by Bethany-Kris
His brow jumped high. “Did your papa never teach you when it was wise for a woman to stop asking questions?”
“Part of the problem was that I never really cared about it. The other part of it was that he loved me too much to force the bad habit out of me.”
Igor palmed the side of his tattooed throat, and his bald head gleamed more than usual from the bright lights overhead as he surveyed the space around them. “I’ve said what I can, da?”
“Well, is Mr. Anatoly alive at least?”
Igor’s stare shifted away from hers, but he at least gave her something worth knowing in the process. It wasn’t good. “Barely—they found him on your walkway.”
“Respectfully,” she replied when he met her gaze again, “Vas can wait. I would like to see Mr. Anatoly. He has no family left, and if he isn’t doing well ... he’s always looked after me since I moved into Noble Row. I’d like to see him first. Be with him if he needs someone.”
Her own problems—and everyone else’s—could wait.
*
They arrived too late.
Well, almost.
Mr. Anatoly was already brain dead—the very first thing the head nurse of the trauma ward explained when Igor and Vera managed to convince the woman that she was the man’s only last living relative—his daughter, actually. Which wasn’t entirely a lie; considering she hadn’t seen one guest visit Mr. Anatoly since his wife passed on, and he never mentioned any, Vera honestly thought she was the closest thing he had to family. She believed he did have some estranged distant cousins in the Ukraine, but that would take a while to reach them. If she was even able to find their information inside Mr. Anatoly’s villa.
The doctor had held off on shutting off the life-saving machines keeping Mr. Anatoly’s heart and lungs working but only until the following morning. Just enough time to give the hospital the chance to find relatives who might like to say goodbye. Otherwise, there would be no recovery, and he wouldn’t even be moved to palliative care as without any brain activity, his body would only slowly waste away.
Believing that she was his daughter, the medsestra brought paperwork for Vera to sign off on that evening to turn off the machines if she wanted. Except she didn’t feel like that was a line she should cross, and opted to let the doctor call it in the morning like he originally planned. She understood what it meant to be brain dead, and miracles just didn’t work that way.
Vera stayed at Mr. Anatoly’s bedside throughout the rest of the night only stepping away when a nurse came to the illuminated doorway, or if she needed to use the bathroom. All the while, she did her very best to ignore the white bandages that covered most of Mr. Anatoly’s head and the right side of his face. Only a small dot of blood could be seen seeping through the many layers, over his temple.
A single bullet to the head. At a close enough range that the round barrel left behind a perfect burn, according to one of the nurses. It was almost tragic how Vera was able to put more about the situation together by having a conversation with a nurse at the hospital than with Igor who drove her the two hours from the airport to the hospital.
That killed Vera.
Every question she had ...
Every fear that it had been for her ...
That’s what kept her by his bedside, talking and talking until she was so sleepy that she could barely hold her eyes open any longer. She talked despite the fact that Mr. Anatoly never moved under the crisp, white hospital blankets tucked around his frail frame. His eyes remained taped shut, not once flickering. Only his neck up was exposed, and his arm and hand on the right side that she kept tucked in with her own to keep warm.
He kept getting colder.
Or she thought so.
Vera even started to forget what she was even talking about, and she was sure that some of it probably didn’t make much sense. But talking felt better.
At least then she wasn’t thinking.
It was only when a new nurse—probably from a shift change—came in the early hours of the morning while light was still barely cresting over the horizon in the windows to remove the IV that Vera left the room for the first time. In the quiet hallway she found Vaslav sitting on a plastic waiting chair that looked about as uncomfortable as it likely felt to the man sleeping in it.
All it took was the shuffle of her feet when she came to a sudden stop at noticing him there to send his icy gaze flying open. Instantly, his stare landed on her as he let out a huffed breath that sounded a lot like a muffled yawn.
“When did you get here?” she asked.
Vera didn’t even know when, or if, Igor had left. After she’d been shown to Mr. Anatoly’s private room, she hadn’t really thought much about the man who accompanied her, and he didn’t make himself a nuisance once they’d arrived.
“A couple of hours ago,” Vaslav replied, shifting around on the chair before deciding to forgo it altogether. Once he was standing on two feet, he scrubbed a hand down his beard and nodded her way. “Hospitals aren’t exactly my favorite place. Are you almost done here?”
“I think they’re getting him ready for the doctor to come in and turn off everything.”
Vaslav’s attention flicked between her and the doorway a few paces behind her, and then he gestured between them. “There was some damage around the lock on your front door. Igor got a call this morning from a politsiya captain to say they’ve closed the issue. Decided it was a simple manner of an old man who interrupted an intruder attempting to break in a villa whose resident was on an impromptu vacation.”
Vera’s shoulders lifted with her next breath—that’s how deeply she sucked the air into her lungs, willing it to settle the anxiety thrumming through her bloodstream. “But was that what happened?”
Vaslav’s tongue peeked out to wet the seam of his bottom lip before he muttered, “When things happen to people who have a connection to me, it’s never random, Vera.”
Of course.
She finally released that breath she’d been holding in with a shaky rattle. Rubbing at her face to soothe the sudden spring of tears did nothing, but she also didn’t try to hide the emotion when she dropped her arms back down to her side and stared at Vaslav who was unmoved by her crying.
What were the chances?
She found herself asking that question again—the same one that she asked Hannah in Italy; the very question that chased her back to Moscow because she didn’t have an answer. What were the chances that Hannah’s ex-husband would ask about Vera—would threaten Hannah for information about Vera—because she was connected to Vaslav?
Probably pretty good.
“Who did it is still a mystery I am working on,” Vaslav added after a second. “But like most things, I doubt it’ll take me long to figure out the puzzle. Until then, I expect you to let me keep you safe and out of harm’s way.”
Vera blinked back at the man. “Or am I in harm’s way because of you?”
“They can be the same thing.”
“You had a bead on me before this even happened,” she accused. “Someone watching me, right?”
Vaslav shrugged. “Are you expecting an apology?”
“Or an explanation!”
Her slightly raised voice sent his left eyebrow lifting high in silent warning. Not that it mattered; no one noticed, and even the nurse in Mr. Anatoly’s room didn’t come out into the quiet, empty corridor.
“Because clearly you need it,” he returned sharply.
Well, how could she argue with that?
Now?
“Did your father pay for the chartered jet that brought you back to Moscow last night?” Vaslav asked, then, changing the direction of the conversation without warning.
A knot formed in Vera’s brow as she replied, “Yeah, I couldn’t get a quicker flight, and I called him because he had connections in Italy that I knew would get me back here as soon as possible.”
“Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Vaslav cocked his head to the si
de. “It’s an easy question—why?”
“Why what? I can’t read your mind. Why did I call my father, why did I leave, or why did I come back—which one?”
“All of them.”
Despite her best efforts to stay still and keep all that nervous energy and worry hidden, her chin started to tremble. She’d come back because she knew it was the right choice when she heard Viktor’s voice on Hannah’s voicemail, but she was also very aware of what would follow when she told Vaslav her suspicions.
Did she want blood on her hands?
“Vera?” he prodded, gentler than before.
What choice did she have?
“My friend—the one in Italy—her ex-husband is—”
“Viktor Antonovich. What about the suka?”
Vera dropped her gaze to where her fingers picked and twisted at one another at her middle. “He called Hannah while I was with her. He said some things, or asked some things about me, but I don’t know if they’re important or not. I know he’s connected and—”
“What things?”
14.
She blamed herself. Her guilt coated every self-soothing rub of her palms over her arms while the nurse delivered, in monotone, the standard notice of death with a quiet, respectful apology that followed.
“The hospital will contact you with further instructions for his remains,” the medsestra added before giving an awkward bow-like gesture and stepping around Vera in the hospital corridor. She didn’t slow in her steps when she passed Vaslav where he stood only a few steps behind Vera.
The doctor hadn’t even bothered to come down. The old man’s organs couldn’t be donated, Vera needed time to contact family for burial specifications, and Vaslav had no skin in the game, so he stayed quiet while official medical orders came down through the proper channels. Vera never even signed a paper other than to make arrangements once it was all said and done.
Alone in the hallway, Vaslav focused on the trembling line of Vera’s shoulders under her white, draping cardigan because it was easier than staring at the walls. He hated hospitals; every hallway felt like a maze of the same colors, smells, and illnesses. He only ever feared his mortality when he was within the confines of a medical building. Probably because he’d spent the last good while running from what he’d left behind here.
Answers.
Vera’s sadness permeated the air so thickly that it suffocated his own hellish thoughts and phobias almost instantly. Sure, he could still taste the lingering unknown on the back of his tongue, but it barely even stung like fear.
“I’m sorry,” he told the quiet woman.
Vera shook her head, but the tremble in her voice was clear as she said, “It’s fine.”
No, it wasn’t.
He knew how that felt.
“It hurts to lose a friend—especially a good one,” he replied, silently adding to himself, a real one. Those were hard to come by.
Vera still didn’t turn around, instead taking a few more seconds to hug her middle and blow out a steady, long breath. “I’m tired, Vas.”
Oh, he bet.
“Last night to be safe, I told Igor to bring you to the house in Dubna, but if the musor are done digging around your place—you’re welcome to go home, yeah? Someone will be around to keep an eye on you. Don’t argue about it.”
She’d turned to stare at the picture of a sloped mountain crest on the wall, and other than her flinch when he referred to the politsiya as trash, she remained emotionless. Like a sad doll, pretty but full of tears.
“What are you going to do about Hannah’s husband?” she asked.
“Throw him in the canal like the last one.”
Oh, he thought when she flinched again. There she is—the doll’s alive.
Vera swung around to face him, then, but at least this time she was able to meet his eyes. Thirty minutes ago, as she had explained how and why her trip in Italy came to an abrupt end, she’d barely been able to look at him at all.
Or maybe that was because of the detail she gave regarding Hannah’s experience with her ex-husband ... one that was apparently still on going, if Viktor was calling to leave messages on the woman’s phone.
“You don’t have to just ...” Vera spread her arms wide, waving at him a bit. “Say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that. So cold. You’ll just ... throw him in the canal.”
She had his flat delivery nailed.
Vaslav cracked a smile. “That’s enough, da. Would you rather I lie? I’m good at that, too.”
“No, but—”
“Then don’t ask.”
Vera blinked, and while her cheeks went ruddy with her frustration, she didn’t take it any further.
Antonovich was a minor inconvenience to Vaslav at the moment. Whatever little scheme or plot he was trying to pull was already as impotent as the man who used his fists to keep his partners in line. Viktor had clearly stumbled on information regarding Vaslav’s personal life, and like any vory with a desire to further his position in the mafiya, started looking into what he could find to connect the dots regarding Vera. Except the man was clearly behind if all he knew was that Vera could be connected to his ex-wife, she had been seen with Vaslav, and a failed attempt at a break-in at her Noble Row villa.
What would the prick have wanted to confirm with his ex-wife about Vera? Other than the fact she wasn’t currently in Russia, which would make her home vulnerable to a break in?
Pathetic.
If he had any more information, like the kind that would suggest Vaslav was determined to call this woman his wife, Viktor wouldn’t have dared breathe near her. He believed that, at the moment, Viktor was digging for what would make Vera important. Not that he’d gotten far enough in his efforts to complete the picture.
Vaslav could—and would—have the man found and killed within seventy-two hours, and he seriously doubted there was a single thing Viktor Antonovich would be able to do about it. He was the annoying fly on the wall that couldn’t even carry information from one room to another because it was too stupid to find its way out of the one it was already in.
Harsh, but not untrue.
“And I’m not really fond of liars,” Vaslav added. “So I try not to be one even if I am good at it.”
Vera dragged a hand through her dark strands to push them back from her face when she huffed out an exhausted sigh. “You know what, I’m tired. Let’s go back to that.”
“I told you, you’re welcome to go—”
“I don’t really want to go home right now. I don’t want to be alone. I already spend a lot of time like that, I guess.”
He didn’t need her to say it again.
*
Vaslav rarely stepped into the upper corridors of the massive Federal Colonial he called home, and it made Mira’s job easier when she only needed to dust and clean the floors occasionally. Despite having the entire master quarters redone after Irina’s passing, he’d become accustomed to the ease he had living on one level of the three-story house. Yet, after Mira had shown Vera to the guest bedroom at the far end of the second floor, Vaslav found himself yanking sheets and comforters out of the linen closet to make the bed in his own room on the same level for the first time in years.
Though the hardwood floors, stained the same dark black as the four-poster bed with swooping wing-like curves carved into the head and foot boards, were all new, he could still picture the way the room used to look. To a point. Maybe it was more the nostalgia he felt running his fingers over the edge of the six-drawer dresser and matching armoire where the tall mirror reflected the room and himself back to his studious gaze.
All the pictures were gone.
The space was as sterile as the guestroom down the hall, and certainly didn’t feel lived in to him. Yet, he felt the life beat through it. Like a heartbeat left over from the past, he swore the walls and floor pulsed with it.
The longer he stayed in the room, the easier it became to not feel so
suffocated by the walls all around him. He even headed back downstairs after a while to bring up the toiletry bag and clothes from his den and attached bathroom to have upstairs.
Eventually, a confused and quiet Mira came to stand in the doorway of the bedroom, lingering there between his private space and the attached quarters that doubled as a library and lounging space.
“What?” Vaslav asked the woman as he made the bed without much grace to the way he pulled the sheets over the brand-new mattress that had never even seen a body on it before.
Mira took a hesitant step into the room while keeping her hands clasped at her front, saying only, “The young lady seems to be asleep. I was going to ask her if she’d like a late breakfast or an early lunch, but—”
“Leave her be. She’ll come around when she’s ready.”
No doubt, Vera wouldn’t crack her eyes open for another few hours, anyway. After a day of flying and then a night at a dying man’s bedside, she earned a bit of uninterrupted sleep. Even if Vaslav did wish he had enough of a selfish streak to keep her awake while he was. Wasn’t it bad enough that he had already come upstairs, determined to sleep in a room he hadn’t even seen the inside of in years, just to be nearer to Vera?
Mira replied with a hushed agreement, and then turned to leave before stopping and glancing over her shoulder one more time. “I’ll bring you up clean pillows, da?”
“Spasibo.”
Then, even more hesitantly, Mira asked, “Is she going to be staying for a while?”
Vaslav had to consider that, and only because he didn’t know the answer, he told her, “I would like to hope so.”
He was still working on it.
Mira nodded. “Okay. I’m making Borscht for dinner, if you’re up and around then.”
“Of course, for that. And Mira?”
“Hmm?”
“Irina would have hated all the black,” Vaslav mused, eyeing the bedroom, dark paneling on the walls and equally heavy drapes. But what others probably saw as dark, shaded, and isolated ... he found comforting.
