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Mikhail knows sign language, and he didn’t say a word about it this whole time. It was selfish and rude, like putting the earplugs in your ears on purpose, just so you won’t hear what the other person has to say. I feel so betrayed.
“But I want pancakes,” Lena’s voice reaches me through the door. “Please, Daddy.”
I don’t hear what Mikhail says, only Lena’s unhappy reply. “Okay, Daddy.”
When I exit the guest room, I see Mikhail standing by the counter, a pan and a carton of eggs in front of him. Lena is sitting on the carpet in the living room, playing with the book we bought the other day, but when she sees me coming, she jumps up and runs in my direction.
“Bianca, Bianca, can you make pancakes? Daddy doesn’t know how to make pancakes. Can you make pancakes?”
I smile, brush the back of my palm over her rosy cheek, and nod.
She squeals in delight, grabs my hand, and starts dragging me toward the kitchen. “Daddy, Daddy, Bianca will make pancakes.”
She ushers me over to the stove, and I find myself standing next to Mikhail, with my shoulder brushing his arm. Lena lets go of my hand and runs back to the living room, leaving me alone with my deceiver of a husband.
“You don’t have to,” he says without looking at me. “I’ll make her scrambled eggs.”
I ignore him and go to the other side of the kitchen to get the mixer from the drawer, then open the cupboard to take out a bowl. It’s on the second shelf, so I raise onto my toes and reach for it. Two large hands circle my waist as Mikhail lifts me the last couple of inches. Once I get what I'm after, he lowers me down without a word, then leaves the kitchen and heads to sit on the floor next to Lena. She takes the book and moves onto his lap, and I watch him as he points at something on the page and starts making animal noises. Lena giggles and kisses him on the cheek, then points to something else.
I start making the pancake batter but can’t resist throwing a look at them every few minutes. He is so strange, my husband. I don’t understand him, and I’m still mad at him, but I can’t make myself ignore his presence. It’s as if a magical force pulling me toward him. Even though I’m mad, it takes a great deal of self-control to keep myself from going over there just to be closer to him.
While I am waiting for the pancake to cook, I scroll through my messages on the phone. There are three from Milene, asking how things are going and asking about Nonna’s present. Shit. I forgot about it again. I shoot her a quick text saying that everything is fine and asking about school. The next message is from Angelo.
11:17 Angelo:Everybody knows Mikhail fucking Orlov! I can’t believe Dad went through with that! Are you okay? I don’t know when I’ll be back. I have some shit to deal with here, but as soon as I’m back I’m coming to see you. If he does something to you, you need to tell me right away and I’ll handle him.
I flip the pancakes and read the message one more time, confused. What does he think Mikhail is doing to me?
21:13 Bianca:I am great. What’s the problem with me being married to Mikhail? Did you two get in a fight at some point or something?
My mom’s message is next. She is asking about that shopping trip I promised, again. I ignore it, put my phone away and get back to the pancakes.
I am almost done when Mikhail’s phone rings. He takes the call, and for a few moments, he just listens to the person on the other end, then curses. Scooping Lena up, he carries her into the kitchen, places her on one of the barstools, and turns toward me.
“Can you watch Lena for an hour or so? Something came up and it’s too late to call Sisi.”
I nod and pour more batter into the pan.
“I won’t be long.”
There is a light kiss at the top of my head, and then he’s gone. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It’s hard to stay mad at Mikhail when every cell of my body seems, somehow, attuned to him, yearning to get closer.
I park my car inside the warehouse, jump out, and head toward the corner where the Albanian guy from this morning is sitting on the floor. He looks half dead. I turn to Denis, who is standing next to him, and grit my teeth.
“Where the fuck is the doc?” I bite out.
“He’s out of the city. Can’t get here before tomorrow. I told him the guy’s symptoms, and he says that it was either a serious concussion, or he has intracranial bleeding. He needs to go to a hospital.”
I look down at the bastard sitting in a puddle of his vomit. “He dared to shoot at the car while my wife was inside. He’s not going anywhere.”
There is a bottle of water on a nearby chair, so I grab it and splash the contents over the guy’s head. He shudders, mumbles something incoherent, and leans back onto the wall. Based on how pale he is, and the unfocused look in his eyes, he won’t last long. I’ll have to work fast.
I walk back to my car, open the trunk, and take out a toolbox. On the outside, it looks like an ordinary toolkit, but removing the interior box reveals a hidden compartment, where I keep the real tools of my trade. I grab one of the syringes and a scalpel, and head back.
“What’s that?” Denis asks, pointing to the syringe.
“Adrenalin shot,” I say as I bury the needle into the side of the guy’s neck. “It might make him more coherent for a little bit. I’ve never tried it on someone with a concussion.”
“So, it will make him better? Why didn’t Doc think of that?”
