It’s a crazy thing for him to say. I’m not sure if he actually believes it or not, but it gives me pause. Gretchen, my best friend from law school, would say he’s right-that the baby would feel it energetically.
“Your son was listening when you threatened to take him from his mother, too,” I retort. “Don’t threaten me again.” There’s a wobble in my voice that I hate.
He pins me with his blue gaze. “All right. You understand our arrangement?”
“I understand,” I say tightly.
“Good. I have no wish to threaten you again.”
The tears burn behind my eyes once more. I force myself to swallow. I’m saved from his scrutiny by a knock at the door.
He yanks the sheet up higher on me before he calls out in Russian.
The door swings open, and Pavel comes in with one tall glass of ice water and one without ice. He looks at me and says a few sentences in Russian. I’m guessing it’s something like he didn’t know which way I liked the water, so he brought both.
“Thank you.” I reach for the ice water.
“Pozhaluysta,” Pavel says. His smile is warm and friendly, like I really am a guest and not a prisoner. I find myself lifting my fingers to wave at him when he turns to say something at the door.
“Pozhaluysta. Does that mean you’re welcome?”
“Yes. And also, please,” Ravil says.
“Does anyone here speak English besides you?”
“I will be your translator.”
Oh no. Screw that. Does he think I’m stupid? If I’m going to be prisoner to a building full of people who only speak Russian. I’m sure he loves the idea of me being helpless around here, but that’s not what’s happening. I’m signing up for Russian lessons on that language app first thing tomorrow. By the time that baby’s born, I’m going to be fluent in Russian.
That goal takes some of the fear out of me ending up in Russia. Knowing the language would definitely make that scenario less terrifying.
I down the water, even though it guarantees I’ll be up in two hours to pee, and lie down with my back to Ravil. I’m just going to close my eyes until the food gets here.
Ravil
LUCY DOESN’T WAKE up when the food is delivered, so I send Pavel to bring it to the kitchen refrigerator, strip down to my boxer briefs, and climb under the sheets with her.
And then I lie awake, my hands behind my head. Thinking.
I didn’t get to my position at the top of the bratva by changing my mind once I’d made a decision. That doesn’t mean I don’t modify a plan in motion. Just that when I set my sights on something, I don’t stop until I get what I’m after.
In this case, I might not have been totally clear on what I am after.
Is it Lucy? Or only the child? Or is it mostly to punish Lucy for the offense? A good pakhan is capable of seeing his own weakness. Knowing his motives.
Blyat. I wanted to punish her.
Some sliver of that hungry boy from Leningrad still exists in me and believes that people like Lucy Lawrence are better than me. That when they decide I’m not worthy of respect and decency, they must be right.
And then the older me, the one who proved himself with knuckles and knives, has to smash those people into the ground to prove it’s not true.
And Lucy disrespected the hell out of me.
An hour passes. Then another. I ran every angle of every possibility again and again just to know my options. Decisions still don’t come.
Lucy stirs, then sits up.
“Hungry, kitten?”
She pads to the bathroom with one hand on her belly. “Um, yes.”
“Do you want those hot wings now?”
“No,” she groans. She closes the door, and I hear her pee on the other side.
I get out of bed. “What are you hungry for?”
“I don’t know. Food.”
“Very helpful, Counselor. Come. I’ll take you to the kitchen.”
“Ooh, my very own escort. I guess I should be thanking you for letting me out of my cell.”
“After the water throwing incident? Yes,” I say although it’s not true. I bear no grudge over that. I threatened her. She retaliated in her small way. I like her feistiness. Now we can move forward.
If only I was sure what forward should look like.
I take her elbow and lead her to the giant kitchen, praying none of the guys are up and around because I don’t want anyone seeing her in miniscule pajamas.
“Please tell me you have more than just Russian food,” she whispers as I flick on the low lighting over the stove. It’s a dream kitchen, or so I’m told.
I don’t cook. The kitchen is adjacent to the living room, open on one side, with a breakfast bar and center island, all in pink and black granite. The appliances are stainless steel. The cupboards are solid maple with the soft-close feature and built in lighting underneath. I flip the switch to turn that on, too. If I turned on the overhead light, we’d both go blind.
The soft glow lights up Lucy’s pale skin and hair. She looks beautifully rumpled. I want to caress the hell out of that swollen belly of hers, but we’re not really on those terms at the moment.
I open the refrigerator and peer inside. “You have something against Russian food?”
“Well, your culture isn’t exactly known for its culinary finesse.”
“Be careful or you’ll get nothing but borscht and perogies for the rest of the week.”
She blinks at me, and I expect another insult, but she says, “Do you have perogies?”
I smile, indulgently. “Does that sound good to you, kitten?”
“Maybe.”