As if I didn’t force her to watch her father figure bleed out in my brother’s torture room. As if I didn’t destroy every last piece of her world in one night.
I open a drawer on my right. The black velvet box sits where it has for years, since I found it in Papa’s safe after his death. Inside, the emerald catching light like it does in every photo of her—deep green against pale fingers, three carats set in vintage platinum. The only piece of my mother I have left.
In the photos, she’s always smiling. Young, beautiful, wearing this ring like it was made for her. Papa said she chose it becauseit reminded her of the Siberian forests she left behind. Said she wanted her sons to give it to someone as fierce as she was.
I trace the box’s edge. For years, I never understood why Papa kept it. Now, all I see are Clara’s fingers, delicate but strong enough to pull a trigger. To swing a pipe at her enemies. To draw pictures with Elijah.
To teachourson how to be brave.
Blyat. I rake a hand across my stubble.Since when did I start thinking of us as a—?
I slam the drawer shut.
I reach for my phone instead. Need to check on Elijah. But before I can pull up Dmitry’s number, my phone buzzes.
Dmitry’s text shows Elijah beaming at the camera, cotton candy bigger than his head, brown eyes bright with sugar rush. Behind him, carnival lights blur against the gray December sky. Another photo loads—my son hanging off the merry-go-round horse, Dmitry’s hand steady on his back.
Having fun, boss. Kid wants a stuffed snake. Says Golubka needs a friend.
Cold rain pelts the windows, typical New Orleans winter. The grounds turn slick and dark while I sit here, watching an empty fucking doorway like some lovesick teenager. Three screens over, Clara’s curtains shift. A pale hand pulls them shut against the dreary light.
One month. Christmas decorations mock me from every store window in the city. Maksim’s already hung mistletoe in every doorway like the insufferable piece of shit he is.
I down the rest of my scotch, fingers hovering over the phone. “Tell the little terror no more sugar. What does he want for dinner? And Dmitry—if that snake is bigger than Golubka, you’re feeding it.”
Movement on the security feed catches my eye. Clara’s door opens. My face inches closer to the screen, like some teenage security guard on his first night shift.
A ghostly figure emerges—Clara, wrapped in what looks like every blanket from her bed. Her hair’s a wild mess, dark circles under her eyes, but she’s moving. Actually moving.
Suka. Where the hell is she going?
My breath catches as she turns left. Then right. Then—
Blyat. She’s heading straight for my office.
The scotch glass slips from my fingers.In thirty seconds, she’ll be at that door.
Thud, thud, thud.
I don’t get a chance to answer before the door swings open. Clara stands there, drowning in blankets, rings beneath her eyes making her look like an angry ghost.
She takes three steps forward, and my body tenses automatically—remembering the vase, the paperweight, that bronze statue from last week. My ribs still ache from the crystal ashtray she launched at me four days ago.
But her hands stay buried in the folds of fabric. Her eyes, red-rimmed but clear, bore into mine like she’s searching for something. The blanket slips from one shoulder, revealing my missing black hoodie.
"We..." Her voice cracks from disuse. She swallows, chin lifting. "Ihave to visit Jake."
69
Leonid
The Bentley Continental GT motorcycle roars beneath us an hour later, and I’m questioning every life choice that led to this moment. Miles on Louisiana backroads in November, watching the last of the fall colors blur past us.Suka.The things I do for this woman.
Clara’s arms tighten around my waist as I tilt us to a forty-degree angle, swerving past somemudakin a pickup who slammed his brakes without warning.
“Pizda!” I curse, the bike growling beneath me as we swerve past its bulk with inches to spare. But I can’t help loving the feeling—her body molded against my back like she belongs there. Which isn’t helping my concentration.At all.Blayt.The leather of my jacket creaks as she presses closer, seeking warmth, and my internal temperature spikes despite the bitter wind hitting my face.
“You could have taken the Range Rover,” I mutter, knowing she can’t hear me over the engine. But she’d insisted on the bike.
