She was beautiful. Had always been beautiful. But here, away from the compound and the weight of what we were, she looked young. Free. Like the dancer she'd been before debt and violence stole that from her.
The morning sun was warm but not brutal. Not the oppressive heat that would come in a few hours. Just pleasant warmth that soaked into skin and bones. The ocean breeze carried salt and something else. Fried food. Sunscreen. The particular smell of summer at the beach that was the same everywhere but felt different here. Felt like childhood.
The boardwalk was moderately busy. Older Russian women walking in groups, speaking in rapid-fire Russian about grandchildren and ungrateful sons. Families with small children heading toward the sand. Teenagers clustered near the arcade. A few tourists with cameras and confused expressions studying maps on their phones.
No one paid us much attention. Just another couple. Nothing special. Nothing dangerous.
I was dressed casually for once. Dark jeans instead of dress pants. A grey t-shirt instead of a button-down. Sunglasses hiding my eyes. No gun visible though I had my Glock in an ankle holster. Some habits couldn't be broken.
But for once I wasn't scanning for threats. Wasn't calculating angles and exits and who might recognize me. Wasn't being the Pakhan who had to consider every interaction as potential business or potential danger.
I was just here. Present. With her.
"You're smiling," Sophie observed. She squeezed my hand. "I don't think I've ever seen you smile this much."
Was I? I hadn't noticed. "Must be the company."
She bumped her hip against mine. "Or maybe you're just a beach person and you've been hiding it."
"Maybe."
The food carts were set up along the boardwalk's edge. I'd been aiming for a specific one since we parked. Old Viktor's cart. He'd been here since I was a kid. Probably would be here until he died.
The cart was painted bright blue with Cyrillic lettering advertising various Russian foods. The smell hit us from ten feet away. Fried dough. Meat. Cabbage. That particular combination that meant home.
Oleg stood behind his cart like a general commanding troops. He was in his seventies now. Grey beard. Weathered face. Massive forearms from years of rolling dough and frying pirozhki.
I approached and spoke in Russian. "Three meat pirozhki. Two cheese pastries. Two kvass."
Oleg looked up. His eyes went wide. "Nikolai Dmitrievich! Bozhe moy!" My God. "It's been years! Five years? Six?"
"Seven," I said. "Not since before my father died."
His expression softened. "Carstvo yemu nebesnoye." May he rest in heaven. "Your dedushka, he still comes sometimes. Sits on that bench over there." He gestured to a bench facing the ocean. "Smokes his pipe and watches the water like he's waiting for something."
The image made my chest tight. Mikhail coming here alone. Still visiting the place where he'd brought his grandsons decades ago.
"How is your family?" I asked.
"Good, good. Granddaughter got into Columbia. Can you believe? First one in the family to go to university." His pride was evident. "Your brothers? Konstantin? Maksim?"
"Both well. Kostya is still Kostya." Meaning violent and direct. "Maks is working on legitimate business ventures." Meaning tech and information brokering.
Oleg nodded sagely. "And this beautiful girl?" He switched to accented English. "Your wife?"
Sophie's hand tightened in mine. Not wife. Not yet. Maybe not ever with our contract arrangement. But something in me wanted to say yes anyway.
"Girlfriend," I said in English. "Sophie, this is Viktor. His pirozhki are the best in Brooklyn."
"In New York," Viktor corrected. He was already moving, pulling fresh pirozhki from the warming tray, wrapping them in paper. "Maybe in all of America."
Sophie smiled at him. "It smells amazing."
"You eat, you tell me if I lie." He winked at her. Then back to me, switching to Russian. "She is very pretty, Nikolai Dmitrievich. Hold onto this one. Don't let her go like your—"
He stopped. Realized what he was about to say. Like your mother did.
"Yes," I said quietly. Also in Russian. "I intend to."
