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“So, what’s on the menu, chef?” I ask.
“Sticky ginger beef rice bowls,” he says without a hint of presentation flare, almost as if he’s reading the obituary instead of announcing what he’s planning to cook.
“Who taught you to cook?”
“I did,” Mikhail replies simply as he lets oil heat up in a pan. “When we first came to America, I was in charge of taking care of my family, including making sure my brothers were fed.”
I lean forward, thirstily drinking in his every word. It seems the evening is ripe for childhood stories. “That must have been hard. How old were you?”
Mikhail shrugs a shoulder, though he keeps his eyes trained on the food cooking over the stove. “I was eight. The twins were four. My mother was pregnant with Luka at the time.”
My heart races. Every new fragment of story I get from him is a thrill and a half. I want to know more and more, but I know I’m treading on thin ice as it is. This is by far the most transparent and open Mikhail has been with me since our first meeting, and the last thing I want is to say something wrong and have him shut down on me completely.
“Why did you leave?” I ask, cautious.
He turns slowly, taking the trimmed snap peas from me. He tosses them in the pan, stirring them with the end of a spoon to make sure they cook but don’t burn. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
Mikhail dishes up two plates, the smell of the spices and the colorful arrangements of the vegetables on a fluffy bed of white rice like something straight out of a cookbook. He grabs two forks from one of his many drawers and hands one to me, casually leaning across the kitchen island as we dig into our food.
“I’m warning you now, Aurora, if I tell you this story, there’s no going back.” Mikhail says this gravely, the weight in his words dropping his voice a pitch. “Once you learn about my past, it could put you in danger.”
I take a deep breath. “I want to know, Mikhail.”
With a resigned nod, he holds my gaze. “My father, Lev Antonov, was a member of the Antonov Bratva. His brother, my uncle, is Konstantin Antonov. Unfortunately, you’ve had the poor luck of meeting him already.”
My throat is tight, my heart pounding loudly in my own ear. “And Konstantin…”
“He is the head of the Bratva. Incredibly powerful back in the day. Still is. They’re involved in all sorts of criminal activity, from drug smuggling to money laundering to murder for hire.”
I gulp, my palms suddenly cold and clammy. “Then why did you have to leave?”
“My father… He didn’t agree with a lot of what Konstantin did. Or rather,howhe went about conducting business. I was too young to remember much, but what I do remember was the violence. The uncertainty. I never knew if my father would be home for dinner once he set out for the day.”
My hands tremble, the unmistakable hint of pain in his voice shaking me to my core.
“He tried to turn Konstantin in to the police.”
“He betrayed his brother?” I gasp. EvenIknow that must have been a difficult choice to make—with potentially horrifying consequences.
Mikhail’s jaw tightens. “Konstantin was convicted and received two life sentences. It was safe to say that he was locked up for good… but not before he gave the kill order.”
A rake claws down my spine. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing, yet—in the strangest way—it all makes sense, too. I don’t think Mikhail is lying to me. Why would he?
“We had to leave Moscow,” he continues gravely. “I remember it being… chaotic. Frightening. Somewhere along the way, our father got separated from us. I begged my mother to let me go back for him, but… I think that was his plan all along, to use himself as bait to give us a bit more time.”
“Where is he now?” I ask, barely louder than a whisper.
Mikhail’s face is as hard as stone. “Who knows? Probably chopped up in bits and pieces and fed to the dogs. The Bratva aren’t exactly known for being merciful.”
My stomach flips. Dear God, I can’t imagine him going through all that. My eyes sting with the threat of tears at the thought of him, eight years old and running for his life, leaving behind the only life he’s ever known.
“I’m so sorry, Misha. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
He sets his food down and slowly circles around the kitchen island, joining me on my side of the counter. He stops about half a foot away, studying me intently.
“Those early years were difficult. I was the only one at the time who could speak English, though not very well. With my father gone—most likely dead—I became the man of the house.”
