“Pretend that you care about me.”
10
NATALIA
“You still haven’t slept with him, have you?”
My mother opens the door with a pinched expression on her face, looking me up and down as though losing my virginity would cause some visible change.
“Hello to you too, Mama.”
She pulls me into a bone-crushing hug for a second, then pushes me back to look me hard in the eyes.
“Really,malyshka. We must know.”
I let out a snort and shake my head. “I haven’t let him touch me.”
With the exception of a rough, calloused hand on my waist the other night. The hot brush of the back of his fingers against my cheek when his hand tangled in my hair. And the weight of that dark gaze which feels almost like a caress.
“Thank God in Heaven.” Mama fingers her cross and yanks me inside the front door.
I let Dasha out of her crate and she strides off down the hallway, rubbing herself against the gold-leafed wallpaper. It’s like she’s pointing out the luxuries she’s been missing during our time in Aleksandr’s warehouse.
My father is waiting, looking the same as ever in his tweed suit with glasses — more a professor than a Bratva boss. He’s not a hugger, but he nods at me as my mother fusses around with a high tea she’s arranged.
No sooner have we assessed the state of the weather and my mother started her latest tirade about a servant who had to be fired, my father nods his head towards the door as if to indicate I should come with him.
“Oh, this,” my mother says, huffing as though she disapproves of whatever we’re about to talk about. “Remember you can say no,malyshka. Your focus should be on staying pure, not whatever silly little mission your father has for you.”
I wave her away but privately roll my eyes at my father. He pulls me into his office and I sit across the desk from him.
“I have business to discuss with you, Natalia.”
“The paintings?”I look around the room, hoping to get a sneak peek of my father’s latest shipment.
It’s lovely to see my parents, of course — but the artwork is what I’ve missed most. Aleksandr doesn’t have a single decoration up in his entire apartment. I know my father hates him, but I thought I might convince him to borrow my favorites. I didn’t feel that I was done with the Cholmondeley still life of the duck, and just a few more hours with it would be invaluable.
The boxes of paintings and sculptures which usuallyoccupy half the office — my half of the office — are missing.Worry grips me. Maybe without me, Papa will never be able to identify the forgeries. “You do have paintings for me to check?”
My father pushes his glasses up his nose and nods.
“Of course,malyshka, there are always paintings… First, let’s discuss something else.”
I’ve never been involved in any other part of my father’s business before. He’s tried to keep me away from it, saying that it was nothing that would concern me. According to my father, everyone should focus on their natural talents — and my innate ability to detect inaccuracies in artworks is mine.
My father straightens his tie — his habit whenever he is nervous about something — and props his fingers together. Whatever is going on, it’s serious.
“Is everything okay, Papa?”
“It’s about your husband.”
I wrinkle my nose. It feels strange to have a husband after spending so long avoiding it. “Let’s not call him that.”
“Yes, of course. Well, it’s about Aleksandr… You haven’t formed an attachment to him, I hope?”
This again.
My parents are so paranoid that I’m about to throw myself at my brothers’ killer that it’s almost insulting.
