Mikhail
“Going out with Larissa?” I ask Maria as she scampers out of our bed and straight into the bathroom. The shower starts before she answers. Lying in our bed, I listen to the water ricochet off the tiles, giving her an excuse not to talk to me.
“Yes, baby shopping and lunch. You know how she likes to shop.”
I hoist myself out of bed and find my wallet. “Make sure you take my card. My treat. I’m sure Larissa will pick out a dress for herself.”
A quick thank you, and then the door shuts firmly. I wait a second, and the lock clicks.
Maria has been distant since we returned to the penthouse. She doesn’t spend much time in our bedroom, finding reasons to either hang out in her old bedroom or spend time with Dominika.
I searched the penthouse for twenty minutes the other day, trying not to lose my cool, when I finally found her in the kitchen. The staff that once showed her polite indifference now dote on her. She was seated beside Anton while Pavel told some over-the-top story about his antics in a nightclub downtown. He stopped midsentence when I cleared my throat.
They all scurried away back to work except for Maria, who stared at me as if I was a fly in her borscht.
I can’t tell what makes her upset anymore. The hateful tension between us at the start was justified, given the extreme circumstances of how we met. Now, I thought we were finally of the same mind. Maria had accepted her place in the Bratva as my future wife after what Zakhar did and what she almost sacrificed for me.
But something is still clearly weighing heavily on her mind. But what?
And it’s times like that when I wonder if we’ll end up in separate beds like my parents. And then separate rooms. Finally, separate lives.
I watch the bathroom door and find Maria’s phone in her purse. This is faster than checking the tracking app. I quickly unlock it, but there are no new notifications on the screen, so I put it back. I don’t bother to check the history, knowing she hasn’t received a message or sent one since the day she was shot.
I dress, not waiting for her to finish her shower. Whenever Larissa and Maria leave the building, they have four SUVs surrounding their armored BMW, and they’re never left alone.
I’ve placed two female guards to accompany them wherever they go, including the bathroom. To a passerby, they appear to be four wealthy wives enjoying each other’s company over lunch at Cafe Chelsea.
Zakhar is still out there. He’s shown he doesn’t care about hurting Maria. And I won’t give him another chance to.
I sigh as I take the elevator downstairs and meet Rurik. We’re going to finish up sorting out Father’s papers in the mansion.
In Father’s bedroom, the boxes are spread out on the floor, filled with his personal papers and memorabilia. There’s almost nothing of Mother left here. A bitter taste rises in my mouth. He was so quick to erase practically every trace of Mother as soon as she died.
Did you ever feel guilty? I ask his ghost as I open another box. Or were you incapable of that too?
“They’ll be gone for hours.” Rurik enters the room and looks around at the chaos being carefully packed away. “Larissa wants a break from being cooped up all the time.”
I look at Rurik, but he avoids my questioning stare. Instead, his focus is on a photo of my father when he was a small boy. My father sits beside Grandfather, perfectly still and staring at the camera. He doesn’t dare move a muscle, not even to smile at the camera.
The same way I was in his presence.
Rurik picks it up from the floor and sighs, refusing to acknowledge the heavy tension gathering between us.
My eyes are reserved for a different photo, the only one that shows any indication that my mother ever existed in this place: their wedding photo. I pick up the heavy gold frame and admire her serene face, very much like Larissa’s.
They’re almost the same age now, I realize with a start as I stare at the photo.
Fuck you, Kolya!
Her words haunt me in the quiet. I sorely regret what I said in anger that day. I wounded Rurik and Larissa by using their struggles with infertility against them. They’ve tried for years to have a child, and I was taken by surprise by the news of my own. An icy resentment now exists between us.
I can’t preach acceptance of an irreversible act when I refuse to dole out forgiveness.
“The cousin that Maria Zakharovna wants at her wedding.” Rurik hesitates.
I don’t miss the emphasis he places on her patronymic. Zakharovna. Daughter of Zakhar. There’s a bitterness to it. It’s the only way Rurik’s duty-bound self knows how to express his displeasure at me.
“Yes.”
“It’s a bad idea, Mikhail Ivanov,” he replies. “That girl is Vito Genovesi’s daughter.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“She’s a real Mafia princess. Girls like that don’t fall far from the tree. And her family will not let her walk defenseless into a Ivanov wedding.”
I give Rurik all my attention. “How involved is she?”
“The bar is clean, if that’s what you’re asking.” Rurik shrugs his shoulders. “A few old mafiosos hang out there and talk about the good old days. She feeds them comfort food, and they leave. The only things shipped into the building are for the bar. No drugs, no guns, and no women apart from the ones who actually want to be there.”
I nod, understanding that Mercy Genovesi is exactly what she seems. “But Maria wants her at the wedding.” I shake my head, picturing the trouble brewing when we already have enough. “I can’t deny who Maria is. That side of her family won’t just disappear.”
“Bringing her cousin is dangerous for them both.” Rurik’s jaw ticks as he expresses the seriousness of the concern. “You’d have a prettier sight throwing a rabbit to a pack of wolves.”
“I met her,” I scoff. “Mercy Genovesi is not soft and shy, nor is she girlie and giggly. I can spare some guards for her if needed. No need to advertise her family connections to the other guests. Just another nobody cousin.”
Rurik tries to caution me again. “Mikhail Ivanov, you’re about to light one bomb by marrying a Lanzzare-half Lanzzare as she may be. Why light another by inviting a full-blooded one to the wedding? Are you trying to end up like Vasily Barinov?”
“Maria wants her family there,” I answer shortly. “I’m sure as hell not inviting her father.”
Rurik lets the matter drop and grabs a box as I survey the rest of the work needed in the room. My wedding is fast approaching, but dread is wrapping around me, closing me off from the ones I claim to love.
There are better ways to protect my heart than isolation. I sense a shift in the room, and in a moment, Rurik is by my side again, grinning.
“Did you draw this, Mikhail Ivanov?”
Rurik hands me a picture of a wild mustang. Its hair is whipped by the wind as it runs forward over a barren plain. I recognize it from my school days when I would spend art class absorbed in my work and not causing trouble with the other kids. The faded drawing is matted but not framed.
“Where did you find this?” I ask.
“In the drawer.” He points to an open drawer in my father’s bureau.
I open the drawer further, and underneath Father’s folded dress shirts are at least a dozen drawings I made as a boy. I didn’t think he’d actually kept these.
I grin when I find a few I drew at Zhanna’s home. Sketches in black pen of the sculptures on display in her living room. A quick sketch of her beastly dog. I read the writing on the back of one in my father’s hand, noting my age when I drew it-before Desmier passed, and before he forced me to become the son he wanted.
It feels like another life.
“I’ll look at it later,” I speak indifferently, though it’s far from how I feel. “We have a lot to do.”
The closet is packed with old suits hanging in rows, and the scent of his cologne on his clothes sends me back. Instantly, I fight back the instinctive nervousness that grips my stomach, pushing it down hard where it belongs. I grab an armful of winter coats and toss them into an empty box. Hidden behind the coats is a row of hardcover books evenly spaced on several built-in shelves, with lined pages and the year stamped on the binding in gold.
There are dozens of them here.
I take one off the shelf, flip it open, thumb through pages of my father’s handwritten notes, and realize what I’m looking at.
“I didn’t know Father kept journals.”
I open one of them and read a passage.
“10 a. m.-Shipment from Hamburg arrived short. Other shipments were checked, but there was no shortage. Ippolit checked the numbers while Gunsyn talked to the men. The shortage was from the other side. Zakhar will take of it.”
It appears that Father kept a daily record of everything that happened. Rurik takes one and reads aloud another entry. “11 p. m.- Lanzzare struck a truck shipment outside Secaucus. Bold fuckers. The shipment was burner phones and laptops. It was hit to show they could, no other reason than that.”
“Lanzzare.” He sighs and slams the journal closed. “And you want to invite one to this wedding.”
“Yes. It’s what my wife demands. Isn’t that the key to a happy marriage?”
“Marriage is hard even when it’s a good one,” he continues, ignoring my attempt at a joke. “Your father never approved of me marrying your sister.” Rurik’s index finger traces the binding of the books, looking for a particular year. He pulls a book off the shelf. “5 a. m.-Needed to eliminate a rival at his home. T. D. has been threatening our clubs and refuses to back down. He told me he would crucify anyone I sent to get him on his front lawn. I sent Tarakan. And he came back.” He returns the journal back to the shelf, chuckling. “Old bastard tried several times to get rid of me before the wedding. That was my nickname. Tarakan.”
“Cockroach?”
“Yep.” Rurik smiles, and a hint of the iciness between us fades somewhat. “He thought it was an insult. Me? I took it as a badge of honor. A cockroach will never die. And now look at where that cockroach stands.”
Smiling, I shake my head at my father’s nerve.
A year in gold jumps out at me-the year Desmier died. I hesitate, reaching for the book and searching for the month of May when it happened. I flip the journal open to the page, but it’s missing. A few torn edges of paper remain.
Rurik frowns when he sees me staring at the pages. “I wonder why Gennady ripped out the pages.”
“Or if he’s the one who did it.” I dump the heavy coats out of the box onto the floor but keep the journal.