She bites her lip thoughtfully. “Crap. You could have gotten a lot out of him, especially now that I know you are not bound by the rule of law.”
“We still have plenty of leads,” I say, even though that’s not entirely true. “Just keep thinking of any details you might not have remembered before. Anything they might have said, names, perhaps.”
Shuddering, she admits, “I don’t want to remember. I don’t. But I’ll try.”
Surprising myself, I take her hand, holding it like we’re a couple, like this is something not born from blood and terror. “I know you will.”
***
Ublyudki - Russian for ‘bastards.’
Chapter Thirteen
In which there is nothing like a bubble bath and a hot Russian who can cook.
Ava…
It's a penthouse. Of course.
Kir already has the door open, stepping back respectfully as Dmitri guides me in. I would've expected some nightmare collision of chrome and black leather, but this is an older building and the kitchen and living room both have an exposed brick wall, adding warmth. The windows are the beautiful older kind, floor to ceiling with a rounded top and heavy panes in iron fittings.
The furniture in the living room looks antique, there’s an enormous wooden armoire that looks lovingly restored and hundreds of years old, like maybe it came from some Tsar’s castle in Russia. The couches are deep and comfortable looking, but high enough that I suspect my legs will dangle like a kindergartner's. Given Dmitri’s ridiculously long legs and a head that probably brushes the ceiling of any normal house, I can understand why he chose this furniture.
Kir and Demid’s quiet footsteps move behind us, doing something or another, but Dmitri is watching me, loosening his tie. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I'm no longer a patient,” I say, “so you don't get to ask me that anymore and I'm perfectly fine.”
Actually, that's a lie.
My head is still throbbing and the burn marks around my neck may be fading, but scars on the soul take longer, I suspect. I miss the hospital. I miss Priya. Idon’tmiss my old apartment, because that would mean I’m insane.
“Very well,” he says with a slight twist of his lips. “Let's get you settled and I'll make dinner.”
“You cook?” I say, “Or do you have one of those chefs who plates up the entire week and just leaves it in the fridge for you?”
Dmitri laughs, and damn him if that isn’t unbelievably attractive, just like the rest of him. A nice, deep hearty laugh from his broad chest and god, it makes his dress shirt tight against what I’m sure are spectacularly muscled pectorals.
“A combination of both,” he admits. “But tonight, I'm cooking as a proper host. No self-respecting Russian feeds his guest a frozen meal on their first night.”
“Isn't that more like, guest slash witness protection?” I say, but there's not a lot of heat behind it. Being placed in this spectacular but gilded cage isn’t my choice, but I don't doubt him about this human trafficking ring. Not for a second do I question that they would like me dead in a ditch somewhere or possibly at the bottom of the Hudson River.
Though from everything I've heard about organized crime in this city, I'd have plenty of company.
“Okay, thank you. That would be really nice.” I take a deep breath and force myself to be Gracious Ava, versus Filled With Anxiety Ava. The ADHD meds that Dr. Morozova prescribedfor me are already helping a bit, pushing back my scattered thoughts, and letting me focus on one or two things at a time. Like how the sunlight coming through the window brightens Dmitri's icy blue eyes and how the whole house smells nice, like something soothing and crisp, peppermint, maybe.
Dmitri leads me down a hall filled with beautiful paintings. I stop at one and cock my head. “Is that Corona Park?” I ask.
“It is,” he says.
I glance down at the signature. “A. Morozov. I'm guessing a relative?”
“My little brother Alexsey,” he says, smiling fondly. “He's extremely talented.” The brush strokes are precise and the colors vivid on the canvas. I can see the shading of the enormous Unisphere globe in the middle of the park and the reds and golds of a sunset.
“It's beautiful,” I say sincerely. There's other paintings, one that Dmitri tells me is of St. Petersburg, the Neva River in winter, dotted with ice skaters. “Is that where your family is from?”
“Originally yes,” he says. “My brothers and I were born here, but we all spent a few months a year in St. Petersburg and occasionally in Moscow to oversee family interests.”
“I see.” I want to know specifically what ‘family interests’ mean but I'm also pretty sure I would regret asking, so I don't. Thus far, Dmitri’s been almost unsettlingly honest.
