by Nicole Fox
“Do not condescend to me, girl. The room should always be ready. I am a member of the Levushka family; therefore my room should be treated the same as Boris’ room.”
“I clean Boris’ room every day.” I raise a defiant brow and cross my arms over my chest. Whatever Aleksandr’s problem is, it isn’t me. No one could be this irrational about something as silly as sheets being in the washer.
Aleksandr lifts his chin. “Exactly.”
I snort. “You want the room you stay in for a few nights every three months to be dusted and cleaned every single day?”
He looks down his nose at me, his blue eyes seething, but he doesn’t say anything. Because even he has to know he sounds ridiculous.
I roll my eyes and turn away from him. “That’s what I thought,” I mumble.
Before the words are even fully out of my mouth, Aleksandr wraps a hand around my forearm and spins me back to him. “What did you say?”
He is stronger than even he realizes because his eyes widen when my body slams against his chest. Aleksandr is tall like his brother, and he towers over me, forcing me to tip my head back to look up at him. He smells like wood and spices, and I can’t help but breathe him in as I take a shuddering breath, trying to ground myself. I know I should be scared, but I’m just…overwhelmed.
“Mr. Levushka.”
Aleksandr lets go of my arm and steps away as my mother walks into the kitchen. Her voice is tense, but her smile is wide and warm. She doesn’t acknowledge the position we were in or even look at me. When it comes to being a friendly face, she has years of practice. Apparently, I need a few more.
“I heard you were at the estate and went into your room to find that nothing was ready.” She clicks her tongue. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Yes, it was inconvenient,” Aleksandr growls in my direction.
“I told Mr. Levushka I would take care of it after my lunch,” I said, glancing up at the clock. My stomach drops when I realize my lunch break is over. I spent the entire time arguing with Aleksandr rather than eating. As if in protest, my stomach growls.
My mother shakes her head. “This is an issue that should be resolved immediately. I will take care of it right now, Mr. Levushka.”
“Thank you, Agatha,” Aleksandr says. I’m surprised to realize he knows my mother’s name. He rotates to stand next to my mother and crosses his muscled arms, facing me. “Perhaps, you should take a more active role in teaching your daughter how to conduct herself during business hours.”
Blood fills my cheeks, and I look to my mother, expecting her to defend me—or, at the very least, remain quiet. Instead, she nods vigorously. “Absolutely, Mr. Levushka. She has not been feeling well, which I’m sure played a part in her behavior today, but I will be sure to train her to—”
“I am not a dog, mother.”
Aleksandr scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief at my outburst. My mom’s eyes are sharp and filled with betrayal. I’ve embarrassed her in front of our boss’s family. If I thought she was mad at me before, it will only get worse now.
“Zoya, could you come with me now?” she asks, her voice trembling with frustration.
I’m not eager to incur my mother’s wrath, but I would rather be with her than spend another second in Aleksandr’s company. I usually manage only to encounter him once or twice during his visits to the estate, so it is unlikely I will see him again once I leave the room. I nod and begin walking towards my mother. Immediately, however, Aleksandr’s arm is around my bicep.
“Actually, I’d like Zoya to stay with me.” His grip on my arm tightens, and his hands are so large that his fingers overlap his thumb. “I would be happy to begin her education on etiquette myself.”
My mother does not hesitate or show any concern for my safety, despite Aleksandr putting his hands on me. She simply nods, casts me one final warning glance, and then hurries from the room. Off to serve this man who disrespected her parenting.
She may be ashamed of me, but I’m equally ashamed of her. Being a maid doesn’t mean she can’t stand up for herself.
As soon as my mother turns into the hallway, I yank my arm out of his grip. “What will be my first lesson, Mr. Levushka?”
“Using the proper address for me means nothing if you continue to say it like you just smelled dog shit.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Now that you mention it, something in here does stink.”
“What you smell is probably your lunch,” he says, tipping his head towards my barely touched kurnik.
Samara prepared all of the components for the kurniks, but I don’t bother telling Aleksandr that. Rather than change his mind about the food, it would probably just make him unfairly dislike Samara, as well.
“So, I assume you won’t be wanting one for your own lunch?” I ask.
Aleksandr shakes his head once quickly like a man who is used to getting exactly what he wants without apology. He does not need to make an excuse or politely decline. He can just shake his head and wave his hand and things are either presented to or taken away from him.
“Make me something else.”
My experience in the kitchen is several lacking. Growing up in the cottage with my parents, my mother did all of the cooking. She taught me a few things, and I’ve learned a bit from Samara, but not enough to please Aleksandr, I’m sure.
“I am not the chef,” I say.
“Then what skills do you possess?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. His blonde hair falls over his forehead, and his blue eyes narrow to study me. It is truly unfair that someone so awful can be so handsome. “If you cannot cook or clean properly, I fail to see why you are employed here at all.”
The desire to defend myself writhes inside of me like a cat caught in a bag, but I resist. It will only make things worse. Instead, I jut my chin out and grab the apron hanging from a hook on the side of the island. “The regular chef had to leave today to deal with a family emergency, so I’m happy to do what I can.”
I open the fridge and find a stock pot of borscht Samara had prepared the day before. I offer it to Aleksandr, and though he doesn’t say anything, I take his silence as a passive agreement. So, I pull out the stock pot and put it on a low burner to heat it through. Samara is a great chef, but her soups are regularly under-seasoned. It is one of Boris’ only complaints about her cooking. So, I throw in a dash of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to the batch. Then, while the soup is warming, I wash and peel a beet and then grab a handful of dill weed from the pantry.
Aleksandr sits silently while I move around the kitchen, and I feel his eyes on me every second. I do my best not to let it bother me, but it is the most significant amount of time we have ever spent together, and it is not going the way I imagined.
Though, to be fair, I only imagined it once.
Mikhail and Aleksandr came up to the estate five years before when they were eighteen. They had recently been given more legitimate positions in the family, and their father wanted them to learn about the St. Petersburg side of the business. I was fifteen at the time, barely old enough for Mikhail to notice me, so I know Aleksandr didn’t pay me any mind. But I paid him mind. One day towards the end of the week they spent at their uncle’s house, I saw Aleksandr coming in from a jog. His white shirt clung to his body. He was not as broad as he is now, still just a boy, but I didn’t know any better.
To fifteen-year-old me, Aleksandr was perfect.
I was hiding behind a large bush at the corner of the house, and as Aleksandr walked up the steps to the estate, he reached behind his back and pulled his shirt over his head. I caught a quick glimpse of the muscles of his back and the indentations above his hip bones, and I wondered what it would be like to touch them myself. It was just a flash of a daydream, imagining Aleksandr catching me watching him and then coming over. In my mind, he pushed me against the stone side of the house and pressed his hips into mine.
Back in the here and now, I feel my face heating through with
the long-forgotten dream and do my best to push it aside. Aleksandr did not notice me that day or any day thereafter. Until today, of course. And if he felt any passion when looking at me, it was passionate anger and frustration.
“How long does it take to warm something up?” he barks, pulling me out of my thoughts and confirming my belief that he did not care for me in the least.
“As long as it takes,” I say with a shrug. “I can’t make fire burn any hotter.”
His stool screeches as he pushes away from the island and walks around to stand over my shoulder. “It looks warm enough to me.”
The soup is barely simmering. It is cool enough that I could stick my finger into it without being burned. “If your preference is cold soup, then yes, it is ready.”
He makes a growling sound, his breath hitting the back of my neck and sending goosebumps across my skin. “Make me a bowl.”
I am tired of arguing. Tired of trying to please a man who clearly will not be pleased. So, I do as I am told.
The borscht is thick and congealed as I scoop it out, clearly not warm enough, but I do it anyway. With Aleksandr less than a foot away, I move the bowl to the cutting board and grate the freshly peeled beet over top. Then, I scoop a dollop of cream into the center and sprinkle freshly minced dill weed over that. It looks delicious. Even better than when I ate it the day before. Except, it is cold.
I slide the bowl across the island to where Aleksandr had been sitting and then turn to look at him, a fake smile spread on my face. “Lunch is served.”
His top lip pulls up at one corner, disdain obvious in every line of his face, before he spins around and walks to reclaim his seat. I hand him a napkin, which he roughly pulls out of my hand and lays in his lap. Then, without any show of gratitude, he plunges his spoon into the soup and takes a heaping bite.
For a second, I hold my breath and think he might actually enjoy it. He swirls the soup around in his mouth, face neutral. Then, he spits it back into the bowl.
“It’s fucking cold.”
I pound a hand onto the countertop. “Obviously. I told you that.”
He pushes the bowl away and stands up. Even from across the island, his height is intimidating. “Do you do everything at your own pace? Heating up soup should not take ten minutes.”
“How would you know?” I scream. “It’s not as though you have ever done anything for yourself before. Maybe if you had, you’d realize that cleaning and cooking and keeping a house running takes actual work.”
“Do you think I don’t know anything about hard work?” he asks, leaning across the counter. Even twisted in anger, his face is handsome. Sharp jawline, straight nose. In fact, his eyes seem brighter and more alive when he is upset, and I can’t seem to look away.
“I know you don’t,” I say. “You have been served your entire life, and you believe you can treat me like I’m beneath you. I’m a maid, not your servant.”
There is a beat of silence between us. His chest is rising and falling wildly, his nostrils flared. Then, he stands up, straightens the lapels of his jacket, and looks away from me, his gaze cast on the wall.
“You’re fired. Get the fuck out.”
Chapter 7
Aleksandr
Part of me wanted her to beg.
But Zoya didn’t crumble when I fired her. She didn’t weep or beg for her job or express anything beyond a strong dislike of me. Plenty of people haven’t liked me throughout my life, but no one had been bold enough to make this clear to my face. Zoya was the first person to ever stand up to me.
“The only person who can fire me is Boris.” She lifted her pointed chin and pressed her full lips together. “You do not have the authority.”
Just as I warned Zoya he would, Boris took my recommendation seriously. I called him the moment she stormed out of the room, and though he seemed disappointed to have to let Zoya go, he agreed that the level of disrespect she showed me was unprofessional. He called her to deliver the news as soon as we hung up.
It felt good for an hour or two. The idea that Zoya got what she deserved. She disrespected me and my role in the family. She showed no concern for the quality to which she performed her job and even her mother admitted she was acting inappropriately. Is it not a servant’s role to serve?
Then, a sticky feeling began to creep into my chest. As I sat on the bed Zoya’s mother had made up for me and called every person I could think of to try and track down Mikhail’s whereabouts, I wondered whether I hadn’t overreacted. Whether my fight with Zoya had been about more than just her duties. Guilt was not an emotion I was accustomed to, so I pushed it away, but as one day turned into the next, Zoya refused to leave my mind.
During my previous visits, I rarely saw her around the estate, but now I looked for her everywhere. Boris told me he had given the woman three days to move off of the property, so I glanced towards her cottage every time I walked outside to get in my car. I took note of my surroundings as I moved through the house, expecting to catch a glimpse of her.
I didn’t even know why I looked for her. I didn’t want to see her. Every second I’d spent with her had made me furious. More than any other woman I’d ever met, she had set me on edge. The gaze of her too-large blue eyes felt like feathers brushing over my skin, like an itch I couldn’t scratch. She unsettled me in a way I was not accustomed to and did not enjoy. Once she was gone, I would rest easier.
And I needed the rest. Mikhail had screwed up more contracts than just the weapons deals. Several of our business connections were in a state of disarray due to his carelessness. Debts had gone unpaid and deals had fallen through because no one could get in touch with Mikhail. Not unless he wanted them to. I spent half of my day in meetings trying to mend fences and the other half calling all of our friends and family in search of my brother. I knew it wasn’t a good look to admit that I didn’t know where my own brother was, the heir to the Levushka crime family, but as more and more time passed since I’d last heard from him, I cared less about what others would think and more about finding my twin.
It was this sense of desperation that drove me to visit my mother.
She didn’t know I was coming, but somehow, she greets me at the door, arms open wide.
“Aleksandr.” She wraps her thin arms around me and pulled me against her chest. I dwarf her now, but she still insists on trying to wrap me up in a hug as though I am a child. “It has been too long.”
“We talked on the phone last week.” I pat her back and pull away. “But it is good to see you.”
She steps aside and ushers me into her house. It is a townhome, wedged between two identical homes in the center of the city. The noise of cars rushing past and people walking down the street filters inside in a whirr of noise and movement. As soon as she closes the door, however, it all seems to fade away.
“I always love having a visitor,” she says, hanging me a glass of water when we get into the kitchen. “I don’t have many of them. Your brother neglected to come see me the last time he was in town. I saw him in passing, but…” Her voice trails off and she bites the corner of her lip nervously. “How is he doing?”
I knew I’d have to tell her about Mikhail, but I hadn’t expected to get into it so soon after walking through the door. Though, I don’t know why I’m surprised. My mother has always had a knack for getting to the heart of an issue. In my opinion, it is why she and my dad couldn’t stand to live in the same house together. She saw through all of his bullshit and called him on it. He couldn’t handle it day in and day out.
“You haven’t talked to him recently?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Mikhail has always been closer to my father, and I’ve always been closer to my mother. The only reason she knows anything about Mikhail’s life is because of me.
She shakes her head and brushes a graying strand of hair behind her ear. “Your father mentioned last time we spoke that he wasn’t doing well.”
“You’ve talked to Dad?” This surprises me more than anythin
g else. Though they are still married, my parents rarely see one another. Somewhere along the way, they decided that staying married but living separate lives was easier for both of them. It is a strange arrangement, but one they don’t seem to have any interest in changing.
“We do keep one another informed on our comings and goings,” she says a little defensively. “We are not strangers.”
“I never said you were.” Though, I’d thought it many times. “Well, honestly, Mikhail is part of the reason I came to see you.”
She sets her glass on the dining room table and folds her hands in front of her, brows pinching together. “Is he okay?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Dad forced him into rehab, but when I last called the facility, he hadn’t arrived.”
“Rehab,” she whispers to herself. “And Mikhail agreed?”
“He seemed to. I saw him the night before he left, and he seemed ready to go and make a change. But now I haven’t heard from him in three days.”
She stands up and paces across the floor. Though she had been home alone with no obvious plans to leave, she had on a shiny black pair of flats with gray trouser pants. It is strange to see my mother outside of business wear. Even when we all lived in the same house, I couldn’t remember ever seeing her in pajamas. My mother looked presentable from the moment she walked out of her bedroom every morning. She was the one who taught me the importance of dressing for success.
“Have you talked with Boris’ staff?” she asks. “Maybe some of them have seen or heard from Mikhail.”
I shake my head. “I’ve been staying there the last three days, and I haven’t seen him.”
