Quietly, I walked through the corridor, a hand on my growling belly. I headed downstairs, my bare feet padding across the floor as I made my way to the kitchen.
As I neared the entrance, the aroma of roasted garlic and fried chicken drifted into my nostrils. My mouth watered, and my stomach let out a low rumble as if it were crying for help.
When I strolled into the kitchen, the chef, an elderly woman named Olga, was standing at the stove with her backtoward the entrance. She was humming a tune as she stirred the soup in a pot.
“Hey, Olga,” I greeted her, wiping a palm across one side of my face.
Startled, she flinched and turned around to face me with a hand on her chest. “Miss Eva. You scared me,” she said, her voice thick with a Russian accent.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I answered, inhaling the sweet aroma that filled the air. “Hmmm. Smells so good.”
Her lips curled into a faint grin. “Thank you.”
“What’re you cooking?” I stepped forward, helping myself to an apple from a small basket of fruits on the counter.
She mentioned a local Russian dish that I couldn’t dare pronounce lest I bite my tongue.
“I can’t wait to taste it,” I said, munching on the apple.
“You must be starving,” Olga said, watching me closely. “I’m sorry you weren’t served breakfast in your room.” She paused, letting the words settle for a moment. “Demyon’s orders.”
I shook my head, murmuring under my breath. “Of course. Why am I not surprised?”
“He means well,” she said.
I hesitated, pushing my head back, shocked to hear her defend him. “Oh, really?”
“Yes,” Olga replied. “You should walk around the house sometimes. Blend in with the rest of us.”
I placed my elbows on the kitchen island, my palms resting under my chin.
She returned to focusing on the food on the stove. “I haven’t had the chance to ask about your trip to Mother Russia.” She glanced at me.
“Oh, it was, uh…it was….” Images of the ambush flashed in my head, the sound of rapid gunshots ringing in the backof my mind. “It was….” Then came the memory of our kiss. “…eventful.”
“St. Petersburg is a beautiful place, yes?” She smiled at me.
I nodded.
“Did you know you’re the first woman he’s ever taken on any of his trips?” she asked, stealing a glance at me like this piece of information was supposed to make me feel special.
Honestly, though, the revelation did spark my curiosity. “Is that so?” I asked, indulging her.
“Mm-hm,” she answered. “Demyon’s a busy man; he hardly has time for women.”
Her words thawed something frozen inside me, but I didn’t let myself get carried away. “So…he doesn’t…have a…girlfriend?” I asked, then quickly added, “I mean, you said it yourself that he doesn’t have time for women.”
“None that I know of.” She turned off the stove and faced me. “He doesn’t stay with one woman for long, so it’s hard to keep track.”
That statement struck me harder than I cared to admit. Olga just implied that Demyon wasn’t just a cruel crime boss; he was also a player.
The conversation later shifted to a few random topics, which we discussed at length over lunch.
Later that night, I was watching TV in the living room when he returned from work, exhausted. His tie sagged around his neck, his jacket draped over his right arm, and his shoes scuffed against the polished floor.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw me sitting on the couch. Unfazed by his presence, I lifted my head and met his gaze but said nothing.
“Well, good evening to you too,” he greeted me, his voice laced with sarcasm.
