I take her hand. She lets me.
We don't speak for a long time. The city slides past the windows. "You okay?" I ask finally.
"No," she says. "But I will be."
I bring her hand to my mouth and press my lips to her knuckles. She exhales, slow and shaky. "Take me home," she says.
"Yes," I say. "Home."
I’m taking my wife to my home, where I can properly protect her.
9. FIRST INITIATIVE
ROSIE
The penthouse is quiet when we get home.
Alexei turns on the low lamp in the living room, the one that makes the whole space feel amber and soft, and I kick off my heels at the door and just stand there for a second, feeling the cold floor under my feet, feeling the weight of the evening settle into my bones.
"Drink?" he asks.
"Water," I say. "Please."
He goes to the kitchen.
I walk to the window.
The city is still out there, all glittering indifference, towers of light stacked against the dark sky. Somewhere down there is my father, drunk, crumpled envelope in hand, looking for someone to save him. The way he's always been looking my whole life. But nobody can save him from himself. And I refuse to help him carry the burden he’ll never even partly pick up.
I press my forehead against the glass. It's cold, which helps calm my racing mind.
I keep thinking about what he said.Trophy wife. It's thanks to me you're here.Like he handed me a gift instead of a leash.
And the worst part, the part that makes my chest ache, is that six months ago, I would have turned myself inside out to find a way to give him money. I would have gone home sick with guilt and convinced myself that's just how family works.
I don't feel guilty tonight. I feel something else entirely. Something harder and cleaner, and sadder.
I feel like I've finally stopped waiting for him to turn into the father I hoped he would be, but was never within his capability.
"Here." Alexei's voice is close. I turn to find him beside me, a glass of water in his outstretched hand. His jacket’s gone, and he’s shed his tie and unbuttoned the shirt collar. He looks tired, but real and present.
I take the glass. "Thank you."
He leans against the window frame and looks at the city. Giving me space without leaving.
I think about that. About how often he does that, finding the exact right distance to lend his support without crowding me.
"I've been thinking," I say.
"Dangerous activity," he says.
I almost smile. “The world would say you're bad men.”
His eyebrows hitch in a silent question.
“The Bratva,” I clarify. “The things you do. The way you live." I pause. "Society would call you criminals. Violent. Dangerous."
"Society would be right," he says, without apology.
