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There are better ways to protect my heart than isolation. I sense a shift in the room, and in a moment, Rurik is by my side again, grinning.
“Did you draw this, Nikolai Gennadyevich?”
Rurik hands me a picture of a wild mustang. Its hair is whipped by the wind as it runs forward over a barren plain. I recognize it from my school days when I would spend art class absorbed in my work and not causing trouble with the other kids. The faded drawing is matted but not framed.
“Where did you find this?” I ask.
“In the drawer.” He points to an open drawer in my father’s bureau.
I open the drawer further, and underneath Father’s folded dress shirts are at least a dozen drawings I made as a boy. I didn’t think he’d actuallykeptthese.
I grin when I find a few I drew at Zhanna’s home. Sketches in black pen of the sculptures on display in her living room. A quick sketch of her beastly dog. I read the writing on the back of one in my father’s hand, noting my age when I drew it—before Matvei passed, and before he forced me to become the son he wanted.
It feels like another life.
“I’ll look at it later,” I speak indifferently, though it’s far from how I feel. “We have a lot to do.”
The closet is packed with old suits hanging in rows, and the scent of his cologne on his clothes sends me back. Instantly, I fight back the instinctive nervousness that grips my stomach, pushing it down hard where it belongs. I grab an armful of winter coats and toss them into an empty box. Hidden behind the coatsis a row of hardcover books evenly spaced on several built-in shelves, with lined pages and the year stamped on the binding in gold.
There are dozens of them here.
I take one off the shelf, flip it open, thumb through pages of my father’s handwritten notes, and realize what I’m looking at.
“I didn’t know Father kept journals.”
I open one of them and read a passage.
“10 a.m.—Shipment from Hamburg arrived short. Other shipments were checked, but there was no shortage. Ippolit checked the numbers while Gunsyn talked to the men. The shortage was from the other side. Zakhar will take of it.”
It appears that Father kept a daily record of everything that happened. Rurik takes one and reads aloud another entry. “11 p.m.—Lanzzare struck a truck shipment outside Secaucus. Bold fuckers. The shipment was burner phones and laptops. It was hit to show they could, no other reason than that.”
“Lanzzare.” He sighs and slams the journal closed. “And you want to invite one to this wedding.”
“Yes. It’s what my wife demands. Isn’t that the key to a happy marriage?”
“Marriage is hard even when it’s a good one,” he continues, ignoring my attempt at a joke. “Your father never approved of me marrying your sister.” Rurik’s index finger traces the binding of the books, looking for a particular year. He pulls a book off the shelf. “5 a.m.—Needed to eliminate a rival at his home. T.D. has been threatening our clubs and refuses to back down. He told me he would crucify anyone I sent to get him on his front lawn.I sentTarakan. And he came back.” He returns the journal back to the shelf, chuckling. “Old bastard tried several times to get rid of me before the wedding. That was my nickname.Tarakan.”
“Cockroach?”
“Yep.” Rurik smiles, and a hint of the iciness between us fades somewhat. “He thought it was an insult. Me? I took it as a badge of honor. A cockroach will never die. And now look at where that cockroach stands.”
Smiling, I shake my head at my father’s nerve.
A year in gold jumps out at me—the year Matvei died. I hesitate, reaching for the book and searching for the month of May when it happened. I flip the journal open to the page, but it’s missing. A few torn edges of paper remain.
Rurik frowns when he sees me staring at the pages. “I wonder why Gennady ripped out the pages.”
“Or if he’s the one who did it.” I dump the heavy coats out of the box onto the floor but keep the journal.
7
EDEN
I can’t stop staringat the lit-up facade of the Met wrapped in silky, flowing banners of blue, white, and red from the rooftop to the ground. It looks like a massive gift all wrapped up for me.
I step out of the sleek black limo, my hand wrapped around Nikolai’s strong arm. Dominika approved of my black and lace dress for the occasion, which complements Nikolai’s smart tux.
Also along for the ride is Zhanna Nikolaeva, whom Nikolai helps out of the limo as he guides both of us onto the red carpet. The flashing lights from the cameras momentarily blind me. But my gaze is reserved for the glamor so far apart from the old life that I knew.
