The phone has been disconnected for twenty-four hours now.
I’ve spent most of that time staring at it, checking it incessantly, hoping that he’ll have a change of heart and restore the connection.
Once my hope well and truly dies, however, I decide to take my art supplies and head down to the edge of the lake to draw.
I haven’t seen Aleks since he left me standing, wet and shivering, by the water.
He saw right through my seduction attempts. And the humiliation was only made worse by the fact that he wasn’t affected in the slightest.
Sure, he looked. Maybe he even admired my body. But he didn’t lose his mind with lust. Seeing me naked was no different than any of the hundreds of other naked women that have waltzed across his path.
At least he didn’t rescind my freedom. I can still move about the compound as I choose. But yesterday was a lesson in the limits of his tolerance.
The more I continue to defy him, the more difficult he can make my life. This time, it was the phone connection. Next time, I could end up locked in my room for good.
The water ripples with the light breeze in the air. I sit under the ash tree, right where he stood yesterday, watching me.
Most artists sitting in front of a view like this would sketch the landscape, but that’s never been how I work best. For me, it’s instinctive. I do my best work when I shut my brain off and stop thinking so damn hard.
I start sketching without thought, allowing my pencil to move across the paper on its own. And eventually, images begin to form.
I’m so involved in my drawing that it takes a few seconds for the strange scraping sound coming from behind me to catch my attention.
I glance up and see a young man pushing a wheelchair down the path. An older man is sitting in it. He’s hunched to one side, so it’s difficult to see his face in the shadows.
Who could that possibly be?
The caretaker catches sight of me as he pulls up to the lake. He’s dressed in a nurse’s white uniform, with a strong jaw and an easy smile.
“Oh, hello,” he says, turning that smile on me. “Didn’t even see you there. We’re not disturbing you, are we?”
I put my drawing aside and get to my feet. I notice the old man’s eyes veer towards me. It’s obvious he can’t move his neck. I move into his line of vision so that he doesn’t have to strain.
“No, you’re not,” I reassure him. “I was just doodling.”
“You’re an artist?”
“Cartoonist,” I correct.
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
I smile. “I think so, but it depends on who you ask. Not everyone regards cartoonists as real artists.”
“Well, I’d call you an artist,” he says.
“You haven’t seen my work yet.”
He smiles. “I’d sure love to.”
I grin back, warming to him immediately. Shocking how three seconds of genuine human affection can be so moving when I’ve been starved of it since Aleks took me.
“That’s really sweet of you…?”
“Oh, shoot! Sorry.” He juts out a hand to shake. “I’m Mike,” he says. “And this here is Don Makarova.”
“Don Makarova?” I repeat. “I think you’ve got your wires crossed. Don Makarova is the surly asshole who owns this compound.”
Mike raises his eyebrows, but I can see that he’s fighting a smile. “You’re talking about Mr. Aleksandr,” he says. “This is…”
“Oh my God,” I gasp when it finally clicks. “Aleks’s father.”
Mike nods. “Bingo.”
And I just called his son an asshole. Right to his face, no less. I study the man’s features, searching for annoyance, anger, or insult.
But there’s not much expression there at all. His face is a desert, totally devoid of emotion.
His eyes, though? Those are bright, sharp, and searching.
And they’re fixed right on me.
“I’m sorry about the asshole comment. I didn’t mean it.” I frown the moment I start stumbling over my words. “You know what, scratch that. He is an asshole. Just… maybe don’t tell him that. I’m already in deep shit with him as it is, and—I mean, not that I care, but he… dammit.”
“Don’t worry.” Mike laughs and pats the old man’s shoulder. “Your secret’s safe with us. Right, boss?”
The old man blinks twice and mumbles something that I don’t catch. His speech is slurred, near-silent.
Whatever he says, though, Mike seems to understand. He chuckles and nods. “Right.”
“What did he say?” I ask, moving closer.
“He said that Mr. Aleksandr didn’t inherit any of his charm.”
I can’t help laughing, even though this man’s spawn is the cause of my worst nightmares. “It’s very nice to meet you, Don Makarova.”
He slurs out something else and Mike translates for him. “He wants you to call him Vlad.”
“Vlad?”
“It’s a nickname,” Mike explains. “I think that means he likes you.”
I nod, taking note of the state-of-the-art wheelchair. “Would it be rude to ask what happened?”
“A stroke,” Mike explains with crisp professionalism. “Years ago. It left him paralyzed on one side of his body. He can still move the other half, though. And he’s as sharp as ever.” He wheels Vlad forward so that he’s sitting right in front of the lake. “He likes coming here in the evenings. It’s peaceful. Better than staring at the damn ceiling day in and day out.”
“It is,” I agree. I move a little closer to Mike and lower my voice. “Um… do you guys live on the grounds?”
“We do,” Mike says. “Well, he does. Me, too, most of the time, but I have a few days off every month. Vlad has a second caretaker come in on those days.”
Vlad says something else. Mike leans in to hear him out. He chuckles again when he straightens. “He’s not a fan of his second caretaker.”
“No?”
“She doesn’t have the same laidback vibe with him that I do. Isn’t that right, boss?”
Vince mumbles something else, and this time, I catch most of it. “You were the best out of the worst bunch of morons I ever saw.”
Mike just looks at me and shrugs, totally unfazed. “You can guess where his son got the asshole gene.”
I’m a little surprised that Mike can get away with that kind of comment, but Vlad doesn’t seem to mind. Or maybe it’s more about the fact that he can’t afford to mind.
“So you’re the new bride, then?” Mike asks conversationally as he takes a seat on the grass next to Vlad.
I wince as I join him. “You heard.”
“Everyone who lives in this house has heard.”
“Great,” I mumble. “Just so you know, it’s not a real marriage. I’m definitely not a bride. I’m here under duress.”
“Ah.”
I look at him, wondering if maybe I’ve found the ally I need.
He dispels that notion quickly. “Uh-oh, stop looking at me like that.”
I frown. “Like what?”
“Like I might be able to help you,” he says. “I can’t. And what’s more, I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not about to cross the big guy,” he says. “No one crosses the Bratva and lives to tell the tale. I’m smart enough not to try.”
I sigh and look back towards the lake. “Guess this place is full of assholes.”
He smiles sympathetically. “Harsh but fair. Sorry to disappoint.”
“I’m used to it by now. Men always disappoint.”
He chuckles a little, but takes my anger in stride. “I may not be able to be your way out,” he says. “But I can be your friend. We both can.”
“Guess I can’t afford to turn down a friend,” I say. “They’re running in short supply these days.”
He throws me a guilty smile. “Great. So now that we’re friends, would you mind doing me a favor?”
“Seriously?” I say. “You’re gonna say no to helping me and then ask for a favor?”
He gives me a sheepish grin. “It’s a very small favor.”
“Fine. Let me hear it.”
“I need to pee,” he says. “Could you stay here with him until I get back?”
“I suppose so,” I sigh melodramatically. “If I must.”
“Great, thanks. Back in a flash.”
He jogs back up the path and I’m left looking over at the don. Or rather, the ex-don. Don emeritus? Not sure how the titles work around here.
It blows my mind that Aleks never once mentioned to me the fact that his father was alive and well. Okay, not exactly well. But he’s still alive.
Not all of us are so lucky.
“I thought you were dead,” I tell him. “I mean, no offense or anything—it’s just that nobody mentioned that you were alive. I figured that, since Aleks was don, that would automatically mean you were… well, you know.”
He looks at me with pale eyes that are neither blue nor gray. Just a strange, in-between color that leaves me feeling unsettled. Skewered, in the strangest way. I can imagine how intimidating he would have been in the prime of his life.
He mumbles something, but I don’t quite catch it. I move a little closer. “Can you repeat that again?” I ask. “Slowly.”
I don’t hear much else the second time either, but I do catch the word “brunette” and “son.”
“Your son likes brunettes?” I parrot back to him.
He jerks his head forward half an inch. I take that as a nod.
“Well, trust me,” I mutter, “that’s not why he married me. It’s all part of his evil mastermind plan to thwart my brother’s attempt at catching him for his crimes. Not to get too dramatic or whatever.”
I notice an edge of surprise work its way up one half of his face.
“So I’m stuck here until your son gets what he wants,” I continue. “Which I’m sure happens all the damn time. Was it like that for you, too? When you were in charge?”
He jerks his head forward again.
I nod. “Thought so. Must be nice.”
“It… was,” he croaks.
“Hey!” I say. “I understood that.”
One arm rises slightly and drops. “Used… to… me.”
I grin. “Well, I’m a fast learner.”
It looks for a moment like he’s smiling. The simple gesture tugs on my heart strings. I wonder if this is what my father would have been relegated to if he had survived his heart attack.
He would’ve hated it, but having him in a wheelchair would be better than not having him at all. It’s probably a selfish thought on my part. And yet I can’t deny that it feels true.
“My father died about seven years ago now,” I tell him softly.
His eyes are on me, so I know he’s listening. Perceptive. Awake.
“We were really close,” I continue. “I mean, we all were, my whole family. But my dad and I, we had a special relationship. Everyone always assumed I was an accident because I was born ten years after my sister, but Dad never let me believe that. He’d sit with me in the garden and we’d do some project or the other and he’d tell me about how I came to be born.”
I haven’t thought about the story since he died. It hurt too much to remember those sun-soaked days with him. The familiar rasp of his voice. The way he’d laugh in all the same spots during the telling.
But sitting here with Vlad at the edge of a lake that never seems to end, it feels okay to go back to that memory. It feels safe.
“Dad was the one who wanted another child. Mom felt like she was done, but he told her that they had more parenting left in them. So she finally caved after a year of nagging. He used to call me his bonus child. He said he’d never had a best friend growing up, so he figured he’d just make one.”
I swipe at my watery eyes.
“He was the best dad in the world,” I whisper. “I never had any doubt that I was the most important part of his life.”
I look at Vlad, whose expression is hard to read, and not just because of his half-paralyzed face. He has Aleks’s reservedness. His ability to hide any and all emotion so that the other person has no idea where they stand.
“What was Aleks like?” I ask on a whim. “As a child?”
Vince breathes raggedly. “He was… never… much… of a…. ch-child…”
“Yeah, I get that,” I say. “I can’t imagine him running around in this garden, doing kid stuff. He told me you taught him to fight and shoot as soon as he could walk.”
“Life… skills…”
I snort. “Maybe if you’re in the Bratva. Did he even have a choice?”
His head jerks again, but in the opposite direction.
That’s a no.
“Do you regret not giving him one?”
“Regret… is… a… waste…”
“Normal people live with it all the time, though. I know I do.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I repeat. “Because, well… I could have chosen differently. I could have—I dunno, saved my dad, maybe. Instead, I went to a party so I could pine after a boy who ended up making out with my best friend just to hurt my feelings. Reminds me of someone else I know, actually.”
“You have… a type…”
I frown. “I do not!”
Then I catch his tone and realize: he’s teasing me.
I shake my head. “Mike’s right: I do see where Aleks gets it from.”
Vince makes a sound that alarms me at first. Like a blender grinding up concrete. It takes me a moment before I see it for what it is: laughter.
My worry melts and I feel warmth spread through my chest instead.
I’m not quite sure, because of course, you can’t be sure of anything in any life, especially not mine.
But this may be the start of a beautiful friendship.
