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“What happened? What did he do?” I ask, hooked on her words.
“Eva said she went away until I was born,” she replies. “She convinced him the baby was his. And then she lied, saying she had a miscarriage. Vasily had no interest in her issues until he started to hear rumors about being a cuckold. And that’s when he did the math.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“There were only two times that he ever touches her in their marriage.” Sonya’s gaze meets mine, and there’s no mistaking the hatred in them. “When he rapes her, and when he beats her.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach for her hand. “I’m sorry I brought back those memories. I should’ve minded my own business.”
“You should know,” Sonya insists. “The only regret I have is that I don’t know who my father is. Mama won’t talk about him. She still won’t.”
I have other questions, but I keep my mouth busy with a forkful of food. We eat in silence as I dig into my fish tacos and Sonya nibbles on her pasta salad.
“We should go shopping,” she says rather suddenly. “So you can pick out some clothes you like.”
I notice her eyeing my outfit, which is neither trendy nor ironic. “I don’t shop much. My dad’s a single parent, and we never had money to blow on new clothes. So I never really know what to get.”
She puts down her fork. “That’s fantastic. Not you being broke and your dad. But I can help you pick out clothes.” She clasps her hands together. “We can bond over shopping.”
Excited by something I think of as a chore, Sonya motions for the check while her eyes search for Oleg. We leave the restaurant arm in arm with our security trailing behind us, and every once in a while, I swear I can see the slightest smile on Oleg’s face whenever I catch him looking at Sonya.
***
The Rover idles in front of an ornate metal and glass door in the middle of a swank block. The Greenwich section of Twin Rivers is so rich it is too expensive to even drive. I laugh at the number of jeeps with blackout windows parked along the street.
“Is this where all the Bratva women buy their dresses?” I joke.
“Yes,” replies Sonya. “Here and at the LeTon Atelier on Sixth. But I prefer Naomi’s shop.”
I decide not to make any more jokes about the Bratvalife.
Sonya presses an intercom, and a woman pleasantly asks if she has an appointment. “Hi, Naomi! It’s me, Sonya.” The imposing door immediately buzzes open, and a large doorman in a uniform opens it, ushering us in.
A blonde with upswept hair rushes toward us. “Sonya. Kiss, kiss,” she says. They air hug, barely touching one another as they greet each other with a warmth that a person typically shows a best friend. “It is so good to see you.” The woman’s gaze flutters over to me as if she’s about to have a stroke. “And who is this?”
A smirking Sonya pulls me to her side. “This is my new friend, Mrs. Paige Barinov.”
Naomi’s eyes bug out so far. I think we’re going to have to call the paramedics. She approaches me with careful steps, as if she doesn’t want to scare me off. “Welcome, Mrs. Barinov.” She grabs my hand in hers. “Welcome to Naomi’s.”
“Please call me Paige.” I smile.
“Of course. I will be very discreet.” Naomi rushes off toward a room and literally chases two women out of it. She walks briskly over and, practically bowing to the ground, she ushers us in. She waits until we are seated on a teal loveseat. “Coffee? Or would you prefer something else?”
Sonya tosses down her bag. “Domaine Laroche and something to nibble on. Thank you, Naomi.”
When she leaves, I talk. “Is this the dressing room?”
Sonya nods and stares at her nails. It could be a bedroom, with botanical print wallpaper and velvet everything except the Persian rug on the floor. The mirrors are full length and framed in gold molding. I can’t figure out why there is a sink in here.
“So, how do we see the dresses?” I ask.
“They have models on staff,” Sonya replies, reaching for her glass of wine as it’s served. “Or we can request our favorite designers.” She hands me a glass. “You would look good in Chanel, but not that pink tweed shit. The edgier stuff with pearls, leather, and thigh-high boots. You have a very fem figure.”
I look for a stall with a curtain. “Do we try it on?”
Sonya practically spits out her wine. “Heavens, no. They send it to the house with a seamstress.”
A rack of dresses is wheeled in, and I remember the first wedding gown. My skin tingles as my fingers strum through the clothes, and I stop on a sheer turquoise top.
