The black and white checkered flooring is polished smooth. If it weren’t for a bench with a line of shoes underneath and a coat hook, I’d really believe I’d ended up in a hotel lobby. There’s even some kind of sculpture in the middle.
“Isolde?” Russet calls out. She appears a second later and squeals. “Yay! You came.”
I add my shoes to the neat pile.
The living room is formal. There are paintings on the wall. A glossy white table against the wall holds golden knickknacks, random little vases, and such. Book spines fill the walls. Bright pink ones denote which shelves belong to Russet; her reading for book club is much different than the stuff her husband reads.
There’s a doll lying on the leather sofa. A hint of chaos in the orderly penthouse.
“Sergei says Mr. Hot Bodyguard is downstairs?” Russet’s wearing casual clothes. Her long brown hair is thrown up. She’s like Adeline, stunning even in athleisure wear. “He doesn’t want to come up?”
I ask her the same question I asked him. “You okay with him here?”
Russ picks at a square watch on her wrist. I know it belongs to her husband, Max.
“It doesn’t have to be this thing any time the Ghost is around. We both knew Marissa. It doesn’t have to be awkward.”
“You really never talked to him? Not even when he came to Sailor’s party.”
Russet sits down on the sofa. “There was a lot going on that day. It seems like Tris is sticking around. Part of the friend group now.”
I think about his frowny face. I’m not sure he’d go so far as to say he’s part of the friend group.
“He’ll disappear when this is all over.”
Russet picks up a book from the coffee table, placing it on her lap. “You really think so? He’s friends with Ren now. Wouldn’t he want to pop into Fujimori’s?”
No. That’s not how Tristan operates. Before the Ghost, when he worked for the Irish, he stayed away. The Ghost absolutely avoided the place. And after all of this. . . Maybe Ren could convince him to come to the table occasionally, depending on if she had the right type of client.
But based on the calls I see him taking and the way he’s starting to book more clients, he’s not going to have to rely on Fujimori’s. He’ll work with people in the life. Rich, corrupt businessmen who need protection. Oligarchs with mafia ties who want to be seen with a bodyguard at whatever gala they go to.
“How is it going?” Russet asks me, patting the couch beside me. “Living with him.”
It’s the question that is constantly brought up, thanks to the mystic of the Ghost, as Adeline would say.
Russet grins grimly. “Okay, no more Ghost talk, I get it.”
“Where’s your kid?” I ask, sitting down.
“With Max. He’s with his brothers.” A melancholy clings to her.
“You okay?”
She hugs the book she grabbed to her chest. “Max thought he was being nice getting Sailor out of my hair.”
She’s almost two.
“And it’s not?”
Russet clings to what I realize is a photo album. Her nose scrunches and her shoulders bunch together. With a deep breath, she loosens everything. “I can’t get pregnant.”
“Oh.” My brows hit my hairline, and I nod. I can do this. Talk about babies and stuff.
Russet laughs at my shock, but her face crumples. She quickly looks away.
I touch her lightly. “No, sorry. I’m just. . .”
Russet’s laugh is watery, yet still somehow bright. She reminds me of Harry. Someone who has seen so much shit, only to be continually positive.
