There is no suspicion in it. That almost unnerves me more.
Roman says to him, “Check it.”
Mikhail nods once and starts moving through the apartment. Not hurried. Not theatrical. Just efficient. Bedroom, bathroom, windows, balcony door, the second entrance if there is one. I understand then that even this place, this so-called safe place, is still only safe because they keep proving it is.
Roman watches him go, then gestures toward the kitchen. “Sit.”
I don’t. Not right away. I’m too full of the wrong thoughts.
“You’re safe here,” he says.
I almost laugh.
The problem is, I think I believe him.
That’s what frightens me.
I move to the kitchen island and set my hands on the cool stone just to have something solid under them.
Roman takes off his coat and drapes it over the back of a chair. He looks tired now that we are under proper light.
“Who wants to hurt you?” I ask. The question comes out more quietly than I meant it to.
Roman opens a cabinet, takes down two glasses, and answers without turning around. “My father.”
For one second, I don’t understand him.
Then I do, and I go completely still.
His father.
My eyes widen before I can stop them.
I had met Lev’s father, Andrei Morozov, only once, years ago, when Lev came to the States for that visit before everything fell apart. Just once. A dinner, tightly controlled, too formal, too polished. A man with cold eyes and perfect manners, the kind of man who could make a room feel smaller by entering it. Ruthless, even then. You could feel it without needing proof.
After Moscow, he disappeared.
Or that’s how it felt from where I stood.
I had heard from Papa that Andrei Morozov spent most of his time back in Moscow anyway, working, consolidating, cleaning up whatever chaos followed a Pakhan.
I look at Roman now and try to fit all of it together.
Five years. Five years since Moscow.
Five years since I stood outside that club and heard enough of a conversation to terrify myself into running. I had spent years telling myself I understood what I heard. That Roman had been part of it. That Lev died in the world Roman belonged to and maybe because of the war he started there.
But did I understand it? Or had I only heard fragments and built the rest around my own fear?
He had been talking about destroying his father’s family.
I remember that. Or I remember thinking that was what he meant.
The problem with memory is that after enough years, grief and fear start editing. You begin to remember the version that best excuses your choices.
The thought turns my stomach.
Roman sets one of the glasses in front of me. “Vodka?”
