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The front door opens to a duo of laughter. Ilya and Anton step through the frame, carrying shopping bags. They fall silent when they spot us inside the bedroom. Anton stares at me narrowly as he dumps the bags on the kitchen counter and starts unpacking groceries.
Ilya comes into the bedroom with a boutique bag. Smiling, he hands it to me. “I hope it’s your size. I think it’ll fit.”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully. Walking around in Yan’s T-shirt makes me feel vulnerable, especially around Anton.
When Ilya leaves, Anton is still glaring at me.
Yan’s order is brusque. “Get dressed.”
Slipping into the bathroom, I pull on the clothes. The underwear is pink lace. The brand-name jeans and T-shirt are a little too big, but the socks and sneakers fit.
I step out to find the bedroom door still open. Anton is sitting on the couch, watching television and eating peanuts. Ilya is playing solitaire at the table, and Yan is working on his laptop. Uncertainly, I hover in the frame. How is this supposed to work? What am I supposed to do? Hide in the bedroom?
Anton throws a peanut in the air and catches it with his mouth. “Why don’t you get us each a beer instead of standing there?”
Yan lifts a glacial gaze over his laptop. “Get it yourself. She’s not your servant.”
“Isn’t she supposed to be a waitress?” Anton asks with his mouth full.
The accusation is silent. I get it. In their eyes, I betrayed them.
Walking to the fridge, I pull it open and take out a beer. When I pass the table on the way to the couch, Yan grabs my wrist. His grip is painful. He says nothing, but he takes the beer from my hand, pops the can, takes a sip, and puts it down next to him. Then he goes back to work.
Anton snickers. “She may as well fix dinner. What else is she going to do?”
“Enough.” Yan’s tone is even.
“He’s right, you know.” I cross my arms. “What am I going to do?”
This time, Yan doesn’t stop me when I go through the cupboards and take out ingredients from the fridge. I’d rather keep busy than sit around doing nothing and going out of my mind. I chop up onions and carrots for a goulash, peel the potatoes, and fry the meat. This is easy for me. Hanna is old school. She believes the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and she insisted on teaching me to cook. She still hopes I’ll find a man and settle down.
While the stew cooks, I tidy up the mess I made of the kitchen.
It’s too early for dinner when the food is ready, but the men keep on sniffing the air with hungry looks. Yan packs away his laptop and Ilya sets plates on the counter while Anton cuts the bread. They dish up big portions. When they’re seated at the table, I serve myself and grab a fork. I prefer eating at the kitchen counter. I don’t want to strain the air with my presence at the table. Yan glances at me, but says nothing.
Soon, the men are so absorbed in the meal, they almost forget about my presence. The hearty food makes them jovial. They laugh and chat in Russian, letting me see a very private side of them.
Before long, they take seconds, scraping the bottom of the pot, and the conversation turns to Casmir Dimitrov. Yan must’ve been serious about never letting me go, or they wouldn’t speak so openly. They’re weighing pros and cons, deciding how to best separate him from his guards. Anton suggests kidnapping his wife. Ilya says it’s better to take his dog. Apparently, he paid a fortune for the Samoyed, and gossip is he loves the animal far more than his trophy wife.
“If you take something from him,” I say, “you’ll cause a war. It’s better to offer him something he doesn’t have.”
The men stop talking and turn in their seats to look at me.
Anton regards me as if he’s pondering whether I’m worth a response. After a beat, he says, “The man has everything.”
“Not the Salvator Mundi,” I say as an idea comes into my head. A dangerous one, but if it works…
“What’s the Salvator Mundi?” Ilya asks.
“A painting by Leonardo da Vinci,” Yan replies. “It made big news when it was sold for four hundred and fifty million dollars to a Saudi prince in 2017. Two weeks before the unveiling at the Louvre Abu Dhabi, the painting mysteriously disappeared. To this day, nobody knows where it is.”
“No one’s going to offer him the Salvator Mundi,” Anton says.
I smile. “Natasha Petrova will.”
“Who’s Natasha Petrova?” Ilya asks.
Yan leans back in his chair. “The most notorious stolen arts dealer.”
“He won’t fall for it.” Anton pushes away his plate. “He’ll want to speak to her in person.”
