In which Alexi redeems himself. Big time.
Alexi…
“How is she?”
I’m watching my men clean up the ruin of three firebombed trucks that had been delivering very expensive weaponry to a client before someone ambushed the convoy.
“Miss Dubrovina is…” Pytor hesitates, “very quiet.”
“Did she eat?” Samuil and David are gently putting one of the dead drivers in a body bag.
“Yes, a little at least,” he says.
“How is construction proceeding on the rooftop?”
He chuckles, “There’s a lot of fussing and complaining, but they know better than to not have it done in time.”
“Good.” I walk around one of the smoldering trucks, looking for clues, any sign.
“How is your project going?” Pytor asks in a calm voice, as if we’re discussing the weather.
“We’re still in the discovery stage,” I reply, “but I think we both know who’s responsible.”
The insistent beep of an incoming call is irritating me. “I have to go. Please let my wife know I will be home this evening.”
“Yes, Sir.”
When I see the number of the incoming call, I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger.
“Da.”
“Greetings, brother! Not much of a welcome for your Sovietnik.” Dmitri’s voice is too pleased, too smug. He must already know. “How is the progress on establishing our home base in the States?”
“Three of our trucks carrying the new product were firebombed last night,” I say flatly. “It’s a complete loss.”
“That’s millions of dollars of high-quality hardware,” his voice, if possible, sounds even more pleased.
“I’m aware,” I say calmly. Nothing pleases Dmitri more than knowing he’s gotten to me. “I know who’s responsible, and I will take care of it. I’ve already re-routed the new shipment to another port. The buyer will have the product less than forty-eight hours past the originally scheduled date.”
“Good, good,” he says approvingly. “I’d hate to have the Pakhan lose confidence in you.”
He would love that above all things, I think.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll get back to my investigation,” I say.
“Of course! Oh, how is your lovely bride-to-be?”
My hackles go up. My brother has always despised Lucya, but Nikolai’s warning – Dmitri complaining about getting the ‘ugly bride’ – is still fresh in my mind.
“She’s fine, I assume. I haven’t had time to pay attention to her. She has a security detail looking after her.”
“Yes, well, I’ll see you two in St. Petersburg next month for my wedding to the lovely Inessa,” he says, sounding slightly disappointed at my indifference.
“We will be there to honor you, Sovietnik.”
“It will be the finest wedding St. Petersburg has seen since the Tsars ruled,” he says petulantly.
“Of course. Goodbye.” I smile as I slip my phone back into my pocket. Making Dmitri pout is the only highlight of this miserable day.
I have an office on the other side of Boston that I use for business meetings, and I shower and change there before going home.
I don’t want Lucya to see me reeking of smoke with blood on my hands.
Before returning to the apartment, I take the elevator up to the rooftop to check on the project. Five exhausted-looking men are cleaning up the last of the construction rubble. “It’s finished, Sir,” the foreman gives me a tired grin. The Turgenev Bratva owns two legitimate construction companies, one here and one in Chicago. I’d pulled a team off a building site here to get this done in one day.
“This is good work,” I say, shaking his hand, “there will be a considerable holiday bonus for you all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Turgenev.” He zips up his heavy jacket. “I’ll get everyone out of your way. Goodnight.”
Now, to see if Lucya will speak to me.
Pytor is waiting in the entryway when the elevator door opens. “Good evening, Sir. Miss Dubrovina is reading.”
“Has she eaten since breakfast?” I ask, shedding my jacket.
He looks genuinely disappointed. “I made lunch, but she said she wasn’t hungry.”
My Kolibri was just now getting her curves back from eating well. Knowing I caused this distress sends another unfamiliar twinge through my chest. “Thank you. Check in with the night team downstairs to make sure security is tight. Now that we’ve taken out the Wozniak Mafia stateside, those fucking Albanians are getting bold.”
“Of course,” he says. “If you wish, I can stay here tonight as well?”
“You need sleep,” I say sternly. “You’re no good to my wife if you’re exhausted.”
A slight smile crosses his face. “Goodnight then, Sir.”
I go in search of Lucya.
She’s sitting right where he’d said, in a little alcove between the master bedroom and the study, there’s a tall window there with a built-in bench. She dragged in one of the couch pillows to make it more comfortable and she’s curled up, back to one side and feet propped against the other. My footsteps are loud on the concrete floor, but she doesn’t look up.
“I want you to come up to the roof with me.”
Her gaze stubbornly stays on the book she’s holding.
I have no frame of reference for this. I’ve never had to convince a woman to do anything I wanted. Putting out one hand, I ask, “Please come with me. I’ve had my construction crew working on a project for you.”
“Don’t you want to lock me back in that room?” Lucya says bitterly.
“No. I would like you to join me on the rooftop.” Frowning, I wonder how normal men do this. At any other time, I would just throw her over my shoulder. She’s looking at my outstretched hand now.
Progress.
“Please,” I ask again.
With a small sigh, she stands up, wincing a bit like she’s been in that position for a while. She doesn’t take my hand, but at least she walks with me. We take the steps, and when I open the steel door at the top, I cover her eyes with one hand. She stiffens, but she doesn’t move.
I flip the switch and take my hand away from her eyes.
“Oh…” She steps forward, mouth open.
The tree she had bought for up here is fully lit, standing in the middle of an ice rink that spans about a third of the rooftop. An overly large fire is blazing in the firepit and I have heavy blankets sitting on the chairs, next to two pairs of skates.
“You did this?” Lucya turns to me, tears welling in her eyes.
“I was wrong to doubt you. Treating you like that, locking you up… it was…” I’m searching for the right words and it’s almost physically painful to feel this limited. “It was wrong. I was wrong,” I clarify. “I know your uncle was trying to force you to spy for him, my IT tech pulled up the audio from the call. I should have listened to you before I spoke to you that way.”
She’s shivering a little, even with the outdoor heaters the crew installed and I take off my jacket, putting it over her shoulders.
“This is new for me,” I admit. “But I have a reason to learn. I want to be better for you. You might have to be patient with me.”
Her lower lip is trembling and I’m not sure if that is good or bad.
“Before I treated you so badly last night, you asked if we could go ice skating down at the Seaport rink.” She offers me a watery little smile. “It’s not safe now, we’re having trouble with an Albanian mob.”
“The Ghazaryans?” Now, she’s worried. “Are you all right? What about your crew?”
“I’ll have it taken care of soon,” I say, gritting my teeth at the memory of my dead truck drivers. “But for now, I need to know you’re safe so I can concentrate, yes?”
“I understand.”
“But, that doesn’t mean you can’t go ice skating,” I smile, “the roof offers me the additional peace of mind that you can’t fall through the ice.”
“Oh, now I know that was a joke,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll have you know that I’m a very good skater. Except for that one time.”
“Sit down.” I guide her to one of the chairs and kneel in front of her, quickly lacing up her skates and then my own. This time, when I hold out my hand, she takes it.
We skate around the enormous Christmas tree in silence for a few laps, her mittened hand in mine. My Kolibri is as good of a skater as she claimed, moving with sharp, sure strokes of her blades and easily keeping up.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling up at me. “This is the best date ever.”
I raise my brow. “This is my first date.”
She bursts into laughter. “It’s my first date, too.”
We skate until she gets too cold and I bundle her up in front of the fire, adding extra logs and sending flames leaping up into the night sky. The dinner I ordered was kept warm in the chafing dishes and I feed her Boston clam chowder and sourdough bread with cheesecake for dessert.
“What’s under that cover?” she asks, nodding at the last dish.
Taking off the lid with a flourish, I enjoy her excited squeal at the sight of the marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate.
“S’mores! You are the best husband ever!” My hummingbird claps her hands excitedly. “I mean, you will be.”
Taking her hand, I slide it under my shirt, over my heart. This time, I’m smart enough to understand what she is hoping for. “We are married. Tonight. I vow to love you and care for you for the rest of our lives.”
Her huge sea-glass green eyes are watering.
“Are those happy tears?” I ask, still out of my element.
“Yes,” she says, crawling into my lap to kiss me. “So happy. I have loved you since I was eleven years old and you saved my life. Thank you. Thank you for everything, the ice rink, the tree, thank you for your heart. You’ve always had mine.”
Wrapping my arms around her, I breathe in her warm vanilla and lavender scent and I realize that she’s always had my heart, too.
