I sip my tea as I explain that situation to Ms. Orlov.
I’m glad that I have a plan — it might be a temporary one, but it’s enough for the next month. Enough to get Ava away from the madness that is happening in Art’s family right now.
I’ve made the call to confirm everything. Lisette Du Pont, the patient I treated for hypothermia in the Bratva’s private hospital, wants me to come on her honeymoon for peace of mind.
Art doesn’t need to know that. Doesn’t deserve to know that, actually.
She said she wouldn’t tell Art if I went with them. She’s so worried about her pregnancy that she said she’d be relieved to have someone with medical expertise with them — even when I gave her my usual disclaimer about not being fully qualified.
I knew she would understand my situation, better than anyone.
We leave for Italy tomorrow.
My hand trembles as I raise the cup of tea to my lips.
“So if I can just stay here for the night, Ms. Orlov. That would be the greatest help.”
She reaches over the table, her papery-soft hand warm and gentle on mine.
“Whatever you need, Nina. You just stay here as long as you need to.”
Then she brings out a platter of home-baking and tells me that I look like I need to eat more.
I don’t think that’s true, but boy do I need a sweet treat right now. I gladly take one of her cookies from the platter and she catches meup on the gossip with our neighbors in the apartment — who’s finally got a job, who’s had a baby, and who’s been having too many late-night visitors.
A wave of exhaustion hits me and I excuse myself to go to bed.
Tomorrow, we’ll be in Italy. Far from this drama.
Safe. That’s exactly what I need.
I’m pulling on a floral nightdress that Ms. Orlov has lent me when I hear it. A deep rumbling voice, talking to Ms. Orlov in the kitchen.
There’s no way.
We slipped out of the wedding reception without anyone noticing. Art can’t have tracked me down in just a few hours.
I wrench the door open and there he is. Wearing his black suit, bow tie still on, not a strand of hair out of place. He looks utterly out of place in the tiny, retro kitchen, like some god who’s come to earth to interact with us mere mortals.
Ms. Orlov is smiling up at him, Mr. Jones talking away. As though they’ve known him for years.
“Art?” My voice comes out as a whisper. Ms. Orlov and Mr. Jones both shoot me apologetic glances.
Art’s head whips around to me in an instant. His eyes are utterly unreadable, darkest moss and a reflective lake.
36
ARTYOM
My years of planning have proven their worth tonight.
It took just an hour after Nina left the wedding reception for me to find out where she was.
Nina’s voice is choked as she asks Franka and Ivan to excuse us. They’re both looking incredibly guilty.
They like her, I get it. They feel bad. But they did the right thing.
Every second of tonight has been within my control, proof that the security net I’ve built around Nina was worth every cent, every minor arrangement.
