“Ready?” he asks, reaching out and flipping the handle of the kennel’s door.
Polkan, Burya, and Ural rush out, chasing each other in excited circles around the yard.
I smile, watching them, then recall Maksim’s question. “For what?”
“Are you not running?”
“I was. I mean, I am. I—you want to run with me?”
“Want? No. But, yes, I am going to.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I know that.”
“Uh, okay. This isn’t part of some plan to murder me in the woods while Lev is away, right?”
Maksim doesn’t sport a smile, although I attempted a joking tone. “No. He would kill me.”
“Violent Russians,” I state, recalling his jab about my intelligence.
“Yes,” Maksim agrees, then whistles for the dogs.
They come running, sitting expectantly. Clearly well trained and not appearing to be aggressive at all despite his earlier warning. Larger than they appeared in the kennel though.
I crouch down to extinguish my cigarette in the dirt, coughing a couple of times to clear my lungs. They feel heavy and noxious in my chest, probably thanks to Maksim’s comment. I can’t spot anywhere better to leave the butt, so I toss it where Maksim did.
Then we start running.
It’s awkward. My endurance might have improved, but I still find running to be a miserable experience. I miss swimming. Gliding through the water is so much more elegant and peaceful than listening to sneakers collide with the ground and your own heavy breathing. I can hear Maksim’s breathing, too, so I can’t forget he’s beside me.
Lev wouldn’t have left if he didn’t believe I was safe here. I don’t truly think Maksim has some evil plan to off me while his brother is out of the country. Which begs the obvious question—why is he running with me when he could be doing literally anything else?
I’ve lived here for a month. I’ve run this path every single day except the first one, when we left to get married. But I notice something new every time. The peonies are gone, but the carpet of chamomile is in full bloom. They’re the national flower, Lev told me last week, after I asked why there was so much of it around.
I clear my throat. Then break the uncomfortable silence and ask, “You grew up here?”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s boring.”
I could see that, I suppose. It’s even more remote than my father’s villa. There are no neighbors, no town to walk or bike to. No playground, and I can’t picture any parents sending their kids to this compound for a sleepover. It would have been an isolated childhood, and having met Igor Sokolov, I imagine that was intentional.
“You grew up in Italy?”
I hesitate, unsure of how to answer. No one has asked me any personal questions, but they know I’m Salvatore Caruso’s daughter. I have no idea what else they might know or what I shouldn’t share. But I don’t want to offend what might be friendliness.
“Chicago.”
“That’s where you met Lev?”
“Yes.”
“In a pool?”
“Correct.”
