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I swing my fist in the air. How dare she be right? I move quickly into the hall and out the door. In seconds, I’m in my Lamborghini driving, and soon I’m surrounded by an area more secluded than my home. Suddenly, a closed metal gate stops my progress as two men materialize out of nowhere, holding automatics.
I lower my window. “I want to see Zhanna.”
“Is she expecting you, sir?”
“My name is Andrei Barinov. She’s a friend of my wife.” The sarcasm is edgy in my voice, and it hits its mark. The man smirks as he talks into his earpiece. The gates slowly open, and the men back away.
“Apologies, Andrei Vasilyevich,” he says with a grin. “You weren’t expected today. Please stay on the road.”
I want to hit the arrogant ape, but I press the pedal to the metal instead. My car glides effortlessly through the thickening woods over the stony paths. And soon, Zhanna’s modern house, constructed of planes of glass and red-stained wood, comes into view.
I park in front of the main door and realize I’m disappointed.
In the back of my mind, I hoped to see Paige’s Mercedes.
Before I can put my feet on the ground, two more guards appear. These guys look like a moving wall as they approach me. The bold one asks for my gun, and I hand it to him. He nods his approval at the classic Glock and gives me a little respect. I smirk, almost tempted to offer him a chance to try it out. But I won’t. I may need all my bullets later.
I follow the second man down the hallway to a living room resembling an art gallery without pictures. The enormous windows are the art showing off the extensive woods around Zhanna’s home. December is approaching, and the evergreen trees display their silvery needles in a light breeze.
“Andrei, I am honored to welcome you to my home.”
I turn around quickly and stare at Zhanna, who has entered the room. She’s dressed in voluminous silver that drapes her body, hiding it under angles and sweeping curves. I can’t tell where it ends, and she starts. Her gray hair is swept up into an arc that almost mimics her glossy jacket. It frames her face, and though she is very old, she somehow looks timeless.
“Please sit down.” She floats over to a Barcelona chair, and I sit opposite her. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” I scowl at the greyhound that sniffs my shoe. I almost confessed to her I have given up drinking every day.
“Pasha, leave Andrei alone,” she reprimands the dog and then speaks to me. “I knew your father well.”
I stare at Zhanna, uncertain if she’s aware that I know the whole story with all its sordid details. How Vasily left her and remained with Eva, who was pregnant with me. At the time, Zhanna could’ve given Vasily a child. He told us that at the dinner table while we rushed through our meal.
She had one with her first husband. I think his name is Mitya, but we’ve never met. He’s a mystery. Or a disappointment. But I can’t imagine Zhanna being embarrassed by someone else’s actions.
After a short reflection, I don’t think she cares what I know. To Zhanna, it’s more important what she knows. And what she’s willing to tell me.
“Where is your grandson, Stefan?” I ask casually.
“He is well,” she replies with a smile. “I decided to send him to Florida for the Christmas holiday,” she pauses. “It’s nice of you to ask, but common courtesy doesn’t suit you, Andrei Vasilyevich.” She laughs. “You don’t seem at all comfortable with the routines of daily life.”
I take a deep breath. “Is that why my wife hasn’t returned?”
“You haven’t spoken to her?” she asks behind a mask of charm perfected over the decades.
I answer through gritted teeth. “She doesn’t want to speak to me.”
“Perhaps it’s not as simple as you think,” she replies. “Perhaps you must find another way to win this war.”
“I’d like to think that I’m not fighting with my wife.”
Zhanna looks at me thoughtfully. “I approve of what you’ve done so far.”
“I’m only looking for her approval, Zhanna.”
Zhanna looks down her Greek nose at me. “Then why come and see me?”
“She listens to you,” I reply, quickly muting my harsh tone. “You are the one that taught her how to be Bratva. Granted, you taught her lessons I would have preferred she hadn’t learned.”
“Men think learning to be a good wife revolves around them,” she replies. “It revolves around survival. The Bratva is hard on a woman. I thought you of all people would recognize that, given your father and his proclivities.”
