Max frowns at Russet. “We’ve got a kid.”
Russet makes a face at him, the marital spat playing out silently.
Lev bends down, whispering indistinct Russian words to his wife. She remains impassive, her expression dropping into a tired expression when most of the room isn’t focused on her. I’ve got to give it to the woman. She’s even better at wheeling and dealing than her husband is.
“Fine!” Max rolls his eyes, Russet tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Yes, go ahead and help, Mom.”
Lev stares at his wife while she stares at her shoes, but she eventually reaches a conclusion. “I can make a phone call. But it will take some time.”
Yelena goes into a large study beside the living room. It’s full of large wooden furniture that’s meant to exude power and wealth.
She’s tiny, sitting behind the desk, and picking up the phone.
Roma watches her, his face squinting in confusion. “I think she’s talking to a. . .”
Elijah smirks, amused. “A cab driver.”
It’s like that all afternoon. One giant, international game of telephone. She speaks to a man who runs a gas station in the Serbian countryside. Then she calls a family home in Belarus. At one point we all freeze when the phone rings with an incoming call. It turns out to be a man from a butcher shop, but it led to a new phone number.
Dimitri walks around all day, tugging at his hair. There’s the occasional whisper between the three high powered Russian men. Sometimes they give an order to one of their foot soldiers who keep popping in. A reminder that they’re still expecting shit to hit the fan.
“You okay?” I ask Isolde quietly, who nods.
It’s now hour eight of hanging out in the Zimin living room, like one weird, fucked up sleepover. But no one is willing to leave. Mainly because I think everyone is curious. Yelena, despite the shadows under her eyes, never takes a break. I catch Max frowning at one point when his mother laughs as she talks to the owner of a brothel.
“It’s fucking crazy, isn’t it?” Ren murmurs.
I’ve sat next to Isolde all day on one of the couches, but her other side is always occupied by one of her other friends. Lennie, Russet, Adeline, or Ren. Luis is back and forth between the living room and kitchen, bringing us snacks that Abe makes.
Ben is also making phone calls. More and more people are getting nervous as the various syndicates around us realize something is going on.
Isolde leans her head back on the couch.
“I can get Tyler.” I keep my voice quiet, aware she doesn’t like a fuss. She hasn’t complained once about her injury. I watched her for five days, sleeping like a zombie or sobbing uncontrollably. Never once did she mention her side, her brain had wound so tight against her other injuries. But I haven’t forgotten about it for a single second. She’s pale and without sounding like a possessive asshole, I wish she’d slow down. At the same time, I’m glad to see her back to her love of planning.
“No, I’m fine.” She grabs my hand, and my spine relaxes against the Zimin’s ridiculously expensive couch.
Ben wraps up a call, nodding toward Ren, who gets up. Adeline promptly takes her seat.
“That Blake?” Isolde asks, nodding at Adeline’s phone.
She’s been on it the whole time. “I tipped off a reporter in the UK. I’m waiting for the news to break about the Met taking down a sex trafficking ring.”
“Wait, who’s Blake?” Lennie asks, looking up from her book.
Adeline’s phone rings. She stares for a second, debating taking it before hopping up and walking out.
“Wait, who’s Blake?” Lennie calls after her and then asks me, “Do you know?”
I cross my arms, leaning into the couch. I am not getting dragged into Adeline’s love life.
Ian appears, holding out a bowl of popcorn slathered in chocolate and pretzels.
“I love it when Abe comes over,” Russet utters with awe.
“Your child has eaten her weight in sugar,” Tyler replies. He’s hung out with his old neighbor most of the day when he didn’t doze, recovering from the night shift.
Ian settles down on the floor, passing the bowl to Russet.
