My nerves played havoc as I disabled the home alarm, expecting Borya to hear the quiet beep and come out armed with a spatula. I inhaled a breath of relief when no one showed, but this was only the first step to getting out of here alone.
I shut the front door quietly, pressed my back against it, and stared at the motion sensor on the porch ceiling. If activated, blinding lights would flick on like a choir of angels, and an ear-piercing alarm would sound. The UPS man hated us.
Holding my breath and my bag against my chest, I stepped directly below the sensor, hoping to land in its blind spot. I broke out in a cold sweat when the yard remained dark and silent.
Lowering to my stomach, I awkwardly army crawled to the bushes with my bag, remembering the path I’d learned to take as an unruly child playing James Bond. Though, back then, the sensor was a laser that would slice my arm off if activated. Now, it was my papa’s disapproval staring a hole in my back, which seemed even worse.
When I emerged on the other side of the bushes, I stood, brushed my pants off, and jogged down the winding street. I doubted my feminine wiles would get me past our private neighborhood’s gate without Carl, the sleazy Friday night guard, alerting my father or Ivan, so I took a turn through a backyard, threw my bag over the iron fence, and climbed up and over it.
Pulling my phone out of my bag, I ordered a Lyft ride. It was the longest three-minute wait of my life. My heartbeats collided with each other in anticipation of Ivan running after me with his pants undone or a very disapproving phone call from my papa. But neither of those things happened. Not before my ride picked me up, and not after he dropped me off at the airport.
Uncertainty twisted my nerves into knots as I took in the bustle of people and the liveliness in the air. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, eyes bright with vacation dreams and independence. I was out of my element. I’d never even had to carry my own bag before, let alone travel solo, but determination pushed me to the ticket counter.
Luckily, due to a last-minute cancellation and my padded bank account—contributed to by a hefty allowance each month because my papa trusted me—I got the last seat on the plane, squashed between two boys throwing Russian insults and peanuts at each other. I didn’t know where their mother was, but I had a feeling she was the woman across the aisle pretending they didn’t exist.
Miami’s nightlights disappeared from view, the orange glow fading into dark and turbulent water. I mindlessly watched a couple of PG movies considering my audience, though things blew up like explosives were going out of style on their screens.
Twelve hours later, we landed in Moscow.
Stepping off the plane and into the frigid jet bridge, I shivered. Inhaled. Exhaled. I could see my breath. I’d never experienced such cold in my life. It grabbed ahold of my lungs, stealing the heat from my body with icy fingers. I’d wanted to experience my birthplace, but I should have just climbed into our freezer.
As I stopped to slip on my coat, someone ran into my back. I turned with an apology on my tongue, but the little old lady who held a Chihuahua in a mesh carry-on bag beat me to it.
“Excuse me, dear,” she said in a British accent. “I didn’t see you there.”
“No, I’m sorry. It was my fault.”
She closed her sable fur coat and tilted her head. “You look very familiar. Have we met before?”
“Um, I don’t think so.”
“No . . . I’m sure I’ve seen you before.” She touched her gaudy gold necklace in thought. Then something dawned on her. Something that made her put a hand on her chest and eye me up and down as if I was a hooker.
This was growing weirder by the second, but before I could say anything, someone rolled by in a wheelchair, and the tiny dog in her bag started to bark. While she tried to soothe little Rupert, I offered another awkward apology and made a quick exit.
On the curb of the airport, I unfolded a piece of notebook paper I’d found stashed in one of my papa’s desk drawers. Feeling like Nancy Drew, with the help of Google Translate, I’d learned the Russian scrawl was an address to a home, complete with a record of bills he’d been paying there for years. I hoped this wasn’t a dead end because I had nowhere to go from here, and I wasn’t ready to crawl back to Ivan so soon.
I handed the taxi driver the paper, not having the faintest idea how to read the foreign alphabet. The cabbie’s dark gaze met mine in the rearview mirror, holding eye contact just long enough to send a whisper of unease down my back.
He took me past a busy industrial area to a quieter neighborhood with cobblestone streets and old, unique townhomes, where he parked at the curb in front of a lime green house with white shutters.
“Pyat’sot rubley.” Five hundred rubles.
I paid the man with the money I’d exchanged at the airport.
Stepping out of the car, I grabbed my duffle bag and tightened the belt of my peacoat. It was perfect for a cheerleading farewell trip to Aspen last year, but not so great at blocking the bitter Russian air from my skin.
The frozen iron gate squeaked when I pushed it open. I walked up the cracked pavement, dodging patches of ice and snow, and knocked on the door.
An older woman with graying blonde hair pulled into a ballerina bun answered a moment later. She was wiping her hands on her apron when her eyes came up to meet mine, and as she stared, the color drained from her pink cheeks. I opened my mouth to say something but didn’t manage a single word before she slammed the door shut in my face.
I closed my mouth and sensed she was standing on the other side of the door with her ear to the wood, waiting for me to go away.
When I knocked again, a thump sounded, followed by her shrieking in Russian, the words too muffled for me to pick apart.
The door opened once more, and this time, a thin gentleman in a black dress coat appeared. He was shaking his head and muttering to his wife, clearly believing she’d fallen off her rocker for good. She hid behind him, her apron grasped in her hands.
When his gaze found me, he froze like he’d just seen a ghost.
I forced a smile. “Zdravstvuyte—” Hello.
The woman ran.
“I’m Alexei Mikhailov’s daughter . . . Mila,” I said hesitantly, hoping he spoke some English because I was a massive failure to my heritage.
I’d given up the desire to study Russian years ago since Papa always claimed it was a waste of my time, so I’d only learned what I knew from Ivan and Borya. That included the bare basics, vegetables, and curse words.
A sliver of relief crossed the older man’s expression, and then he let out an awkward chuckle. “Of course, of course. You gave us quite a scare there.” He stepped back and gestured me inside. “Come in.”
With my freezing hands in my pockets, I stepped into the house and turned to take in the foyer. I stilled when I caught him sticking his head out of the front door and looking both ways before shutting it. Was I about to be the next star on Russia’s version of Forensic Files?
“This cannot be good,” he muttered, shaking his head and hobbling past me. “Vera, kofe! We drink instant in this house. Hope you do not mind.”
“Of course not.”
I hated coffee, but I’d drink five cups if it got me a few answers.
“Come sit down, girl.”
I set my bag on the floor and took a seat on a faded floral-print couch, while he took the armchair across from me. A crackling flame in the fireplace filled the room with much-needed warmth, and books and knickknacks littered every available shelf. The space was cluttered but comfortable in a lived-in way.
Vera placed two cups of coffee on the wooden table between us, watching me with big eyes, before she disappeared from the room like hellhounds were on her heels.
I stared at her retreat. “Is there a reason she’s terrified of me?”
He waved a hand. “She is superstitious.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are Tatianna’s spitting image. We did not know she had a chil
d. Well, we knew, but we thought you passed away shortly after birth. Problem with the lungs, your papa told us.”
I always knew my mother had died young, but the only reason I knew her name was because the one time Papa ever got drunk, he told me I looked too much like his Tatianna. I often wondered if that was why, as I became older, he spent less and less time with me.
“My lungs are fine.”
“I can see that,” the man said with a chuckle and sipped his coffee. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“I’m on a mission . . . of sorts.”
He hummed with disapproval. “Have you not heard the phrase, ‘Curiosity killed the cat?’ You are just like your mother. Some things are better left in the dark.”
I’d never heard so much about my mother in my entire life than I had in the last few minutes. Finally, I was getting some answers. And, apparently, more questions.
“Why would my papa tell you I died?”
He frowned. “Is it not obvious?”
No, it wasn’t obvious. Nothing about this was.
I opened my mouth to ask more—
“Now, enough about that. I thought your papa might have sent you, but I can see now, he has not.” He set his coffee cup down. “You must go. It could not be a worse time for you to come here alone.”
Why did everyone think I needed a babysitter? “I’ll be fine. I know how to take care of myself.”
“No one knows how to take care of themselves against D’yavol.”
The Devil?
“Up you go, now.” He stood with a wince and rubbed his knee. “I like living too much to harbor you.”
“I can’t leave yet,” I insisted, getting to my feet. “I’m not sure why you think I’m here illegally, but I promise, I have my papers.” I knew Russia was a little medieval, but, God, did they really execute people for such a small offense as harboring a harmless girl?
“Pah. I’m not talking about the government, girl, but D’yavol.”
I stared at him, realizing I might be speaking to a crazy person.
“I’m agnostic,” I said dumbly.
He shook his head and murmured something unintelligible.
My gaze found Vera in the doorway staring at me like I was a piece of furniture that had just moved itself.
They were both crazy.
She dropped the apron she was wringing in her hands and disappeared again. To find her sharpest meat cleaver probably.
“Why is your wife terrified of me just because I look like my mother?”
He eyed me as if I was the strange one. “You do not just look like your mother.” Moving to the fireplace, he pulled down a white sheet that covered a portrait above it. “Girl, you could be her.”
The woman in the picture was frozen in time, leaning against a grand piano. She must have been painted decades ago, but she could be me standing here today. The long blonde hair, the almond shape of her eyes, the tall and elegant form, and the alabaster skin that would never quite tan.
The similarity was so uncanny, goose bumps rose on my arms. She’d looked just like me, yet I didn’t know the simplest things about her. I stared at the portrait until the burn in my heart and the backs of my eyes faded.
“She was a sight, I’ll tell you that.” He rubbed his chin. “But beauty like that is a blessing and a curse . . .” His eyes settled on mine, something heavy and resigned filling them. “It always ends up in the wrong hands.”
A sense of foreboding trailed down my spine. My overactive imagination cast a scene through my head: me, kicking and screaming, while the devil carried me down to hell.
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
I found it odd they kept my mother’s painting on the wall but covered it with a sheet like the beginning of too many haunted house films. Though, maybe Vera just didn’t like to dust.
“When did she die?” I asked.
“Not long after you were born, if I remember right. She got sick and could not get better. This was her home. Your papa could not part with it, so Vera and I take good care of the place for him.”
“My father didn’t live with her?”
He pursed his lips, contrite. “No, girl, your papa was married.”
And there it was. The secret family.
Or, maybe I was the secret.
Was that why he told people I died? So he could live his comfy life here, without me getting in the way?
In the end, I knew that wasn’t true. Papa had been around for more holidays than he was away—until this past year at least.
But knowing he kept something like this from me, that I might have siblings and other family I’d never had a chance to meet . . . The pain hit me in the chest so hard I had to focus on something else, or I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I forced my gaze back to the portrait, noting the dress that had to be from the eighteenth century.
“Why is she dressed like that?”
His eyebrows rose. “You do not know? Your mother was an opera singer. A very . . . beloved one at that. People will remember her, and that is why you need to go home.” He grabbed my bag and ushered me to the door.
“I didn’t even get to drink my coffee,” I protested.
“You do not want the coffee; you want secrets I cannot tell you. Go home, wherever home is, and do not come back.”
“Do you know where I can find my papa?”
“Probably Siberia,” he muttered, opening the door and letting the frigid air in.
Siberia?
“Why would he be—?”
“I do not know of his whereabouts or his number these days, or I would have already alerted him of your presence.” He threw my bag onto the porch.
“Are you sure I can’t stay here?”
“I like my head where it is now, attached to my neck.”
I blinked. “Is that a no?”
He pushed me out into the cold.
“Wait,” I breathed, spinning around. “Can you at least call me a cab?”
He scowled. “I might as well phone D’yavol to pick you up.”
I stared at him, thinking I should probably refrain from drinking the water here.
He shook his head. “Go home, Mila.”
Once again, the door slammed shut in my face.
schlimazel
(n.) a person who suffers from bad luck
As the deadbolt locked into place, I wondered what happened to good ol’ Russian hospitality. They hadn’t even offered me anything to eat. Practically blasphemous, I’d learned from growing up in a Russian household, especially from a couple who seemed very in touch with their religious side.
With the weight of my papa’s secret sitting heavy on my heart and the obvious fact I wasn’t welcome here, a pathetic part of me wanted to listen and just go home. But if I returned now . . .
I’d dream.
I’d wonder.
I’d carry on existing.
And I wanted to live for a change. Just for a few days. Before The Moorings sucked me back into its passionless hole. Before I married Carter Kingston, had two-point-five kids, and drowned in social luncheons, pastel-colored cardigans, and ropes of pearls.
The iron gate swung back and forth in the icy breeze.
Squeeaak.
Clank.
Squeeaak.
Clank.
I slipped my duffle bag over my shoulder, put my numb hands in my pockets, and started to walk in the hope of finding some form of transportation. It was so cold I’d get into a cab even if the devil himself was driving it.
Jet lag and lack of sleep pulled on my muscles. I hadn’t gotten more than a minute of shut-eye on the plane, mostly because the two terrors sitting beside me were little-boy versions of the Energizer Bunny.
Fishing my cell phone out of my pocket, I turned it on for the first time since I landed in Moscow and found thirteen missed calls and five voicemails from Ivan.
Someone was being a bit dramatic.
I read the texts I’d received from a couple fr
iends and a few from Carter confirming our date at eight, reconfirming it, and, after I missed it completely, hoping everything was all right.
I’d stood him up.
I should feel guilty, but my chest was light, taking in breaths easier for the first time in years.
There was nothing particularly wrong with Carter. Our relationship was amicable, maybe, if I reached a little, even nice. But when it came down to it, the last time his lips were on mine, I spent the entire kiss mentally conjugating French verbs for my upcoming exam.
Papa didn’t know about the few online courses I’d taken. He’d blown a gasket at my request to attend college, which meant he silently stared at me like I asked to visit North Korea before he said, “Nyet.” So I thought it was best to keep my classes on the down low.
The first four voicemails from Ivan sounded very Ivan-like and straightforward, excessively informing me he would land in Moscow at three a.m. and demanding I stay in my hotel room until he arrived. The fifth, however, raised the hair on the back of my neck.
He blew out a rough breath, then a curse, and a thump sounded through the line, as if he actually hit something. “I cannot believe you did this. I trusted you not to go to Moscow.”
“I didn’t promise you anything,” I muttered to myself.
It went silent for a moment, and then his imploring tone became cold, hard fact.
“You want the truth for once? Fine. If you want to play games and do not tell me where you are, Mila . . . I’m a dead man.”
He sounded so serious, I actually believed him. For a moment at least. Surely, he didn’t think my papa would murder him. This was more likely just a desperate attempt to keep me from finding out he had a secret family.
Too late, I thought bitterly.
But I was a pushover, so I called him back to leave a message and put him out of his misery, only to realize I had no bars. I raised my phone in the air, turned it upside down—all the tricks—and nothing. My cell was supposed to work in Moscow, but I didn’t know service would be this unreliable.
The Darkest Temptation Page 2
