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“He’s in the sitting room, and relax. It’s not Enzo.”
Relief floods me. The last person I want to see is Enzo—except for maybe my father.
“Who then?”
“Santo. Your youngest brother, I believe.”
A strange excitement kindles in my gut. I’ve missed my other brothers so much. I haven’t gotten to talk to them—I’ve been too afraid to reach out, like if I poke the hornet’s nest, I’ll get stung.
“Take me to him.”
Maxim nods and leads the way. He shows me to a pair of French doors. Two big, burly bratva soldiers stand outside in suits with little earpieces looking like secret service agents. It’s almost comical if they weren’t so scary. I step past them and into a large, cozy sitting room with couches, a massive painting of some frozen arctic wasteland—probably Siberia, the Novalov homeland or whatever—and my brother Santo sitting in front of a tea set looking like he’d rather shoot himself in the foot than have to drink any.
“Shout if you need me,” Maxim says quietly and disappears, shutting the doors behind him.
Santo jumps up. He looks surprised, but a massive grin spreads across his face. I love that smile—his loose, easy nature always made my life a little bit better. I smile, a nervous energy flooding into my hands and feet.
“What are you doing here, littlest brother?”
“Nice to see you too, biggest sister.” He grins at me and tilts his head, and suddenly my discomfort vanishes. It’s Santo, the only person who ever really cared about me in our family—except for maybe Franco, but he’s too quiet to really understand—and I’m so happy to see him. I walk over and give him a hug even though we’re not a big hugging family.
He grunts. “What’s this for?”
“It’s just been a while. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m good.” He sits back down and I join him. I pour myself some tea, but don’t offer him any, much to his relief. He hates the stuff. I don’t know why, just always has. He says it tastes like muddy water, which is kind of fair. “Papa sent me to see you,” he admits, looking a little ashamed.
“Ah,” I say, nodding. That makes sense. “So it’s like that.”
He waves his hands in the air. “No, no, I volunteered. He wanted Enzo to come, but I insisted. I wanted to see you.”
“I’m glad you did. I think I’d throw this tea in Enzo’s face.”
“He’d deserve it and I bet it’d help make him prettier.”
“Why’s Papa checking up on me through you?”
“He’s worried, is all. You haven’t been in touch.”
I shrug and look away. I’ve been so happy spending time with Galina and Emiliya and sleeping with Maxim that I haven’t thought too much about our real reason for being here.
Our future marriage.
“Things are going good,” I say and feel a little guilty about it, like I’ve betrayed my family a second time by finding some small measure of happiness without them.
“Should I tell him that?”
“Yes, please. And tell him that we’re making progress.”
“Right.” Santo looks nervous. He tugs at his shirt awkwardly. “It’s just that, I think he’s losing patience.”
I take a sip of tea. “What’s that mean?”
“It means he’s unhappy about how long it’s taking and how you’re not checking in. He’s even started taking it out on poor Franco.”
“Oh, no, what happened?”
“Ah, the usual. Papa yelling and all that. Franco’s the punching bag now that you’re gone.”
