"Yes you do," he says, pulling out a passport. Sure enough, it's a proper U.S. passport with a picture of me, probably the sameone used on my hospital ID. The kind of picture that is always guaranteed to be unattractive and grim looking, no matter how you pose or how much makeup you wear. "I'd ask you how you pulled that off, but I don't want to know," I say. "Thank you."
Roman meets us at the private airfield where the family keeps their jet, giving me a careless kiss on the cheek. I think I hear a little growl from Dmitri's chest, but I can't imagine why.
"Hey, Ava," Roman says. "I'm so glad you're coming with us. It'll be a far more entertaining trip than dealing with my stick-up-the-ass brother all alone."
"You're so loving and supportive, Roman. And here Dmitri says such nice things about you."
"Really." He raises a skeptical brow.
"Really. Of course, there is some stuff about irresponsibility, being a loose cannon, prone to mindless violence…" I smile sweetly. "There are some other compliments like those."
Roman laughs, not in the slightest bit insulted as he follows me up the jetway stairs. "Yeah, that sounds more like Dmitri."
The two pilots in fancy uniforms and hats are waiting at the top to greet us. Dmitri introduces us and then to the flight attendant, Lera, a bright-eyed brunette who looks thrilled to be there.
"This is my most special guest, Ava Blue," he says. "Do your best to make her comfortable."
"Yes, Mr. Morozov, of course!" Lera looks at me as if he has given her the command to seek the Holy Grail and I have to bite back a smile at her intensity.
I'm trying not to show my country bumpkin self, but this jet is fancier than any hotel I've ever stayed in. The floors are a deep,shining wood, the walls covered in dark gray silk and leather recliners are charcoal gray. There's a gleaming oak conference table further back with a monitor that slides down from the ceiling.
"This is our fastest jet," Dmitri says. "We should be in St. Petersburg in fourteen hours."
"Your fastest jet," I repeat. "As in, the Morozovs have more than one."
"Well, yes," he says, making himself comfortable after fussing over me a bit. "We are a global entity."
I raise a brow at him. "You know, I'm not a prospective investor that you have to sell anything to, right?"
He laughs. "My apologies, it must be second nature by now."
The flight attendant brings me fresh squeezed orange juice, and a plate of fancy crackers, cheese, and olives. No whisking things away and switching to plastic cups when we're airborne like the regular airlines, oh no. Lunch is lobster ravioli, followed by lingonberry sorbet. Dmitri watches me plow through my sorbet and pushes his over to me with a wink.
It's morning when we finally land in St. Petersburg. Nose pressed against the window, I watch the sun glitter over the Baltic Sea as the jet swoops in for a landing. After disembarking, I pause on the tarmac. "This is…" I put my hands on my hips, my head tilting back, breathing in the air. "Just give me a minute please," I sigh. "I want to say hello."
Roman and Dmitri wait for me patiently as I look around. Their private airfield here is just outside of the city. I can see the huge wave of pine trees spreading out like an ocean in one direction,and then the elegant buildings and spires of St. Petersburg in the other.
"Is there anywhere in particular you want to explore while you're here?" Roman asks.
"Well obviously The Hermitage Museum if there's time," I say. "But there is one museum I've been dying to see."
Dmitri looks up from his phone where he's been firing off text after text, no doubt alerting his people here that the Big Man has arrived. "Oh?"
"The Egonov Medical Historical Society has a display of medical equipment from the 1100's to modern day." I grin. "You can'timaginewhat they used in the 1700's when they first attempted open-heart surgery."
Roman looks more nauseated than intrigued. "Open-heart surgery? Without anesthesia?"
"I didn't say it wascomfortable,"I say defensively. "Just that it was fascinating. Oh, and when they didn't have leeches to clear diseased tissue in the 1800's, they used a tool with rotating blades that cut the skin while-"
"Nerd!" Roman says, laughing when Dmitri reaches out to smack the back of his head.
When the Mercedes pulls up outside their mansion, I stare up at the massive white stone four story that takes up the entire corner of the block, closely crowded by other equally grand homes.
"For two hundred years," Dmitri helps me out of the car, "this part of Russia saw the rise of great artists, writers and musicians, like Tchaikovsky, and Tolstoy. They moved through these houses as guests of the nobility and imprinted themselves on their history."
The front door, painted in glossy black opens to reveal a butler in full Jeeves uniform. He steps out, bowing deeply. Behind him is a woman in a black dress with elaborate apron with gray streaked hair, bowing as well.
"Masters Morozovs, it is an honor to have you back," the butler intones.
