. "She said that was always her dream job."

"She wanted to be a mother?"

She tries to return my smile, but her chin quivers. "She didn't get to finish that job, though."

"Arina was a good mother, too," I say quietly, losing myself to nearly forgotten memories. "But like yours, she didn't get to enjoy it as long as she should have."

Natalia's eyes are flecked with diamonds—a combination of the lights above and her own unshed tears. "What happened to her? If you don't mind me asking, I mean."

My instinct has always been to deflect. My mother is a soft, vulnerable underbelly I don't let anyone see.

But I don't feel that with Natalia.

I want to know her, and I want her to know me. And I have no idea why.

"She married a cruel man."

"Your father, you mean."

I nod. "Sometimes I think it might have been kinder if he'd just killed her," I admit—something I've never spoken aloud before. "Instead, he wore her down. He twisted and deformed everything good about her until it was unrecognizable. Until she didn't even know herself. She's buried so deep in her own mind now that no one can pull her out."

"Why? Why would he do it?"

"Because we loved her," I explain. "Because Viktor and I loved her more than we would ever respect him."

Every smile that we aimed at her, every bubble of laughter that she pulled from us—Slavik took as a personal affront. The very sound seemed to offend him.

Natalia's eyes are fixed on me. Her knuckles are white as she squeezes my hand. "He probably knew that, one day, you and Viktor would stand between him and Arina. That you wouldn't let him hurt her anymore."

"Well, we both failed in that regard," I growl bitterly.

Natalia's grip on my hand just gets tighter. "You were a child."

"I grew up, Natalia. And I played right into his hands. His plan worked. He was successful in driving a wedge between us."

Her eyes shine with tears, and I hate that I made her cry. This night isn't about me. It was meant to be for her.

"I apologize. I shouldn't have?—"

"No!" she snaps. "No, I'm glad you shared that with me. It… it helps me understand you better."

"I'm not sure I'm worth understanding."

"Of course you are," she says gently. "Everyone is worth understanding, Andrey. Most people are redeemable."

"That's a little too optimistic for a mudak like me, little bird."

"You're no mudak, whatever that means," she insists, her pronunciation surprisingly on point. "You wanna know why?"

"Tell me."

"Because you didn't hurt Misha, even though it would have been easier to get rid of him. You tried to find his family even though you knew it was a pointless search. You protected Leonty from Viktor and you gave Mila the freedom she's craved her entire life. You take care of your men and you stop monsters from hunting innocent women and hurting innocent children."

I stay silent, my breath held captive in my throat as she continues.

"I know you think I'm na?ve and maybe, sometimes, I am." She squares her jaw as though she's waiting for me to agree with her. When I don't, she forges ahead. "But I'm not nearly as na?ve as you think I am. I know you're not the hero in this story, Andrey Kuznetsov. But I don't think you're the villain, either. No matter how hard you try to be."