I waited until late, when the penthouse settles into a quiet hush. Between the dark stone and the amber lighting, the place feels less like an apartment at night and more like a fancy, futuristic tomb. It’s both Zen and unsettling at the same time.
Sasha’s office door is locked, but I’ve been paying attention—I know where he keeps the maintenance keycard. I slip it out of my pajama pants pocket and hold it in front of the sensor. A green light illuminates, and a lock softly shifts out of place.
I’m in.
The moon is full and high in the clear night sky, casting thespace in an eerie, silver glow. I’m wearing my slippers, so each footfall is hushed.
Unfortunately, I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for.The truth. That’s what Ruth had mentioned. Where do I even begin? My eyes land on the sleek computer monitor on the massive desk. Part of me wonders if Sasha’s the type to keep everything important locked behind a dozen passwords on his computer. Hacking is not in my skill set, so I’d be out of luck there.
I turn, sweeping my gaze over the built-in bookshelves. They’re a total intellectual flex—finance, great literature, military history, many gorgeous first editions all lined up like soldiers, neatly placed. I move closer. One shelf is different from the rest. Instead of impressive tomes, it contains photo albums. Old ones. The kinds with paper and plastic sleeves and ink fading on the spines.
I’d never taken Sasha to be the sentimental type, but here’s proof right in front of me that he literally holds space for the past.
I pull one down. It’s a heavy black-leather thing, the title on the front reads “1994–1999,” with something scrawled in Cyrillic beneath. I tuck it under my arm and hurry to the sitting area, placing the book on the center table and flipping it open.
The first few pages are a city I don’t recognize—Moscow? St. Petersburg? Photos of a young couple, one of them holding plane tickets to the camera, is the first I see. The scene shifts. It’s winter, but it’s a winter I recognize—Chicago. Yellow cabs, men in heavy coats, women in fur hats. I recognize some of the streets, some of the buildings.
I realize what I’m looking at. These are photos of Sasha and his family moving to the US. The man is Ivan, his father. And the woman must be his mother, but I don’t know her name. Sasha doesn’t talk about her very much. She’s beautiful, with elfin features and the same dimples Sasha sports. Ivan is the rest of Sasha—tall, handsome in that brooding way, well-built. And those same dark, brooding eyes.
My heart skips a beat when I realize that Sasha has to be in some of these pictures. I flip the page and there he is. Barely a teenager, already all angles and stormy eyes, his mouth sporting the knowing, scheming smirk I’ve seen so many times.
I turn another page and almost flinch. It’s a picture of Ivan up close. The resemblance is even more uncanny in this photo: same eyes, same bone structure, same gravity. There’s warmth in some of the other pictures of Ivan—him at one of Sasha’s birthday parties, him seated in a recliner with a loose tie. But everything else about the man radiates power and control.
Very much like his son.
I keep flipping the pages, and I find a spread that practically stops my heart. It’s a photo of a summer picnic in Lincoln Park, complete with throw blanket, paper cups, and gorgeous sunlight beaming through the branches of the trees above.
And my mom.
She’s laughing at someone off camera, head tipped back, her profile the same as my own. I place my fingertips on the page, as if I could somehow touch her through thephoto. My eyes become wet with tears. I lift the album and place it on my legs.
I turn the page and find another shot of her. This time, however, she’s with Ivan. She’s seated next to him—not in a lovers’ sort of way, but closer than strangers. I don’t really understand the connection between them. I touch the page again, the plastic crinkling.
“What the hell?” I whisper the words, and the office is so still and quiet and vast that they echo through the space.
“Gabriella.”
I gasp and jump. The album slips, and I barely catch it, more plastic crinkling. Once I have it in hand, I look up and see Sasha.
He’s standing in the office doorway, his outline framed by the amber track lighting of the hallway. He’s wearing a charcoal button-up with the sleeves rolled, the top two buttons undone. His jaw is tight, and he looks like he’s about to give me the scolding of a lifetime for sneaking into his inner sanctum until he sees what I’m holding.
He clears his throat. “Where did you get that?”
“It was on your shelf, next to the Tolstoy.”
He takes one big step into the room, shutting the door behind him. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“And you shouldn’t have pictures of my mom on your shelf. What the hell is going on, Sasha?”
He swallows and glances down at the photo album on my lap, then back to me. “Give it to me.”
“No.”
We stare each other down like its high noon, and we’re about to draw pistols. I’m trying to play it cool, but my pulse is pounding in my ears.
“You knew her.”
“Barely. I was a boy.”
