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She clasps my fingers cautiously and gives my hand a brief shake as I ask, “Do you know where Slava is, and if he’s already had breakfast?”
She blinks uncomprehendingly, so I repeat the question, being careful to enunciate every word.
“Ah, yes, Slava.” She points at the big window to my left, which turns out to look out over the front of the house, where I parked my car. Only the car isn’t there. I frown, then realize Pavel must’ve re-parked it yesterday, when he brought up my suitcase.
I’ll have to ask him where it is, along with my car keys. I don’t think they ever gave them back to me.
Before I can pose the question to Lyudmila, I spot my young student. He’s scampering up the driveway, with Pavel on his heels. The man-bear is carrying a huge fish on a hook, and the boy has an equally big smile on his face. The two of them must’ve done some early-morning fishing.
I steal a glance at the clock on the microwave and wince.
Nope, not early-morning. More like mid-morning.
It’s nearly ten.
My stomach growls, as if on cue, and a smile splits Lyudmila’s round face. “Eat?” she asks, and I nod, smiling back ruefully.
At least my stomach speaks a universal language.
“Is it okay if I take something?” I ask, gesturing at the refrigerator, but Lyudmila bustles over there herself and takes out a platter of what looks like stuffed crepes.
“This good?” she asks, and I nod gratefully. Picky eater I’m not, and if those crepes are anything like the delicious Russian food I had last night, I’m going to be in seventh heaven.
“Thank you,” I say, walking over to take the plate from her, but she pops it into the microwave and gestures at the counter behind the sink.
“Go. Sit. I make for you.”
I thank her again and sit down on one of the bar stools behind the counter. I don’t want to be a burden, but with the language barrier, my polite protest might be misinterpreted as refusal or dislike.
“Tea? Coffee?” she asks.
“Coffee, please. With milk and sugar if you have it.”
She gets busy making it, and I look around the kitchen. It’s as modern as the rest of the house, with glossy white cabinets, gray quartz countertops, and black stainless-steel appliances. Part of the big kitchen island in the middle is occupied with a long row of potted herbs, and a wine rack with a variety of bottles hangs artfully above them.
The microwave pings after a minute, and Lyudmila brings the platter of crepes over to me, along with a clean plate, utensils, and a jar of honey.
“Wow, thank you,” I say as she plates one of the crepes for me, drizzles honey onto it, and then mimes for me to cut and eat it. “That looks amazing.”
I cut a piece of the crepe and examine its contents. It looks like ricotta cheese with raisins, and when I fork the bite into my mouth, I find it both sweet and savory—and even more delicious than I expected. My stomach growls again, louder, and Lyudmila grins at the sound.
“You like?”
“Oh, yes, thank you. This is so good,” I mumble, my mouth already full with the second bite, and Lyudmila nods, satisfied.
“Good. You eat. So small.” She moves her hands in the air, as if measuring the size of my waist, and tsk-tsks disapprovingly. “Too small.”
I laugh uncomfortably and apply myself to the food as she goes back to doing the dishes. It’s funny, her blunt criticism of my figure, but also true. I’ve always been slim, but after a month of sporadic meals, I’ve become downright skinny, the muscles on my body melting away along with what little fat I had. Even the booty I’d once deemed too prominent is barely there now; I’ll probably have to do a million squats to get it back.
Which I will, once all of this is over.
If it’s ever over.
No, not if. I refuse to think that way. I’ve come this far, eluding my pursuers against all odds, and now things are looking up. For the first time since this nightmare began, I’ve slept the whole night, I have a full belly, and I’m somewhere they can’t ambush me. And in six days, I’ll have my first paycheck, and with it, more options—including leaving here, if that’s what I need to do to be safe.
If the darkness I sensed in Nikolai is anything more than a product of my imagination.
In this bright, sunlit kitchen, my fears about mafia feel overblown, irrational, as does my conclusion that he wants me. As Lyudmila pointed out, I hardly look my best, and I’m sure a man as rich and gorgeous as my employer is used to world-class beauties. The more I think about it, the more it seems my attraction to him might’ve led me to misinterpret the situation last night. The pet name, the probing questions, the low, seductive tone of his voice—it could’ve all been a case of cultural differences. I don’t know much about Russian men, but it’s possible they’re always that way with women—just as it’s possible that wealthy Russians are used to having guards due to high levels of corruption and crime in their country.
