“I'm the only one here guys, I swear.” I wave at them before turning back to her. “I'm so glad you're here, Dr. Morozova. You can clue me in on what happens at these high society weddings.”
“Call me Ella, please,” she laughs, “and they tend to be the same level of drunk and boring as most of the ones I'm sure you've been to before.”
“Most of my wedding memories are deeply traumatic. I have six bridesmaid dresses jammed in the closet at my folk’s house back in Colorado,” I say. “My favorites are the one that made me look like a hooker, and also the yellow antebellum gown that looked likeGone With the Windhad had a baby with a porn film.”
She's howling with laughter and it's nice to hear. I haven't had a lot to laugh about in the last little while. Ella takes my arm, linking it with hers, as we walk back to my bedroom, followed by her stylist and hairdresser.
“How are you doing?” she asks. “I’m taking advantage of being your physician to be a little intrusive. I have never been in your position, but I must tell you I do know what it's like to be scooped up and carried out of your life with no warning.”
“Really?” I ask, intrigued. “If I get you a glass of wine can I loosen you up enough that you'll blurt out the story?”
Her laugh is pretty; light and sweet, and it floats through the apartment, making the space feel warmer. “That's not a story for today,” she says, “but I assure you, you'll hear it sometime. It's woven into the Morozov legend of hasty and ill-advised weddings.”
“Oh man,” I lament. “Now you've really got me curious!”
The stylist and the hairdresser do their job, making Ella look even more strikingly beautiful than she already is, in a pale green gown. The hairdresser spent some time on me, too, managing an elegant chignon with strands framing my face that I know I could never replicate without the help of multiple bottles of hair product and sixteen extra pairs of hands.
“Your hair looks perfect,” Ella says approvingly, stepping back to get a look at me. “Did you pick out your dress?”
“Yes, Dmitri’s personal stylist Colette showed up with a rack full of dresses and two bottles of champagne,” I say. “You have to love a woman like that. And you, how do you go from elbow deep in guts to looking like a goddess?”
“Oh- I had a case today,” she says. “A patient with two gunshot wounds, one bullet went straight through, a nice clean exit, the other lodged in the lower intestine. I did an emergency exploratory laparotomy to repair the perforated area. The bleeding wasferocious,I stapled six lacerations to slow it down while I attended to the intestine, but I had to remove two feetof-” Her stylist makes a small, desperate “hurking” sort of noise and Ella stops. “Sorry, Molly.” The woman smiles weakly, her face a delicate greenish tint.
“Tell me later,” I murmur, “I’m dying to know if you used the new surgical mesh treatment.”
Just as we’re checking our lipstick, I hear the mutedding!of the elevator and Roman's voice calling through the apartment.
“Prince Charming is here to pick up two beautiful princesses!” he shouts, and Ella shakes her head.
“My son has never learned the value of carrying on a conversation that is under the volume of a cannon going off in the Astrodome.”
I suspect his approach is far stealthier than she claims. I've been looking up a few things about the bratva hierarchical structure today. During one conversation, I overheard Demid and Kir refer to Roman as aVor. According to my research, that means he’s a high-ranking member who handles sensitive or critical issues for the bratva. I’m guessing that “issues” mean bloody and sort of horrible. I’ve seen that under Roman’s cheerful, easy-going countenance, there is a certain steel in his gaze that must be hard to turn off.
“Hello, Mother.” Another tall man who is clearly a Morozov leans his shoulder against the bedroom doorway. “Roman apparently forgot that I’m standing right next to him, so I’ll introduce myself. I’m Alexsey, and you must be Ava.”
He holds out a hand with a broad smile and I shake it. “So nice to meet you.”
“Alexsey!” Ella walks out of the bathroom. “Let me see how handsome you look in your tux.” She smiles proudly, brushing aspeck of lint off his jacket. “All of my boys have to get their suits custom-made. They have their father's broad shoulders.”
“I hope you don't mean that literally,” I say, and she cracks up.
“No, Maksim is still using them. He should be arriving at the wedding a little later. His jet touches down in about an hour.”
I pause for a moment to appreciate the two brothers. Theyarea sight, both tall with heavily muscled frames, though Alexsey’s blonde curls give him a softer edge than Roman.
“These are yours, aren't they?” I ask, gesturing to the paintings lining the hallway. “Dmitri told me they were his brother’s work. They're beautiful. Do you paint professionally?”
“He had a showing last year at the Zed Gallery downtown,” Ella says proudly. “It was a huge success.”
“Only because every member of three Bratvas descended upon the gallery and brought up my paintings,” Alexsey says dryly. “They were eager to curry favor with my father, or simply because they were terrified of him.”
“Well, I think your work is amazing.” I point to the St. Petersburg painting, “I swear I can see the skaters on the Neva River and picture their movement, hear the sound of the skates scratching along the ice, laughter, and the chill in the air."
Alexsey gives me a slow, growing smile. “That is possibly the best analysis I've had for that painting, and that’s including six lengthy pontifications from art critics.”
“I'm no expert,” I laugh, “and too poor to be snapping up anything of yours soon. But maybe one day…”
As we leave the penthouse, I have to smother a laugh. If I had thought Demid and Kir following Dmitri and me was excessive, nothing compares to being surrounded by a living, breathing fortress of four heavily armed guards and Roman and Alexsey, who I suspect are as equally laden with weapons.
