“Funny,” she says. “He said the same thing.”
My chest shifts uncomfortably. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to imagine Slava Romanov having these conversations and making these offers because he feels guilt and responsibility.
“But I told him that I wanted to work,” Ludmilla continues. “I didn’t want monthly payments that would serve as a cruel reminder that my son was dead. I wanted to feel purpose. To do something with my hands while I still could. He understood that.”
“And he agreed?”
“On one condition.” The sadness slowly fades from Ludmilla’s face. “He insisted on setting up a trust for my grandson, Aleksey.”
“And where is Aleksey now?”
“Medical school.” There’s an unmistakable pride in her voice. “Doing something his father never could have done. Walking away from this world. Away from the Bratva.”
The words settle deep inside of me, and I don’t know what to say.
I have a hard time squaring the circle of contradiction that is Slava Romanov. On one hand, he’s the man who kissed me on the balcony, who saved me from Nico’s men, who cradled me in his arms as he carried me home, and who has the capacity to feel enough guilt to help Ludmilla’s grandson leave this life.
But on the other hand, he’s still the man who murdered my brother, and the man whom Nico claims raped and murdered his sister Gia.
I don’t want these two men to be the same person. It was so much easier when he was just an irredeemable monster who deserves every terrible thing I planned to do to him.
Monsters don’t set up trusts for the sons of men who died in their service.
Monsters don’t give grieving mothers purpose when they ask for it.
Ludmilla opens the door. “Here you are, Bella. Your workstation is by the window. If there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”
I should just thank her and let her go. That’s what a smart person should do. A smart person knows better than to go poking at open wounds.
But my curiosity goads me, and before I can stop myself, I ask her. “What do you know about Gia D’Ambrosio?”
For the first time, Ludmilla’s carefully arranged mask cracks. Warmth drains and the sadness flickering in her eyes is so profound that no amount of blinking can wipe it away.
“Where did you hear that name,devushka?” she asks carefully.
“Someone told me that Slava raped and murdered her,” I say it plainly. “Is that true?”
Ludmilla’s brow furrows, and slowly the sadness fades. In its place is a hard anger. At first, I think she’s directing that at me.But when she speaks, I realize that her anger is reserved for the accusation itself.
“There are many terrible things that Slava Danilovich has done.” Her jaw tightens. “I will not pretend otherwise. He is no saint, and has never claimed to be.”
She steps closer, and even though she’s my height, I find myself stepping back from the ferocity of her aura.
My hands drop to my sides as she continues to speak.
“But the two things I know that he did not do, are the two crimes you accuse him of. He didn’t rape her. And he certainly did not murder her.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because when Gia died, a part of Slava’s heart died with her.”
What?
I want to ask more, but Ludmilla’s hard tones tell me that I’ve already asked too much about something taboo. And although I can’t know the specific details, I know that this woman who lost her own son to Slava’s world is telling me the truth that Slavagrievedfor Gia.
That her death broke something in him.
“I didn’t think Slava had a heart that could die,” I say. The words come out harsher than I intend.
