Page 183 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

Aleksander takes the telescope box from beside my door, wrapped in silver paper. I lock my apartment behind me, and we head for the elevator.

Yuri drives the Maybach with his usual quiet competence. Aleksander and I sit in the back. Mikhail claims the front passenger seat, which he calls “the only survivable location when married people become unbearable in enclosed spaces.”

“You asked to ride with us,” Aleksander says.

“I suggested we take the same car since we’re going in the same direction. I didn’t ask to be trapped inside a luxury vehicle with honeymooners.”

“It’s Ivan’s birthday,” I say. “Try being pleasant.”

“I am pleasant. Children adore me.”

“Yes. Children also think fireworks are a good idea indoors.”

“Exactly. My people.”

Aleksander’s hand rests on my thigh, warm through the fabric of my dress, making concentration difficult.

I turn toward the window. July haze shimmers behind the glass. We are heading north, toward Anna’s house, toward a backyard full of children and balloons and a boy who turned nine today.

For six months I have known him in real time. Through Saturday visits and careful conversations. Through drawings sent to my phone because Anna said he wanted me to see them. Through the first time he asked if I liked waffles and whether Nutella was my favorite topping too.

I have learned that Ivan hates mushrooms, likes maps, counts stairs when he is nervous, and believes stuffed animals should never be left facedown because they might think they’ve been abandoned.

He is not mine in the simple way grief once demanded. He is not lost either. Both things are true now, and most days I can hold them.

Today, I am less certain.

“Breathe, trouble.”

“I am breathing.”

“Not well.”

Mikhail makes a sound from the front. “This is what I mean. You two are unbearable.”

Yuri says nothing, which from Yuri is not surprising. The man has an allotment of a hundred words a day, and he uses them wisely.

“You don’t want to go see the house the Sokolovs are buying while I’m at the party?” I ask Aleksander.

“Not even a little bit.”

Mikhail turns to us. “It has five acres, a long drive, stone walls, bad wallpaper, and so many blind corners Yuri has developed a grudge against the architect. Naturally, we’re sold.”

“It’s near Woodstock?” I ask.

“Twenty minutes from Anna,” Aleksander says. “Close enough to be useful. Far enough to be discreet.”

“A safe house.”

“A family property.”

I arch a brow. He has the nerve to look innocent. “With safe-house features.”

“That sounds ugly.”

“It won’t be. I know an interior designer who would be perfect for the project.”

Mikhail points at me. “This house will need you. I asked for a moat, and they treated me like the unreasonable one.”