37

Mikhail
Zhanna turns to face me, ready to lace into me again, I suppose, but her expression changes to alarm. Her pale blue eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. At first, I think she’s having a stroke until I turn quickly to see what caused it.
Maria is descending the spiral staircase.
Her eyes meet mine briefly, filled with questions and concern, before focusing on Zhanna, first with curiosity and then with a hint of apprehension.
Zhanna lifts her finger and points at Maria. “Who is this?” she demands in Russian.
“She’s my fiancee,” I reply in English as I step between them to shield Maria from Zhanna’s piercing gaze and sharp tongue. “Maria.”
“Maria …” she whispers the name as she rises from her seat.
Zhanna’s haughty countenance crumples at the sight of Maria, revealing an unfathomable sadness. She looks at Maria with a gloomy look edged with tiredness, as though seeing an old friend after years apart. A friend she regrets not treating like the good friend they were. Her gaze drifts away as if lost in memories of another time.
“It seems that you’re not the only one haunted by ghosts, Kolya,” she tells me in Russian again. “Your bride has a dark past.”
Is this the confirmation I needed? Did she know Budanov? I look between them, trying to decipher the meaning. But Zhanna offers no more explanation as she moves past me to get a closer look at Maria.
To my surprise, she extends her hand and Maria gently takes it in hers. Zhanna gasps at the touch and presses Maria’s hand to her own withered cheek. A single tear rolls down her weathered cheek.
“Are you all right?” Maria asks with concern in her eyes.
“Yes, dear.” Zhanna nods. A forced smile returns on her lips, but the sadness never leaves her eyes as she switches back to English. “Please forgive an old woman’s peculiarities.”
The words linger in the air with a sense of finality. Zhanna’s gaze never leaves Maria’s face. She must know something. I have lost the opportunity to ask.
But I doubt that opportunity ever existed in the first place.
“Kolya, leave the dead in their graves.” She turns to me and pats my chest. “There are things in motion that you do not fully understand. Trust the people who are looking out for you, and not the vipers who once trailed after your father.”
“Then tell me what you know, Zhanna!” I exclaim. “You can’t just come into my home, insult both me and my sister, and then whisper cryptic words for me to decipher!”
“You forget that I have my own secrets,” she replies. “Secrets that I’m not at liberty to share. I have said what I needed to say.” Zhanna turns to Maria, smiling sadly again. “I hope I didn’t spook you, my dear.”
“No …” Maria says hesitantly.
“I won’t be able to attend your shower, dear,” Zhanna says. “But I will send a gift.”
Zhanna roams the room again. Her gaze flits from one painting to the next, her movements graceful in spite of her age.
“I saw this one in Paris decades ago,” she says, pausing before a Modigliani on the wall. “I once dreamed of running away to Paris, like most foolish girls. To give into my heart’s wildest desires. I wanted to live on the Boulevard, paint in a studio, and have more babies than I would ever need. But life had other plans for me.”
“Thank goodness I did not pursue those reckless young dreams. That would’ve been my undoing.” She turns to Maria and me. “Please accept from an old woman her well-wishes. And do not forget that danger and betrayal lurk around you both. Wait and see, Kolya. Wait and see.” She looks back at Larissa, and the warmth that she showed Maria is gone in a blink. “Come along, Lara, and take me home now.”
With those final words, she walks out of the penthouse with Larissa hurrying after her.
Maria and I exchange confused glances, both of us trying to process what happened.
“Who was that?”Maria asks cautiously when we’re alone again. “Is she your grandmother?”
“No,” I answer. “Zhanna Nikolaeva is a woman with a complicated past and many secrets.”
“Like you,” Maria says quietly.
“Like us,” I correct her.
Maria’s expression darkens for a moment, but it fades as quickly as it appeared. “What do you think she meant by what she said?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit, sitting down. “But it must be important if she felt the need to come here personally.”
“Are you okay, Mikhail?” she whispers. “You look unsettled.”
I hesitate for a moment, disarmed by the concern she always shows for me. It’s hard to imagine that her father is a traitor. But then again, many still have a hard time seeing me as Gennady’s son and heir.
“I’m fine, Maria,” I assure her, pulling her down on the couch. She doesn’t look at me and places some space between us. It’s like we’re back to square one again. The weight of Maria’s gaze presses down like a mountain against the side of my head, heavy with questions I don’t intend to answer.
Questions that I cannot answer even if I want to.
“So if she’s not your grandmother,” she says. “Who is she?”
“A powerful woman with ties to the Bratva,” I reply. “A person equally respected and hated by the pakhans. At times an ally, and at times an enemy.”
“But what is she to you?” Maria asks, her eyes searching mine.
“My godmother.” I pause, considering how best to explain the past. “But I always thought the bond I had with her was severed by my mother’s death.”
“Because you still think that you’re the reason why your mother died?” she asks.
I glance at her sharply, wondering how she can know something like this.
She doesn’t shrink back. “Larissa told me.”
I nod my head, sighing. “Of course she did …”
I remind myself that I’m the one who should be extracting secrets from Maria, not her from me. She’s very good at doing that. She’s very good at looking pretty. I admire her slim figure in a black peasant dress with intricate embroidery, wondering if I should take her out and show her off, or lock her away from the world so that only I get to see her.
“You look very pretty in that dress,” I finally say.
“You don’t trust me, do you?” Maria ignores my compliment and studies me suspiciously, biting her lip. “Was it something that she said?”
Your bride has a dark past.
I hesitate for a moment before replying, “I’m trying to trust you.”
“Because you don’t believe that I know nothing.” She shakes her head vehemently. “You don’t believe me. Because if you did, it would be easier to trust me.” Her voice rises slightly, conveying hurt feelings, plain and clear. “Why won’t you believe me?”
“Maria,” I interrupt, trying to soothe her nerves-and mine.
“Don’t make me the bad guy here.” She looks pointedly at me. “When you find out that I’m right, I hope that you’ll keep your word. I hope that you won’t be a coward.”