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“What kind of business?” he demands as soon as I sit back down. “Sara said you were a contractor of some kind. Was that the security consulting business? Who were your clients, and how does all this tie into your recent troubles with the law?”
I suppress the urge to smile. The old man doesn’t pull his punches.
“My background is Spetsnaz—the Russian Special Forces,” I say, deciding I can disclose that much. “After I left the military, I traveled all over the world and consulted for a number of organizations and individuals who had reasons to be concerned about security. I can’t tell you the specifics of what got me in trouble, as that’s classified, but I can assure you that it’s all resolved now.”
“Resolved how?” Lorna asks as Sara returns to the kitchen, and I smile as my ptichka takes a seat next to me and eagerly reaches for the salad.
“I made a deal with the authorities that was advantageous for both sides,” I say as Sara begins eating, apparently content to let me field her parents’ questions. “So now I have a new last name and a clean slate—and Sara and I can finally get married.”
“A clean slate from what?” Sara’s father asks, his nostrils flaring. “I heard people had been killed.”
“I can’t tell you anything more than what you already know, I’m afraid.” I place some salad on my own plate. “It’s part of the deal I made.”
Chuck’s face reddens, and for a moment, I’m convinced he’s going to stab me with his fork. However, he must be more civilized than I am, because the only thing he spears is a juicy green olive from the antipasti platter.
“Mr. Garin,” Lorna says, putting down her fork. “I hope you—”
“Please, call me Peter. We’re about to be family.”
Her carefully painted mouth tightens slightly. “Okay, Peter. I hope you understand that we have a lot of concerns, both about your background and your connections. Not to mention the fact that Sara disappeared for five months after the two of you… well—”
“Started dating?” Sara helpfully suggests, and her mother frowns at her.
“Right, started dating.” Lorna turns her attention back to me, and I recognize the backbone of steel within her. It’s the same one her daughter possesses, the one that has enabled my ptichka to handle the kind of trauma that would’ve destroyed a weaker person.
“Listen to me, Peter.” Sara’s mother leans forward, and though her voice remains soft, her gaze is as sharp as her husband’s. “You might’ve resolved your ‘misunderstanding’ with the authorities, but we’re not convinced you’re not a danger to our daughter. We don’t know anything about you, and what we do know is, frankly, quite unsettling. Sara says that the two of you are in love, and that she went with you of her own accord, but we have serious doubts about that. You are not the kind of man our Sara would ever—”
“Mom, please.” Sara pushes aside her plate. “I’ve told you over and over again that Peter is not what you—”
“Your parents are right, ptichka.” I cover her hand with my palm and squeeze lightly, then turn to look at her mother. “Mrs. Weisman,” I say, using the formal address to show my respect. “I completely understand your reservations. If I were you, I’d be just as concerned because you’re absolutely right: your daughter and I come from different worlds.”
Lorna and Chuck stare at me, obviously taken aback, and I use the moment to prepare what I’m going to say. I have to be very careful here, walk a fine line between letting them feel like they know me and terrifying them out of their minds.
I decide to start at the beginning. “I grew up in an orphanage in Russia,” I say. “I have no idea who my parents were, but I’m almost certain they were nothing like the two of you. Most likely, my mother was a teenager who found herself pregnant, but that’s pure speculation on my part. All I know is that I was left on the doorway of the orphanage when I was maybe a few days old.”
Sara covers our joined hands with her free one, silently lending me her support as I continue.
“It wasn’t a great place to grow up, and as a youth, I was perpetually in trouble,” I say as the Weismans continue to stare at me. “However, when I was seventeen, I got recruited into a special counterterrorism unit of Spetsnaz—which is where I served my country for a number of years.”
“He was really good at that,” Sara interjects, sounding as proud as any fiancée. “At twenty-one, he was already head of his team.”
I smile at her, the warmth in my chest intensifying even though I know she’s just putting on a show for her parents. Sara knows what I did as part of that unit, and I doubt she’s truly proud of how many terrorists and radical insurgents I caught and tortured for my country. Still, it feels good to have her approval, fake though it might be.
