Page 14 of Pay the Piper

“No thanks. I think I’ve had my fill. Of ice cream. I was asking if you’re okay, but it seems like the danger of you choking has passed,” he says with a soft smile. “So where are you from? Ellie told me Canada, but nothing else.”

Yes! Classic “get to know each other” questions. Perfect for finally gathering intel to give to Conor. That’ll help assuage his anger from missing his call. Even thousands of miles away, his threats are as real as when I was living in his home.

“Yeah, a really small town in Canada. Very rural, not a lot to do except skate. Have you always lived here?”

“I grew up in Russia, actually. Then I moved to Thunder Bay as a teenager.”

Russia makes sense, since my internet search confirmed that Misha isn’t traditionally an Italian name. Maybe his maternal side is Italian. “Wow! Are there a lot of Italians living in Russia?”

His head tilts, considering me with a squint. “No…”

“Oh. Well, a move that big must have been quite the culture shock. Did your entire family come?”

His shrug is nonchalant in a way I’ll never be able to mimic when talking about my family. “I never knew my parents, but I do have a sister. Not by blood, but in every way that matters. She and I were all each other had for over twenty years. What about you?”

“No siblings. But my parents and I were super close when I was growing up, until…” Until Conor pulled me away from everyone I ever knew and kept me imprisoned in his gilded cage. There’s no need for me to fake the sadness that permeates every cell of my body when I think about my parents. Whether it’s being away from Conor and his ever-watchful cameras or seeing who I used to be when I look in the mirror these days, they’re on my mind more now than they have been in years. “Until they died,” I continue bluntly, and Misha, to his credit, doesn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says softly. “Did one of them teach you how to skate?”

My mom showing me her competition outfits from her time on the youth circuit. Homework in the stands watching Dad skate in his beer league. The picture that probably still has pride of place above the fireplace, a candid of us all standing on the podium when I won my only competition.

“They both did, actually. It was one of our favorite things to do together.” Before he can ask for details I’d really rather not give, I try to steer back toward safe, useful territory.

“Ellie never mentioned how the two of you are related! Are you cousins? Is Misha short for a longer Italian name like her and her siblings have?”

Everyone’s attention turns to us again as he laughs, a short, booming exclamation as if I’ve just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “No, no. We aren’t related. Misha is short for Mikhail, which is about as Russian as it gets. Ellie married into my friend’s family, and we’re all close. I would do anything for her and her family, but officially, no.”

The shrill chime of his ringtone interrupts any further information he might have given me, and he apologizes before stepping away to take the call. Despite preparing myself for it, Conor’s text ties a knot in my stomach all the same.

Conor: Answer your fucking phone, Naimh!!!

Conor: I swear to God…

Me: Getting more info from Santori contact.

Me: An opportunity came up I couldn’t miss.

My last text, that Misha isn’t a Santori and is Russian, goes unsent as the man himself returns from his call. As he apologizes, I notice a flash of a familiar logo on his shoulder, and his shirt sticks to the booth as he slides in.

“Is that the Metallica logo?” If he’s not a Santori, I don’t have to try so damn hard to extract “useful” information. I can enjoy myself on my ice cream date and just get to know Misha, even if I’m setting myself up for complications with Ellie.

The twinkle in his eye is unmistakable, but he straightens his black T-shirt and levels me with a serious stare. “All of my tattoos are very serious and meaningful. Certainly nothing as frivolous as a tattoo of the greatest metal band of all time.”

“Funny, I didn’t see a Black Sabbath tattoo. Do you have it hidden somewhere?”

“I could show you plenty of my hidden tattoos,” he says with a wink, “but many of them are in Cyrillic. And most of them are truly very meaningful.”

My noncommittal hum intrigues him, and I shrug. “I think a Metallica tattoo has just as much right to be meaningful to you as anything else. The real question is…do you have any truly silly tattoos?”

His sigh of resignation, slow rise to his full height, and lift of his shirt…just to pull down his sweatpants slightly and show off his silhouette tattoo of Pikachu, tucked into the inner line of his Adonis belt, will be forever burned into my mind. Clearly, I’m struck dumb for too long, and he breaks the silence to offer his hand and help me from the booth.

“There’s a story, but it’s too long to tell today, and unfortunately, I need to head out.”

We head together to my car like it’s a given at this point, and he confirms our next practice time. His motorcycle is only a few parking spots away, and it’s so sleek I can’t help but compliment it.

“Your bike is beautiful. Scary and bigger than I thought motorcycles were. But it suits you.”

“Because I’m scary and bigger than you thought I’d be?”