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I somehow manage to endure an entire day in the car with my brother. How I managed not to strangle him to death with his own seat belt is, frankly, nothing short of a Christmas miracle. Not to sound dramatic, but I almost fling myself out of the damn car when we finally pull up to the house—anything to get away from his constant jabbering.
“Focus,” I snap at him. “We’re here to do a job.”
Roman dares to give me a mock salute. “Aye aye, captain.”
“Take this seriously.”
“I’m always serious, Leo. It’s just that my face is so charming people forget I am.”
I roll my eyes. “Stay with the car. Keep it running. This is going to be quick.”
“It better be. I’ve got to pee really bad.”
“You’re the least serious gangster I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting in my entire life.”
He flashes a toothy grin. “I love you too, big bro.”
Finding my way into the house is easy enough. It’s an older building, a shadow of its former self during the mid-Cold War era. All white bricks and a heavily shingled roof. I hear voices inside. The sound of children playing. It’s for their sake that I want this taken care of as quickly as possible. I meant what I said before, about how I don’t hurt women or children. It’s unconscionable.
All it takes is a hard yank on the back door before it squeaks open on its hinges. It leads directly into the kitchen. The lights are off, save for the one over the stove, casting the entire room in a soft orange glow. I smell peppermint and priyaniki gingerbread cookies, as well as the more traditional herbal scent of kulebyaka, a sort of salmon pie, lingering in the air.
I take in the whimsical, pale-yellow wallpaper and the decorative porcelain plates mounted to the walls. The old oak cupboards are in need of a paint job. Leftover raspberry tarts sit in a pile on the kitchen counter, the sink full of dirty dishes set aside for later.
Somewhere deeper inside the house, I hear laughter. Joyous conversation. Apparently, I've caught Arman and his family after just having finished dinner. I decide to take a seat at the kitchen table, patiently waiting. I can hear his kids, both of them young and brimming with life. They talk about what they want most from Old Saint Nick, about what they're looking forward to learning in school in the new year.
As I take in my surroundings, I realize what a humble existence they must live. All that money he stole from us… surely, he could have afforded a nicer place for them?
Someone approaches, the tap of a pair of crutches reaching my ears. A child emerges from around the corner, stepping into the kitchen only to freeze. The girl looks no older than ten. She has startling blue eyes that remind me a lot of Nikita. She stares at me, torn between confusion and fear. Slowly, I bring a finger to my lips.
“Would you mind getting your father for me?”
She nods slowly. I don't blame her when she quickly whips around and rushes away. “Papa! Papa, there's a strange man in our kitchen!”
Rapid footsteps follow quickly after, Arman rushing in to see what she's talking about. The moment our eyes lock, he understands. Resignation washes over his expression. He doesn't try to run, nor does he attempt to defend himself.
“I was wondering when you would show up,” he says sadly.
“Dear, what's—” His wife stops behind him, her hand clutching his shoulder in surprise when she spots me. “Oh, dear God—”
“Relax,” I say. “I mean you no harm. I just want to talk with your husband, man to man.”
Arman gently pats the back of his wife's hand. “Put the children to bed.”
“But—”
“Do it. Quickly.”
His wife disappears in the blink of an eye, whispering under her breath for her children. The shuffling of feet, hushed comments, the creaking of old floorboards. The next thing I know, Arman and I are alone. His posture is that of a man defeated. He knows as well as I do that his time has run out. Instead of running away, or maybe even attacking me, he slowly makes his way to one of the kitchen cupboards and retrieves two glasses. He goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a small bottle of premium vodka, probably intended for a special occasion.
He pours us each a glass and then sits across from me at the table. He helps himself to his drink. Maybe as a show of faith that he isn’t trying to poison me, or maybe because he needs a little extra liquid courage to get through what’s next. I don’t follow suit, however.Ineed a clear head.
“I guess this means you found my brothers?”
“Yes.”
“Are they alive?
“Would it matter?”
