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I glare down at her. “You need to stay the fuck out of it. This is between me and Chloe, understand?”
Alina’s green eyes blink up at me, all wounded innocence. “I wasn’t going to interfere. I’m just saying that if you want a chance at a real relationship with her, you have to—”
I scoff. “What do you know about real relationships?”
She takes a breath and squares her shoulders. “Look, I was wrong to interfere before. I can’t apologize enough for that. But the fact remains: Chloe is not like us. No matter what Bransford’s done, he’s still her biological fa—”
“He’s her mother’s rapist, nothing more.” I can’t even bring myself to call him a sperm donor. That’s what I was to Slava for the first four years of his life, but as soon as I learned of his existence, I couldn’t imagine harming a hair on his head, much less ordering a hit on him… not even if he one day orders one on me.
Alina flinches at my sharp tone. “I know. I’m not saying she views him as family or anything. But she still deserves to be consulted.”
“Why? So she can have his death on her conscience?”
“What if she doesn’t want him dead?”
“That’s not her decision.” There’s no way I’m letting the fucker live, not even if Chloe begs for it.
“But it should be,” Alina says in frustration. “If it were me—”
“I wouldn’t place that burden on you either.” I’d carry it myself, the way I’m doing now.
Her eyes darken. “Kolya…”
“Don’t.” Our father’s death is not a topic I want to discuss with her. Ever. “Just stay the fuck out of my relationship with Chloe, understand?”
And before she can aggravate me further, I stride away.
* * *
I spend the afternoon catching up on business—even with my brothers assuming most of the responsibility for our family’s conglomerate, there’s plenty for me to do—and then I turn on the video feed from Chloe’s room, where she should be getting ready for dinner.
Sure enough, I catch her emerging from her closet, already dressed in an evening gown. For a second, I wonder how she managed to change without assistance—I was planning to go help her in a minute—but then my sister steps into the camera’s view.
“Stand here,” she tells Chloe, guiding her to the window. “Since your arm is out of commission, I’ll do your makeup.”
I lean back in my chair, watching with amusement as she begins to paint Chloe’s face with the various tubes and brushes she takes out of a small bag. I remember her painting her dolls much the same way when she was little; I guess she’s never outgrown it. I don’t mind. Chloe doesn’t need any makeup—she’s beautiful without it—but this is something women do when they dress up, and I like my zaychik dressed up. Or dressed down. Or better yet, completely naked.
My body hardens at the thought, and I have to take a few deep breaths to control my accelerating pulse. I can’t have her. Not yet. No matter how much it physically hurts to deny myself.
For now, I can only watch and plan what I’ll do to her once she’s completely well.
16
Chloe
To my relief, the atmosphere at dinner isn’t strained in the least, partially because Pavel and Lyudmila join us instead of staying in the kitchen. Their presence adds to the festive feel of the meal nearly as much as all the exotic, colorful dishes populating the table.
Pavel has outdone himself today; it’s more like a gourmet wedding celebration than an at-home birthday.
Aside from the gorgeously arranged, delicious food, there’s plenty of alcohol, everything from wine to vodka and cognac. Every few minutes, either Pavel, Lyudmila, or Nikolai proposes a toast to the birthday girl, and we drink—or in my case, take a sip of wine. There’s no way I can keep up with the copious amounts of hard liquor the Russians are consuming. Well, everyone except Slava. He’s guzzling orange soda—a treat for special occasions, I’m guessing, as it’s the first time I’m seeing the child drink anything but water.
As the meat course comes out, the volume and frequency of toasts go up until it feels like someone is raising a glass to Alina’s health, beauty, smarts, or future success nonstop. The conversation is a boisterous mix of Russian and English, the latter likely solely for my sake. There’s plenty of laughter too, along with jokes that don’t always make sense when translated from Russian—“anecdotes,” Nikolai calls them. They’re something along the lines of “a donkey and a horse walk into a bar,” but way more creative and elaborate. He explains that telling these funny anecdotes at social gatherings is a tradition in his country, and that just about every self-respecting Russian has a repertoire that they constantly replenish by scouring the internet and buying special books.
