Pyotr deserved to die for what he did.
But I don’t like being the man responsible for killing this woman’s last living blood relative.
“Michelangelo Chiaroscuro,” I say solemnly, my hand swallowing her tiny one as I shake it gently.
“I know who you are,” she says, her milky eyes shrewd. “Now come down to my level. You’re going to make me break my neck looking so far up.”
A low chuckle rushes from me, and despite the sharp bite of rocky gravel, I lower myself to a crouch, feeling oddly chastised and welcomed in the same breath.
“Now tell me, Mikhail, what are your intentions with my Anika? She might not be my grandchild by blood, but she’s as good as, and I won’t have you disrespecting her.”
My eyes flash up to meet Anika’s, and her blue gaze is guarded. She watches me intently for a moment before leaning in to take Svetlana’s hand. “This is Michelangelo,babushka,” Anika reminds her, emphasizing the pronunciation of my name.
But I’m less concerned with having her get my name right and more troubled by the implication beneath her words. “Anika is my wife, Signora Novikov. And I can assure you, I will respect and honor those vows.”
The old woman seems mollified by that, and she graces me with a shrewd smile. “My Mikhail, you always were such a strong-willed little boy.”
Anika frowns, deep worry lines etching her brow, and she scoots forward on her bench to meet Svetlana’s eye. “Babushka, are you telling me you already know Miko?”
She glances in my direction, seeking confirmation, and I shake my head.
My family and the Novikovs were never on amicable enough terms that I would have spent time with Svetlana as a child.
If anything, I grew up on the horror stories of what the Bratva had done—and why we were never to trust them.
“Of course I know him,” Svetlana says, her tone affronted. “Mikhail is my great-grandson.”
She says it with such confidence, I could almost believe her, and an unsettled feeling sinks into my gut.
But then Anika shakes her head, her eyes meeting mine with an apology that closes like a fist around my heart.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes, she gets confused,” Anika explains. “The doctor says it’s a natural thing at her age. The trauma over the past week has probably shaken her.”
Svetlana huffs, tugging her frail hands back from Anika’s. “I’m not confused about anything,” she states. “This is my Mikhail. You think a grandmother doesn’t know her own grandson when she sees him?”
“Babushka, your great-grandson’s name was Pyotr. Mikhail was your son’s name,” Anika explains gently.
“No!” Svetlana insists.
Anika’s head snaps back, as if the woman’s denial hit her like a physical blow. Slowly, she lifts her gaze, looking back toward the house. And when I follow her lead, I spot her handmaid, Chastity, bustling toward us.
“It’s alright,babushka,” Anika says kindly. “We’ll sort it out another time.”
But Svetlana is having none of it. She huffs and sputters, clearly worked up about her memories misaligning. Rising slowly to my feet, I hang back as the maid arrives, and she and Anika share a quick, hushed word.
“I’ll take her back inside,” Chastity murmurs. Then she raises her voice so Svetlana will hear as well. “It’s time for your nap,gospozha,” she says, taking the handles of the wheelchair. “Let’s get you back inside.”
“I’ll visit you soon, Svetlana,” Anika calls after their retreating figures. Her expression is pained as she watches them follow the path back to the double French doors that open out onto the garden.
I study Anika in the silence that followed.
She’s openly concerned for the old woman’s welfare, worried about her failing memory, and I wonder if Svetlana might not be the closest thing she has to family.
“Why didn’t you want to tell me who she is?” I ask finally, when we’re entirely alone.
Anika cringes, the subtle gesture defensive as she slowly turns to face me.
Her blue eyes meet mine, their soft sky-blue color cold with mistrust.
