“A concerned citizen disgusted at being wrongfully accused by an incompetent police force? I am glad you are so perceptive.”

  “Just wait, Ivanovich. Just fucking wait.”

  “Waiting tires me, Detective,” I say. “Have a pleasant day.”

  He grumbles as he takes me to get my belongings, but there is not much he can say, defanged as he is.

  I expect to see Anatoly or Oleg when I walk into the parking lot, but instead I spot Fyodor leaning against the hood of his car, picking something from under his fingernails. He brushes something from his suit jacket and offers me his snake-like smile.

  “It gladdens me, brother, to see you walking free.”

  There is little that makes Fyodor glad except power. What I say out loud is: “I will drive.”

  “As you wish.” He tosses me the keys. “It will give us time to talk.”

  “Wonderful.” I climb into the car. “I have been starved of conversation.”

  I drive toward Camille’s house, feeling Fyodor’s probing gaze on me all the way.

  “In times of crisis, men must stick together,” he says at length. “Just think of the Novgorod Republic. A group of herders and farmers armed with nothing but pitchforks and crude spears. But they banded together, Erik, and the damned Crusaders were defeated. They forgot the cold of the motherland, the bone-eating cold.”

  “Yes, men too easily forget that which could bring their demise.”

  He stiffens, smile faltering. But just as quickly, it returns. He drums his hands on the dashboard.

  “I want you to know I do not hold a grudge for the way we ended things the last time we met. We both care about the Bratva above all else. It would do us good to remember that.”

  “I have never forgotten it,” I say. “But it is good to know whose side you are on.”

  I pull up outside Camille’s house.

  “I ask one thing of you, Fyodor.”

  “Anything,” he says overeagerly.

  Perhaps I am being too harsh. Maybe he has seen the error of his ways. With Fyodor, it is impossible to know. He is like a pool of inky water, the light shimmering differently at each new angle.

  “Never speak about Camille like that again,” I growl. “Or, my brother, my old friend, my second, there will be consequences.”

  He bows his head, seeming almost sincere.

  “You have my word,” he whispers. “And my gravest apologies.”

  I nod shortly—wondering, briefly, if we can bridge this chasm—and climb from the car.

  When Camille answers the door, I feel my resolve waver.

  But only for a second. It is all too easy to imagine her wavy, beautiful hair—hair I could spend an entire afternoon twining around my fingers—matted and thick with blood.

  “Are you going to stand out there all day?” she smiles.

  She can’t mask that look behind her eyes, though, the same indecision that runs through me like molten lava, burning, rearranging.

  “Do you want a drink?” she asks as we walk into the living room.

  “Yes, vodka if you have it. Where is your mother? I would like to say hello.”

  Or rather, goodbye.

  “Rob took her to the doctor,” she calls from the kitchen. “Which is really weird, if you ask me. He’s never been the caregiving type, you know? Not that I’m complaining, but still.”

  She’s talking fast, as though to override the thousand unspoken things she would like to say.

  “But with Rob, you can never be sure. Maybe he wanted company at the pool hall. Hell, it’ll do Mom some good to get out, anyway.”

  She returns with the drink and I study her for the last time, taking a mental snapshot of her penetrating azure eyes, her open smile as though she is ready to take on the world, her expression that can almost convince me that everything will be okay.

  “Thank you.”

  I sip the vodka, bolstering my courage.

  “You’re free, right? Ashley called. They dropped the charges.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why …” She gestures at me. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  That is half right. I am about to become one—to her, at least.

  “There is no use in delaying this,” I tell her. “I am going to pay you double the cost of the artwork, on the condition that we never see each other again.”

  She looks like I slapped her across the face. “What?” she gasps. “Why?”

  “Why?” I laugh deeply and toss back the vodka. I put it down heavily, the bang loud in the silence of the house. “Just think, Camille. This is not your world.”

  “But you’ve been in danger from the start, right?” she presses. “Why now?”

  “This won’t help either of us—”

  “Erik!”

  She glares, cheeks flaming. Leaving her is going to be like losing a limb, a piece of myself. Even now, the passion in her calls to me. I didn’t know I needed it, but now that I’ve had it, I don’t know how I’m going to live without her anymore.

  “After everything we’ve been through, don’t you think I at least deserve the truth?”

  I nearly reach across the table and take her hands. But it is a small step between that and finding her lips, to carrying her into the bedroom and kissing down her neck, over her breasts, down her belly and losing myself between her legs.

  And then I would be truly lost.

  “My parents were not killed in a home invasion,” I say. “The Italians arranged a hit on them because of my father’s involvement in the Bratva. They were brutally murdered by our enemies. I cannot let that happen to you, or to my child. You should move away. Take Angela, take your brother. I will cover all the expenses. Pick somewhere far, far away, where you will be safe.”

  Somewhere I will not be tempted to visit.

  I see the desire in her face, this new life clouding across her blue eyes like a reflection.

  A pit opens in my belly. Disappointment?

  I shove it deep down where a man’s feelings belong, where I should have kept mine to begin with.

  “What would I tell our child?” she whispers, voice shaking slightly.

  “Anything except the truth,” I reply, assuring myself that that is not rising panic I read in her now. “Let’s say his father was an accountant. He died in a car crash. A tragedy. Raise him well.”

  She bites down.

  “No, Erik, I won’t lie to our child. I just won’t.”

  “You have to,” I growl. “Or he might track me down when he is older and put himself in danger. It is the only way.”

  Gripping the arms of the chair, she laughs in exasperation. “Can’t this house ever be fucking normal? Just once, I’d like somebody to swing by for a coffee and a slice of carrot cake and not drop a fucking bombshell on their way out the door.”

  I laugh despite my best efforts, feeling myself drifting deeper and deeper into wanting her, needing her.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask when she stares off into space.

  “The truth?” she smiles.

  “Always.”

  “I was just thinking how maybe I wanted this. I know I should take it. I mean, how often do opportunities like this come along? If I look at myself like somebody else, I could scream: ‘Take the damn deal, you stupid bitch! Keep your family safe!’ But, shit, Erik, the idea that you’d be happy never seeing me again … I don’t think I could handle that. Could you?”

  She is trying to keep herself calm, but I see through the steady mask to the pain beneath. I never knew how much she cared about me. Now, it is agonizingly clear.

  It cuts me deep.

  “This is not about how I feel,” I say, but my voice sounds hollowed-out.

  “When I was a kid, I’d climb on top of the toilet—there was a little window in the bathroom that looked out—and look down the street. I had this whole scenario laid out. One day, my dad would come walking up the driveway, a big gift basket in one hand and his suitcase in the other. He’d tell me he was away at work and that he’d never leave us, not really. I did that for years.”

  She stands up and walks across the room, sliding down next to me. I try to hold onto my grim determination, but heat radiates from her as from a furnace.

  I wrap my arms around her, pull her into my lap, and kiss her softly on the forehead.

  “I am sorry, Camille.”

  “I can’t do that to our child,” she whispers, and now her tears are dripping down my neck as she buries her face against me.

  I am her shelter, her shield. I have never felt such biting purpose.

  “Growing up without a father, it fucks people up. Big time. I—I need you, Erik. This baby will need you. But mostly… Mostly, I love you.”

  My body goes stiff.

  “Did you hear me?”

  I grab her shoulders. There is a moment where I might push her away and keep to my plan.

  But when I look into her eyes, it is like I see two lives laid out.

  I see our boy in his crib, Camille standing over him, alone, sighing as she twirls the mobile with trembling fingers.

  And then there is the other: the one where I walk up behind her, wrap my arms around her and kiss her on the neck as we look down at our child together.

  I take her trembling hands in mine and they stop shaking.

  “I—fuck, Camille, I love you, too.”

  Once I say it, I am lost.

  The truth of the words hits me like a truck. Doors that’ve been sealed shut within me begin to open and I feel things I have always thought were the curse of weaker men. Stupider men. Not me. Never me.

  I take her cheeks in my hands and bring us together. Whispering sensations dance over my face.

  “Our child should get to feel that love, too. Don’t you think?” she whispers.

  I bring my lips to hers, almost cautious at first, as though it is the first time.

  But when I taste her, I cannot stop.

  We fall into each other and for a few perfect minutes the rest of the world does not exist.

  “I am glad to hear you are doing better, Angela,” I say as I stir the coffee. “Two sugars, yes?”

  “You are too kind,” she smiles. It occurs to me that she could be my mother-in-law one day. That does not terrify me as much as it once did.

  Rob leans against the doorframe, eyeing me like a gazelle who has just sighted a leopard. He does not like me being here.

  As Camille helps her mother to drink the coffee, I give Rob a nod and we head outside. He lights a cigarette and sucks it down halfway in one giant puff.

  “Do we have a problem?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  He picks at the flaking paint on the porch beam, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Either he is high or he is thinking about getting high, I assume.

  “You seem uncomfortable with my presence.”

  “No!” he laughs nervously. “I’m just surprised, is all. Camille said you were in the can, so didn’t expect to see you here. It’s good to be rich, right? They never treat you guys like the rest of us.”

  “Rob, I want you to know I am going to take care of Camille, of Angela, of all of you. I am not your enemy.”

  “Yeah, that’s sweet, man. I mean, she deserves to be happy, so awesome.”

  He finishes the last of his cigarette and flicks it toward the plant pot serving as an ashtray. Then he ducks his head and makes for the door.

  “I’m gonna hang in my room for a little bit.”

  I turn to watch him go, walking like a fidgety teenager. He is not a man that would last long in the Bratva, but I do not feel my usual wave of disgust. He is Camille’s brother.

  Everything has changed now.

  “He’s never been good around people since he found out about Dad leaving,” she says, walking onto the porch. “Believe it or not, he was a carefree kid once.”

  “He can visit anytime he likes,” I tell her. “And so can your mother.”

  Angela appears at the door in her wheelchair, her smile so genuine pride swells in my chest.

  “You should be careful what you promise, young man. I’ll be around every day for another one of those delicious suppers.”

  “Your wish is my command,” I proclaim. She laughs as I stride over to her and kneel down, taking her hand in mine. “What is your favorite dish? Name anything, and it is yours. My chef will spare no effort.”

  Camille puts her hand on my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. I am smiling more than I have in years. And, what is more surprising, I do not feel the usual urge to wipe it off my face.

  I am starting to think I could be truly happy for the first time in my life.

  24

  Camille

  The next few days are like an awakening.

  I feel like a baby chick pecking its way out of its shell to find that the world is not as dark and scary as I guessed it’d be. Erik and I spend every night together, sometimes just sitting in the nursery, mentally filling it with furniture and promise and hope.

  I love waking up beside him.

  I love the way he’ll grab me in the middle of the night and pull me toward him, holding me close.

  I love the sound of his heartbeat, his freaking heartbeat.

  If that isn’t one step beyond Hallmark levels of cheesiness, I don’t know what is.

  This evening, we eat dinner on the balcony, the sun setting over the vast garden, the light dancing in the trees. Erik sits across from me in a steel-blue suit, open at the collar to show his tattooed, muscular chest.

  He raises his wineglass, looking more carefree than I ever could’ve imagined before. Whatever else is true about us—however uncertain and surreal every moment of this relationship has been—I can’t deny the emotion that takes hold of me when he smiles like that. I feel like I’m floating.

  “To us,” he says.

  I raise my sparkling water.

  “To us,” I echo.

  As we dine on a starter of borscht, Erik reaches under the table and grabs my thigh. He has moved his chair around so that we’re sitting right next to each other. Shimmers move through my body, no longer accompanied by the anxiety that marked my early days here.

  “Erik, what will our child do in the Bratva?”

  He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you were interested in that side of things.”

  “I wasn’t, but if this is gonna be a long-term thing, not just a … I guess you’d call it a fucked-up fling, I wanna know.”

  He lifts his hand from under the table and slides closer to me. Our legs touch, his massive shoulder brushing me. Being so close to him can be like torture sometimes. I’m not some sex-crazy psycho or anything, but I’m starting to think this pregnancy hormone stuff is the real deal.

  “He will be raised for leadership from the day he is born. He will know what is required of him. I will make a man of him, the sort of man he must be if he is to lead.” He pauses. “There is something else.”

  He slides his hand through my hair, his fingertips sending zigzagging waves over my scalp and down the back of my neck. Pins-and-needles multiplied by a thousand.

  His eyes have never been more intense as he leans in.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “He will not be able to take his place until he is eighteen. That means, if I were to die—”

  “Erik.” I clutch onto his free hand, tracing his knuckles. “Don’t say that.”

  “If I were to die,” he presses on, “you would become the leader of the Bratva, as the heir’s mother. You would be a queen, Camille, until our son came of age.”

  He smooths his hand down over my shoulders, tickles dancing down my arms. He takes my hand and kisses the palm and then up my arm all the way to my neck.

  “Do you like the sound of that?” he asks.

  I nuzzle my head against him.

  “A queen,” I echo.

  I would have either laughed or told him to stop living in a fucking dreamland before, but now I’m thinking I quite like the sound of that. No more kowtowing to pervert doctors? No more grubbing for change just to keep Mom safe? No more feeling powerless and weak all the damn time?

  Sign me the hell up.

  “But wait.” I lean back, studying him. “This all assumes that our son will want to lead the Bratva. What if he grows up and decides he wants to be a painter, an architect? Hell, a plumber? What then? Will you force him? Or push him away?”

  “No,” he says at once, a fierce note entering his voice. “Family comes first. You have taught me that, Camille. Don’t worry.” He kisses me tenderly on the cheek. “He will always be our son, no matter what.”

  I give his nose a tweak.

  “Don’t forget the contract. You’re getting a little too romantic.”

  He kisses me deeply, but it is not the hungry, hurried kiss of the early Erik. It is more like he is exploring me. We start with little pecks and brushes of our lips and then I open my mouth and breathe in the feel of him, the smell of him, the fucking essence of him.

  I never wanted to care for this man, but now it all comes crashing down.

  I feel like a different person.

  “But wait,” he says, laughing as he breaks it off. “I would not want to violate the—”

  I interrupt him with another kiss.

  He runs his hands down my body, grazing my breasts, my nipples getting hard and tingly.

  “Show me some romance.” I bite his earlobe, kiss his neck. “Just a little.”

  I lie on Erik’s four-poster as he lights the candles, shooting me wry smiles as the light flickers in his eyes.

  Soon, we are surrounded by little pockets of warm yellow light, the scent of vanilla and honey filling the air. Erik prowls to the bed and slides his hand slowly up from my ankles to my knee, and then up to my thigh.

  “Nothing that is not required to make a child,” he whispers, his hand disappearing up the hem of my dress. “Nothing romantic, like telling you I love you.”

  His fingertip brushes my underwear.

  “I love you.”

  He massages my sex with soft movements, drawing out the aching pleasure.

 

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