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“I’m coming,” she says sharply. “I’ll call Artyom and use his jet.”
“Who the fuck is?—”
“He’s always offering it up to me. Ever since his wife died two years ago, he’s wanted me to travel with him. He’ll see this as a first step.”
“You can’t fly here. You’re sick.”
“I’m not sick; I’m old. I feel older than I am, thanks to this life,” she mutters. “First, your father; now, Nik. I don’t know what I’ll do if he—” She clears her throat. “I’m going to be there for Nik. And for you.”
“Now isn’t a good time. There’s a lot happening here. It’s dangerous right now.”
“It’s always dangerous for us. I’m not going to let that stop me from being next to my son before he—while he heals,” she corrects quickly. “He needs me there. Don’t sign a fucking thing until I’m there with you.”
I could stop her. I could call this Artyom fuck and threaten him within an inch of his life not to let my mother on his plane. There are a million different ways I could keep my mother in Moscow and far away from here.
But I don’t want to.
The simple truth is, it would be nice to have her here. She brought Nikandr into this world, and she should be here if he has to go out.
I just hope it doesn’t come to that.
34
YAKOV
Less than sixteen hours after our phone call, I’m standing on the jetway watching my mother walk down the boarding stairs of a private jet owned by some Moscow real estate tycoon named Artyom. I offered to send mine to pick her up, but she said it would take too long.
In my mind, that was one of the perks. More time to prepare.
The moment her feet hit the ground, she starts making plans. “I’m sure your things are in the main bedroom at the house. It is your house now, after all,” she says in lieu of a real greeting. “No need to rearrange things on my account. I’m fine taking the guest room, but have Hope strip the linens before I arrive. I brought my own sheets.”
“You had three hours to pack and get to the airport. How did you have time to pack sheets?”
She lowers her glasses and looks up at me, the lines around her eyes more pronounced than I’ve ever seen them. “I didn’t pack a thing. You know I can afford to keep a household staff.”
Considering I supply her with her disposable income, I do know that. I pay their salaries. Still, bedsheets seem like a deep cut on the packing list.
Sighing, I grab her suitcase and pull her in for a quick hug. She feels frail. Her shoulder blades are sharp and her blazer hangs off her shoulders like it’s a size too big.
“Hi, my son,” she murmurs, relaxing into the hug. “How are you?”
“Fine. How are?—”
“Are you eating enough?” she interrupts. She pinches my arm and tuts. “You feel thin.”
I feel thin? She’s a walking skeleton.
“I’m perfectly healthy.”
“You should be eating more. I thought you had a woman in your life now. Does she cook?”
“Like you said, I can afford to keep a household staff. I still have the same chef Otets hired.”
She ignores me. “Not just a woman. A fiancée, apparently. Though I never heard a thing about her.”
I load her luggage into the trunk of the car and hold the passenger door open for her. “You must have heard about it since you’re bringing it up.”
“I didn’t hear about it from you,” she corrects. “I have to get everything secondhand.”
