Chapter 9 - Boris

Fiona and I are in the dining room, carefully setting out the placemats. Despite having a hundred things to do—and more than one angry person calling me—I'm here with her, getting ready for a cozy family dinner.

This home's dining room, with its rich red and dark brown tones, has always been one of my favorites. It holds a lot of memories for me and makes me think of what it was like as a kid, running around here with my siblings before the bigger house was built next door.

"Anya is nice," she says, darting her eyes up to meet mine before focusing on the table again. I can't stop looking at her—at the sundress and how it drapes over her shoulders, cupping her breasts, swishing around her knees. The slope of her neck. The curve of her calf. Every part of her looks like something I want to eat, and it's part of the reason I haven't been able to get a damn thing done today. I can't stop thinking about her body and how it felt on mine.

"Yes," I say, remembering that I should respond to her, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "Yeah, Anya is the best of us."

"Oh, really?" Fiona says, giving me a look. "Because Anya said that Anton is the best of the brothers."

"She didn't—" Boris starts, but then Anya comes bustling in, carrying a basket of warm rolls. They smell amazing—everything Anton cooks smells amazing. But I would never tell him that.

"Don't get butt hurt about it, brother," Anya says, touching her nose after she puts the rolls down. "It's just that— how could you not choose the brother who makes the food? And also, Anton is always helping me with my homework."

"I'm smart, too, you know," I say, setting down the last plate. "Just because Anton won that contest in—"

I stop when I realize Anya has already bustled out of the room, not paying a single iota of attention to what I'm saying. I roll my eyes and grab the silverware from the basket, placing it carefully. When I realize Fiona is standing at the front of the table, I clear my throat.

"Like this," I say, showing her how to properly place the silverware next to the plate. "Didn't you learn how to set a table growing up?"

Fiona lets out a snort, moving to the other side of the table and setting down the cutlery the way I showed her. I watch her fingers move, nimble and sure, as she grabs each piece and places it exactingly.

"Yeah," she says a moment later, "I set the table before my dad, and I had TV dinners on the coffee table every night."

"Every night?" I ask, my head whipping to look at her. "What about Sundays?"

"We weren't religious."

"Not in a religious sense," I clarify, "I just mean—what about family dinners? What about Christmas?"

"KFC for Christmas," Fiona says, laughing in a way that her smile doesn't meet her eyes. "Chinese buffet for Christmas Eve."

I start to laugh; then I realize she's not telling a joke. I think of my mother—of how traditional she loved for Christmas Eve dinner to be. My brothers and I are in stuffy suits, and my sister is in a velvet dress. My father, making a toast. Every single nook and cranny of the house was filled with family—blood-related and not.

Mother and father would take in new family members—those in the Bratva that hadn't established themselves yet—for the holidays. Especially when they had kids. In the two weeks surrounding Christmas, I would see more random people than my own family.

But on Christmas Eve, we always had a private dinner, just my brothers, sister, and parents. Occasionally, our grandparents would be invited as well when they were visiting from Russia.

I think of the salmon pie, meat dumplings, and stuffed buns my mom would make for the meal. Then, I think of what it would be like to sit in a shitty Chinese buffet on a day that's supposed to be all about family.

"So, what about your mother?"

"She died when I was little," Fiona says, swallowing. "I—she actually took her own life."

"Well, fuck," I breathe. "I'm sorry, I wouldn't have asked."

"It's okay," Fiona says, "I hardly knew her. Really, the only memory I have of her is finding her."

"Finding her—" I start, then realize what she means and pause. Of all the terrible things I've seen during my time in the family and as leader of the Bratva, that is not one of them. The mere thought of my mother doing such a thing makes my chest twist painfully.

"It's okay," Fiona says, taking a deep breath. "I mean, it was painful to learn that Mr. Allard was involved in all that awful stuff, but I still have Olive. She's like my family now. She's my best friend, the person I love most in the entire world."

"Fiona, I—" I start, trying to think of the words I can say to express that while I don't understand it expressly, I have also lost both of my parents. But before I can say anything, Anton, Roman, Viktor, and Anya come bustling in, all carrying a dish.

"Ivan!" I call, watching the man pop his head in from the kitchen. "Well, are you coming, or what?"

Color brushes over his cheeks as he hurries into the room, taking the place at the table Fiona and I set for him. She's situated across the table from me, which is fine because it means I get to look at her. And besides, I'm not sure if I'd be able to handle having her so close.

Whenever she looks at me, I think of how her lips felt against mine.

The food is passed around the table, and Anton explains each dish, describing our grandmother's recipe and how he adapted it to his tastes. Fiona listens dutifully, trying each thing and giving him specific compliments like, "So earthy," or "I love the sear on this."

As I look at her, I can't help the rush of adoration that wells in my chest. Hearing about her childhood—it starts to explain the woman here with me, so hardened to everything around her. Not caring and even somewhat participating in her own abduction.

I think again of the moment when I pressed the cloth to her mouth, how she had gone completely still, taking a deep breath, almost as though she wanted me to catch her.

"Boris," Roman says, "have you heard from Kuz about that shipment of—"

"Careful what you say, brother," Viktor says, cutting him off and shooting a glare right at Fiona. "Remember what father always said. Information is—"

"Yeah, yeah, information is the sharpest weapon," Roman says, rolling his eyes. "It's just us here, Die."

"Have you tried this?" Anton asks, leaning forward and putting some sauce on Fiona's plate. "It's scrumptious with the meat."

"Oh—yes, I'll try it," Fiona says, scooping it onto her plate.

"The shipment came in yesterday," I say, taking a bite.

"Well, did Kuz say—"

"Maybe we should just keep the business away from the table," Viktor says, interrupting Roman again. Roman turns, glaring at him.

"You said you're in business school?" Anton asks, cutting his meat and taking a bite, all without breaking his eye contact with Fiona. "What courses are you taking? I minored in business."

"Oh," she says, "well, I'm not in class right now since it's summer break, but in the fall, I'm taking Databases and Data Analytics and Intro to Managerial Finance."

"You haven't taken Managerial Finance yet?" Anton asks, his eyebrows shooting up. "How are you managing your other finance classes?"

"Well—" Fiona says when Viktor cuts Roman off again, claiming he's revealing too much information. I watch as her face clears, and she sets her fork and knife down on the plate loudly, making Anton jump. "Viktor," Fiona says, turning to the man and cocking her head at him. "When working for the Allards, I got to re-name files. I ran for coffee. I was even given the huge task of cleaning the bathroom when the janitorial staff walked out. Surprise—I got a fucking staph infection from that little adventure. I wasn't privy to sensitive information. I had no idea what the hell James Allard was up to, and I certainly don't intend to ever go back to that job."

"That's not to say you might sell our information," Viktor says, jabbing his butter knife in her direction, "as retaliation for the kidnapping."

"Are you kidding?" Fiona laughs, putting her hand to her mouth. "Do you think I would have allowed myself to be kidnapped if I didn't want it?"

"Are you saying…" Anya asks slowly, looking up at her with wide eyes, "That you wanted to be kidnapped?"

"Yes—no. I don't know!" Fiona says. "But I'm telling you this—the only reason I'm standing here now is because I want to be."

"Well," I say, rolling my eyes. It's not like my security efforts are poor.

"The window in the west hallway has a rusted bolt," Fiona says, "there's a secret tunnel that leads out of the building and East—I'm assuming toward the city. Three motorcycles are in the outbuildings, and the keys are literally hanging on the opposite wall. Every single one of your guards is overworked and falls asleep around two in the morning, and if they're not asleep, they're suffering from sleep deprivation, which means their dumb little brains are working slowly. The chef is afraid of mice and will leave the kitchen immediately if she sees one—I happen to have a mouse in the desk drawer of your room to set loose in there if I want to go out the kitchen door."

"Holy shit," Anya says, her mouth opens in a smile as she looks at Fiona. Her head whips around to me, "Where the hell did you find her, brother? She's amazing! She's like one of us!"

"She is not one of us," Viktor says, raising his voice and standing from his chair, favoring his good leg.

"Sit down, " I say, shooting him a look. Viktor sits, but Fiona doesn't stop there, her chest heaving. I'm still trying to remember everything she said about escaping so I can address all those issues before she exploits them.

"I may not be one of you," Fiona breathes, "but I sure as shit am not with the Allard's. So, you should watch your fucking tone when you talk to me—or about me—or I'll put a knife in your other thigh."

The dining room is quiet for a long moment as the two of them stare at one another, and I wonder if I'm going to have to break up a fight between them. I'll have to call Kervyn and see if his experience was anything like this—bringing Fiona into my home has been far more work than I ever thought possible.

Finally, Viktor lets out a low laugh, shaking his head.

"I have never met a woman like you before," he mutters, still shaking his head as he takes another bite of his meal.

"Well," Fiona says, taking a deep breath and looking around at all of us. "I can't exactly say I've been abducted into a crime family before, so I guess it's first time all around, huh?"

Anya laughs, and Anton raises his glass in a toast. I raise my glass, too, and pretty soon, we're all laughing, clinking our glasses together merrily.

***

"I can't believe you spoke to Viktor like that," I said. I sent Ivan home and decided to walk Fiona back to the house myself.

"I get the feeling people don't usually stand up to him," Fiona says, glancing up at me, and when the moonlight shines on her face, I want to reach down and rub my thumb over her cheekbones, to feel the smooth skin there, but I hold back.

"Other than me," I say, "our siblings tend to avoid disagreeing with him. He's been known to make some…questionable decisions. In fact, our parents were seriously worried that he was psychopathic when we were kids. He's simmered down since those days, but none of us have forgotten just how unhinged he can be."

Fiona laughs, and in a move that shocks me, she finds my hand in the dark, lacing her fingers through mine. Her hand is so small, so delicate, yet I remember how she used it to spray me with mace and throw her knife at Viktor. Fiona is a mirage, a facade of delicate beauty with an ocean of violence underneath.

"I want to tell you something, Boris," Fiona says, swinging around in front of me and walking me backward until we're partially concealed by the tall bushes that surround the property. "I am always the most unhinged person in any room. I made my peace with that fact. Viktor may think he's edgy, but I'm all the sharpener for a guy like that. We're not even in the same ballpark."

"Are you trying to convince me that you're crazy, Fiona?" I breathe, looking down at her, at the way her cleavage rises and falls in her dress.

"You don't need convincing," she says, her eyes darting back and forth between mine. "You already know. You knew as soon as you saw me in the office."

I think back to that moment. I remember thinking Olive Allard wasn't what I thought.

Fiona presses her other hand to mine, lacing our fingers together, then bringing them up so they're held between us.

"Here's the thing, Boris," she says, her eyes skimming over our hands, then migrating to my eyes. "You guys were raised in a mafia family. I was raised by an ex-marine with PTSD and a survival bunker. I learned how to grapple when I was four. I had an AK-47 in my hands by the time I was twelve. I've trained in six different styles of fighting. I know how to wield most blades—including scimitars and katana swords. I don't know what kind of stuff your parents did to prepare you, but I'm assuming our childhoods were similar. I don't trust anyone. I move through the world feeling like I'm different, and it's because I am . It's hard to feel a sense of camaraderie when you know you could easily kill everyone in the room if you had to. I don't feel that with your family. With your family—with you—I have the strangest feeling like I'm home."

"You're right," I say as she approaches me. "You are crazy."

With that, Fiona drops our hands, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me down to press her lips to mine.