Kyran mutters something under his breath that has Silvano chuckling again.
“Thank you,” I say again before ducking my head, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I… Have a good night.”
Ilya says his goodbyes, and we make our way out of the bar. A few people stop us to compliment me, and I can’t believe how supportive people are.
Adam had said nobody cared about my playing.
There’s a lot more good in the world than he ever let me believe in.
I take Ilya’s free hand and squeeze it. “Thank you, too,” I say. “For showing up. I know you’re busy.”
Ilya shakes his head. “I’m never too busy for you.” His phone buzzes, as if to undermine his words. “I am too busy for whatever mudak is trying to call me right now.”
“What if it’s your lawyer?” I ask. “I can carry the cello, Ilya. Go answer your call.”
“You can’t carry the cello,” Ilya argues. “You’ll roll it.”
“Okay, I can roll the cello,” I agree. “But you should still answer the call.”
Ilya mutters, but he sets the cello down and pulls out his phone. He curses in Russian when he sees who it is.
“Da?” he snaps.
I’ve been trying to learn Russian, but he speaks too fast for me to keep up. I recognize Boris and Kolya’s names, and something about restaurants, but that’s it.
I roll my cello toward the car, and even though he’s on the phone, Ilya lifts it and places it carefully into the trunk for me.I smile at him, grateful for the small act, and he even opens the passenger door for me.
The phone’s Bluetooth transfers to the speakers of the car, and I recognize his lawyer’s voice.
I wish I could understand what was going on during the phone call, but he keeps me out of most of it. For my own good, he says, and he’s probably not wrong.
I slide into the car and put my seatbelt on, and even though he’s obviously irritated, his driving is careful as he gets onto the road.
It’s vastly different from how Adam would be driving if he was agitated, and I close my eyes and let the Russian words wash over me. It’s familiar.
It feels like home.
When the call ends, Ilya sighs loudly. “Finally. He talks too much.”
I fidget with my fingers. The words are sticky in my throat, but I know Ilya won’t get mad at me for asking. “Are they going to arrest you again?”
“No,” Ilya says firmly. “They don’t have enough for…” He fumbles with the word. “Indication. No. Different word. For real charges.”
“Indictment?” I suggest.
“Yes, that one.” Ilya comes to a stop at a red light and looks at me. “Don’t worry, Mishka. They can arrest me fifty times, it makes no difference.”
I bite my bottom lip. I still hate it when they pull him in for questioning, even when I know they’re not going to find anything. It’s been over two months of constant police interviews and borderline harassment from them. Everything they’d found at the gambling den had had to be thrown out, and Adam disappeared without a trace. There’s no probable causefor them to link the two, and Ilya assures me that despite their grasping, they won’t find anything.
I have to trust Ilya, like I do in everything else. “Okay,” I tell him, reaching out to touch his hand.
Ilya squeezes my hand, then lets go so he can get back to driving. “How was your interview today? With the orchestra director?”
“It went well enough for him to offer me a real audition,” I tell him. “So I think it went okay, but it’s hard to say. I know they have a lot of people coming through who want to join up with them.” I hesitate, then say carefully, “I think I have a shot, though.”
The director had even complimented my audition composition, which had been mind-boggling to me. It isn’t like I’d ever expect them to use my music, but despite any formal schooling or experience, it had apparently counted for something.
It might be just a small gig with a local theatre, but I’m excited nonetheless.
