Roman snaps his fingers "That's what it was missing! I was going to spray paint a tiny dick on the hood, but Pussy Wagon would've been so much better!"
I picture this giant Russian folding his long legs into the confines of Jack's horrible tricked-out Jaguar and peeling out in a blizzard of bullets, and I can't stop laughing. Maybe the shock of the evening is catching up with me. Maybe I'm just more unhinged than I knew. But the vision almost makes the rest of the night worth it.
"Come on," Roman says between chuckles, sliding his arm around my waist. "Let me get you into the house. We can't be out here laughing our asses off." He adopts a snooty tone. "This isn'tthatsort of neighborhood." His arm is warm and solid around my waist, his fingers curving reassuringly against my hip. I don't shake his arm off as we walk into the house, I should.
Iris and Rose have made themselves at home in the living room. My parents might've been wealthy, but our home is nothing compared to the size and grandeur of Roman's place.
"Those ceilings…" I sigh, looking up at the beautiful crown molding on his sixteen-foot-high ceilings and the beautiful bank of windows looking out onto the street. Walking a little closer, I can see that he's added another layer of glass, cleverly concealed unless you're looking for it.
"They're bulletproof. Just like me, baby," Roman says as my sisters titter excitedly again. There's a red, blue, and gold rug covering a lot of the shining oak floor with a beautiful old-world design that makes me suspect it's from Russia.
Aside from very non-bachelor pad furniture like handmade antique tables and comfortable couches and chairs, I notice there's no personal touches. No photographs of friends or family or mementoes from trips. When he invites us into the kitchen, there's no notes on the giant subzero fridge. No magnets holding casual pictures of brunch with his parents, or nights with drinking buddies. Surprising, given what I know about the closeness of the Morozov family.
The kitchen is pristinely clean with a long shimmering granite island of charcoal gray laced with white and silver, and gorgeous black cabinetry.
"Are you hungry?" Roman opens the fridge invitingly, shelves stacked with tidy piles of pre-boxed meals. Each one is neatly labeled, with the words 'kale' and 'whole-grain' showing up a lot.
"You don't cook?" I ask.
"Not to save my life," he says. "Though god knows my poor mother tried to instill some ability to feed myself. But that's why they have chefs who can come to your home, create meals and stack them in the fridge."
Though we had just had dinner before Ivan came pounding on our door – a nice pork loin that I'd rubbed in rosemary salt with homemade stuffing - both girls perk up.
"I could eat, " Rose offers quickly, and he sweeps his arm dramatically, inviting her over, Iris right behind her. Roman pulls out a wine bottle, holding it up to me.
I'm really going to drink at the house of a relative stranger that I hired to murder somebody? It's not like it could get worse, right? Also, I really need that glass of wine right now.
"Yes please," I nod.
"Oh, me too!" Iris says, "And one for Rose."
"No," I say sternly. "You are eighteen, this is not a special occasion so you will not be having a glass of wine, especially after such a stressful evening."
"What, are you serious right now?" Rose's amber eyes, so much like mine, are blazing. "This is about as special of an occasion as any of us have ever had! We're in danger, thanks to our dick of a stepdad, and now we've been rescued by super hot Russians!"
"With tattoos," adds Iris.
"Yeah, okay. Fair enough." My headache's coming back. "One glass."
Iris beams, holding up two of Roman's crystal wine glasses. "To the top, sommelier!"
Roman plays along, flipping a white towel over his arm like a French waiter and displays the bottle to my sisters. "A Domaine d'Auvenay Les Folatieres Chardonnay, a light and serviceable vintage. It will pair well with your fish."
The twins down half their glasses with practiced gulps that make my eyes narrow and sit down at the counter with their dinners. That halibut with wild rice and asparagus they selected must be spectacular, because it's gone in minutes. Roman further solidifies his standing in their eyes by pulling out a chocolate cream cake.
"Is the cake the reason you have to eat all that kale and whole grains first?" I nudge him with my shoulder.
Maybe I shouldn't have had that second glass of wine. I always get too chummy when I drink.
"I have a terrible sweet tooth," he admits. "My brothers give me constant shit for it. Dmitri asked once if I'd pick chocolate over vodka and when I said yes, he told me the entire Russian culture had just officially disowned me."
"Dmitri, he's the oldest, right?" I try to recall my research on the Morozovs.
"Yes." His smile tightens and he drinks the rest of his wine. "Soon to bePakhan."
He doesn't like that.
"Do you want to bePakhan?"I ask, watching Iris and Rose plow through the cake like it might be taken from them.
