“I’m sorry to hear that,” I told her. I meant every word.
“He was really nice. He had a quiet voice.”
She was only about to turn five. Her memory wouldn’t be that developed, and with Fitz being killed when she was likely only three, I imagined there wasn’t much for her to hold on to as a memory.
This was the first time either of them had taken the initiative to talk about Fitz, though, and I was all ears. I was patient, listening to Maisie’s limited thoughts and impressions about her father who had died too soon to see her grow up.
I didn’t ask anything. I couldn’t. This was more about letting her know that she could talk to me and trust me with her memories.
But as she more or less dismissed him, telling me that she hoped he was in heaven or somewhere happy, I wondered if her mother would ever be able to move on.
Will I always compete with his ghost?
Will I ever lose the connection of being a part of his death?
I hadn’t killed him on purpose.
I wouldn’t have targeted him just to have his wife even if I’d ever known him or met him before that fateful night when he was killed.
Because it was Natalie’s love—pure and free and willingly given—that I wished for. She’d given me a hint of it, a teaser of the bliss that we could have a solid trust and love.
I wanted her forgiveness, yes, but I wondered what it would take for her to ever grant it.
Will I bear the guilt of being tied to his death forever?
I had to wonder what it would take for her to open her eyes wider and see that there was nothing I wouldn’t do to support her and make her happy again.
28
NATALIE
Not long after the excitement of Mikhail and Claire’s wedding, we had the joy of Christmas morning.
This was Maisie’s second holiday without her father. Her second of my handling the festive time on my own. As the days crept closer to Maisie’s favorite time of the year—because it was probably every child’s beloved season—I worried how any sense of traditions would be altered with our living here in Sergei’s home.
Part of my worries about him was that he could try to make Maisie forget about Fitz. So far, though, he hadn’t. He wasn’t trying to scrub out any memory of my late husband when I put a family photo in Maisie’s room. I overheard him replying vaguely when Maisie talked about her father. Sergei never tried to shut down the topic. Of course, he didn’t volunteer the fact that he was well aware of precisely how Fitz had died. Instead, he was gentle and patient, listening to my daughter as she might mention something about the man she likely didn’t remember well because of her age.
Christmas morning, I had no alarm for how the holiday would go. Late Christmas Eve, word reached the men that someone had bombed one of the most successful restaurants the Orlovs owned. Sobering news, indeed. Claire was upset, proving how she, too, still struggled to tolerate their violence.
This wasn’tthemattacking others, but being victims of it. I worried that ordinary people like me or Claire had been hurt, perhaps out dining at the fancy restaurant for the holiday. And this wasn’t even a site of illegal operations. It wasn’t a “hit” or a drug bust. It was an attack on an otherwise “normal” place of business.
As such, Sergei was gone, handling the mess with Mikhail, Andre, and Roman, plus countless other Orlov men.
At home, Claire and Anya helped me keep things festive with Maisie. A couple of cooks who were lively characters also joined in on the fun of opening presents. While Maisie was spoiled with gifts from everyone in the family, I was glad that I usedmymoney on gifts for her too. It took the sting out of letting Sergei pay for so much.
He gifted me a car, which I struggled to accept. For one thing, it was too much, too expensive. For another, it was something that defied the image of his being someone I should hate. Giving me a car was like him saying,hey, here’s a means with which you can flee again, if you want. Almost like he was taunting me with my willingness and reluctant desire to stay.
But the day after Christmas, while Maisie was playing with her new things, Sergei came home and approached me.
“We need to start packing.”
I raised my brows. Since he saved me the night I left, we’d only spoken fleetingly. I knew he was waiting on me to come to him and show that I was interested in a conversation, but this was different.
“Pack?”
He nodded and indicated for me to follow him into my room, where I had been headed with a basket of laundry. Furrowing my brow as he put his hand on the small of my back and steered me in there, I watched as he closed the door.
“I don’t want Maisie to hear and be alarmed.”
