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There’s a wisp of a smirk on his lips. “You’ll see.”
“Why can’t you just say?” I ask.
“Because the point of a surprise is to be surprised, ptichka.”
I roll my eyes, but truthfully, I’m delighted. It’s clear he’s enjoying himself, so this “surprise” must be good. Plus, the last surprise like this involved me getting a bucket-list item of a ballet performance of a lifetime. What could he be cooking up?
Having something to take my mind off how stressful the last months have been is a welcome change. It’s only been a few days since Arsen’s foiled assault on the Winter Palace. From browsing the internet on my phone, I was able to find out that the news reported the incident as the cops intervening in some massive organized crime feud. Listening to clips of the chief of police smugly rambling to the camera about how proud he was of his team for suppressing such dangerous Mafia activity was infuriating.
No mention at all that the Winter Palace was running a secret brothel.
No mention at all of the fact that those dead cops were likely all on Yevgeniy’s payroll.
I wanted to shake my phone and scream. You’re going after the wrong people! I hope Audrey spoke with Josh, and if she did, that he was able to convince the police to pull back just enough.
I feel guilty for asking Audrey to get involved. It mirrors how she must feel toward me, to see a friend getting into the thick of the underground crime world.
But she can at least walk away.
I can’t.
“See anything interesting?” Arsen suddenly pries.
Curious, I look out the window. I’d recognize these streets anywhere. I’ve walked them for my entire life. But they don’t look familiar. It takes me a moment before I realize why.
“No way,” I mutter.
Arsen is grinning like a madman. I spare a look at him before pressing my nose to the window as we pull up to the side of the building in mid-construction.
As soon as the car comes to a stop, I open the door to jump out, gasping in the cold air as I walk toward the sight of the impossible. The scent of sawdust and paint lingers in the crisp air. The windows that were last shattered into pieces are now perfect crystal rectangles.
He’s rebuilding the studio!
“Do you like it?” Arsen asks behind me.
Without turning back, I gawk open-mouthed. I can’t tear my eyes away. “When did all this start?”
He lets out a pleased laugh. “Almost immediately after it burned down.” I get the idea he’s trying to be modest. “Well? What do you think?”
Throwing my arms around his neck, I kick up my feet, hanging on with all my weight. He grins, supporting me by my middle, which, in spite of my rounded belly, is no trouble for him.
“This is incredible! I can’t believe it! It isn’t even painted, and it looks bigger and better than before!”
“Do you want a tour of the inside?”
“Yes!” Dizzied by excitement, I nod multiple times. Arsen beams as he helps me stand, then lets me lead him through the front doors. The lobby is bare of all the usual pamphlets and flyers that my mother would pin up like wallpaper. But I can see them in my head easily enough. My eyes turn toward the familiar spot where Mom would usually sit, and I feel a pang of sadness when I see nothing but empty space.
My feet carry me through the building like they know where they’re going. Inside, Arsen has managed to preserve the familiar old layouts, but expanded the place at the same time. The cramped office packed with hoarder levels of boxes is gone. The room built in its place is big enough to fit two full desks.
“I have everything we could save from the fire in storage,” Arsen says behind me. “I wish I could say there was a lot, but …”
“No, this is perfect.”
The fire destroyed a sordid part of the studio. The terrible things my parents were forced to endure in pursuit of their dreams.
It’s better this way. Now, things can start afresh.
Well, as fresh as anything can be.
