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Timur sits motionless for a minute before pushing his chair back. He picks up his jacket and drapes it over his arm, a grin splitting his face as he does so. I watch in furious confusion as he begins to laugh. Everyone turns to stare as he bellows with mirth, tears running down his face.
It’s like no laugh I’ve heard before. He sounds completely insane.
Timur weaves between tables, still hysterical. He can’t handle cocaine, but still; I’ve never seen anyone so amused by absolutely nothing, class As or none.
Lilyana eats a forkful of her pasta. “That was weird,” she says.
“Yeah. Timur said Sissi Barone wants more influence in New York. Do they think we’d just give them the Moretti’s assets as payment? Could be a Chicago thing, but here, the komissiya would pay them for their assistance, and that’d be it.”
Lilyana wrinkles her nose. “But the laughing?”
“Never do drugs, baby girl. That’s all I’m saying.”
Sasha comes over and slaps me on the shoulder. “You have some fucked-up friends, bratan. Is this Timur guy a permanent fixture?”
“No. He’ll play his part tomorrow, but then I’m done.” I turn to Lilyana. “Now, the truth. Was I right or was I right?” She shrugs, and he bristles at her nerve. “Nuh-uh. I want an answer.”
“Of course.” She waves her glass at him. “You know best, Sasha.”
“Thank you. You having dessert?”
I’m riled and irritable. The place is busy, and it seems too loud and bright now. It occurs to me that Lilyana never balked; despite the crowdedness, she relaxed and was happy until Timur got in her face.
“Nah, we’ll call it a night,” I tell Sasha. “Put it on my credit, yeah?”
Lilyana needs to find her peace again. Her social batteries don’t hold much charge, and it’s time for her to retreat from the world with me.
“You ready to go, moya zhena?” I ask.
Lilyana puts her purse over her arm. “Home? You bet. Let’s see if Napoleon caused any trouble.”
37
Arman
When we get home, Napoleon is asleep in his kitty bed. He rouses as we walk in and waves a paw in our direction before turning his back and returning to his gently purring snores.
I watch as Lilyana removes her shoes and places them neatly by the door. Her movements are gentle, filled with a sense of ease that emanates from deep within her. It mesmerizes me how effortlessly she sheds the layers of pretense and embraces her authentic self in the comfort of our home.
“I think we should put Napoleon’s basket in our bedroom,” she says. “What if he gets lonely at night?”
“That reminds me.” I take antihistamines from the cupboard and take two, swilling my mouth with water from the refrigerator. “I’ll have to get something stronger from the doctor, but that’ll hold me for now. We can’t have the little guy in with us. I’ll sneeze myself inside out.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I suppose. Let’s hope he doesn’t get any ideas of his own; I’m too soft. Gotta toughen up.”
I hope she doesn’t; not too much, anyway. Her gentleness is one of the traits I love most.
Lilyana goes into the bedroom and shrugs off her leather jacket and tight jeans in favor of cashmere slacks and a satin camisole. I sit on the couch and cross my ankle over my knee, smiling at her as she emerges, unwinding her hair from its braid.
“Comfortable now, baby girl?”
“Yeah.” She smiles bashfully, and I feel a surge of adoration. “My clothes bother me. I just feel them all the time—the seams, rough patches. I can’t always go around in leggings and comfy sweaters, so I just bear it.”
I’ve seen her fidget in public places, but she gets stressed around people, so I thought it was her nerves.
“Does anyone else know you feel that way?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t wanna make a thing out of it. It’s one thing to be weird but another to look it. All I ever wanted was to fit in.”
