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“I know he will.” Biting my nail, I nod. “You know as well as I do that Nikolai won’t give up. He might be keeping his distance for now, but …”
“Have you heard from him at all?”
“He has his orders.” I shake my head, and suddenly tears are stinging in my eyes again. “And so do I.”
“Edie.” Mercy tugs me against her, and I take her hand in mine. “Think of it like this. You went to New York City to get your baby. Sure, it was rough, but you had to go to bring her back home with you.”
I wipe my eyes. “That’s a silly way to look at it. But I like it. I left home to get my girl.”
Mercy squeezes my hand. “Hey, want to come with me and go see the tree at Rockefeller Center?” she suggests, trying to lift my spirits. “Get out of Holtsville, even if it’s just a day?”
I shake my head, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “No, I can’t. I’m done with all that.” I stare at the tree. “I’ve had enough drama for a lifetime.”
The thought of being in the city so close to Nikolai hurts me. What would I do if I saw him? I would run straight to him and then what happened next would be all my fault. At least this way, Nikolai is safe and alive.
Dad and Uncle Vito return to the living room, carrying a tray of hot cocoa. As if on cue, snowflakes begin to drift down fromthe sky outside the large picture window. We sit in silence, sipping hot chocolate and watching the street turn fluffy white. The moment seems so cliche. The Insta-perfect family enjoying the holidays together. The peacefulness of the scene is a brutal contrast to what all of us have experienced.
For a moment, I allow myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things can be different.
“Y’know,” I say thoughtfully, leaning my head against Mercy’s shoulder, “Holtsville isn’t such a bad place to raise a baby. It’s quiet, safe … a world away from everything.”
“That’s true,” she sighs. “You’re strong, Edie. You’ve survived unimaginable odds and managed to keep your soul intact through it all. Your heart is banged up, but it’ll heal. Your baby will have an incredible mother who’ll do anything for her.”
“Like my mother.” I reach for a card on the coffee table and pull the picture out of the envelope to show Mercy. She takes it from my hand and smiles at the photo of my mother with Zhanna. “I wish I could’ve known her. But I have a feeling she’s watching over you.”
My eyes fill with tears, but I smile as I put the photo carefully away. I can’t erase the Bratva from my life entirely. My child will always carry the sins of her father, and I can only hope that the love I give will be enough to shield her from harm.
51
NIKOLAI
The penthouse isa mausoleum of her memories, taunting me wherever I look. I stare at the spiral staircase, waiting for Eden to come down. I wait, hoping I’m wrong, but I know she’ll never appear. I wander aimlessly up the stairs into her old bedroom, and my gaze falls on the Kuzma Fedorov painting I gave her. I remember that day and how proud Eden was to tell me it was hanging upside down.
I, the art expert, was being schooled by a woman who had only seen art in books.
But Eden spotted the hidden image of the face in the brushstrokes so clearly. The same way she spotted the light imprints in my father’s journals. The same way that she still spotted a glimpse of the man I could have been.
I close my eyes, dreaming that when I open them, she’ll still be next to me. But I turn and the fantasy gives way to harsh reality.
Many of the paintings I owned were destroyed during the attack. And I haven’t stepped into my office since she left. I haven’ttouched a pencil, a pen, or a brush to paper or canvas. I can’t bear stepping into my office, where my sketches of her remain.
I hurry out of her room and down the spiral stairs. Desperate for fresh air, I walk out onto the terrace. The wind whips around me as snowflakes drift down from the night sky. Instinctively, I gravitate toward the spot where Eden once stood so many months ago, threatening that she would jump. I peer over at the grid of stiff mesh glistening with snow. The cold turns my hands red and numb, but I ignore it as I recall the image of Eden lying there, suspended above Manhattan. Her auburn hair fanned out around her pale face and her eyes were shut, but her expression showed unmistakable shock and pain.
I let her go then, and I let her go now.
My grip on the edge tightens as I stare out at the park, watching the snow blanket the rectangle of faded grass.
“Eden,” I say out loud as if I can summon her back to the penthouse.
I fought and won to save my Bratva, but at the cost of her and my child. Each day, I’m tempted by the desire to go find her. But I don’t. I won’t risk their lives. I’ve lost enough people who are important to me. Matvei, Father, Mother.
What would Larissa do if I were gone? What would Eden do if she found out that Sorokin shot me for breaking my agreement? At least from a distance, I can watch over her.
I scoff. She has Zakhar to do that again.
Deep down, I must face the truth. Eden is gone because I spoke the oath.
I’m left alone with revenge.
