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5
Manya
Dmitry’s Russia was not the Russia of my childhood.
That truth was like a constant whisper, drifting in and out of my subconscious as our days in Russia stretched onwards. I had been worried about the reception of my last-minute tattoo, but Dmitry had all but hauled me out of Tanner’s house and back into the car so that he could show me just how much he appreciated the sentiment.
He’d taken his fill of me and then taken me to an old bar that he’d frequented back in high school. It had been a hole-in-the-wall sort of place, with red brick that seemed to predate the Berlin Wall and a barman that barely looked our way when we entered. The food was greasy and plentiful, and the vodka seemed never ending.
The date was different to any that we had shared before. There was no fancy cutlery, guarded conversation, or subtly weighted words. . . . There were just the two of us, recently sated with alcohol and pub food, talking about our histories and future plans amidst the backdrop of ’50s swing music.
I had never been more attracted to him than I was when we left the bar later that evening, laughing as we stumbled out into the street. We hadn’t gotten back in the car though, instead walking the alcohol off arm in arm down the streets as he shared more of his memories with me.
We’d eventually made our way back to the hotel, ordering room service for dinner and laying around naked in bed until we felt the need to act on the latent attraction that always seemed to be between us. It was easy and freeing, and the perfect ending to our first day in Russia together. I’d come apart again and again under his hands as he worked me over that night, tying me to the bed posts and rendering all control to him again.
It was one of my very favorite, very newly discovered passions: giving myself over so completely to him. I lost count of the number of times that I fell apart, lost count of the leg-shaking orgasms that he inspired, and at some point, I managed to pass out over the top of the plush comforter of the hotel bed.
When I woke up, I was alone, Dmitry having long since disappeared into the darkness of the night. But there were blankets tucked up around me. That, too, set the tone of the next handful of days.
Dmitry and I seemed to be delving steadily closer and closer to one another, learning new things, both about one another and ourselves. We spent our days visiting old haunts of his, meeting random friends who we just happened upon, and learning the city I had only ever passed through as a child. But any time my eyes were turned to something else, any time I was somehow otherwise occupied, Dmitry went missing.
It was subtle at first, like when I was sleeping or when I was bathing. Then it began happening while we were out: for twenty minutes, for half an hour, for a full hour. The pattern became set, and so we spent a week in the motherland with my questions becoming more and more pressing the longer we stayed.
It was all that I could think about as I sat in the foyer of the art museum we had stumbled upon. Dmitry had laughed about how he had only ever made it through the front door in order to drop off bits and pieces for the curator, who worked as a lower level Krysha for his father. We’d gone further today, winding in and out along the different exhibits until eventually I’d needed to use the lady’s room.
When I returned out into the foyer, Dmitry was off to the side talking to the curator that he’d pointed out upon us entering, and I waited. That was the right thing to do—at least I figured that it was, at first.
The longer that I sat there, watching Dmitry and the curator’s profiles, the more inquisitive I became. I could feel it like lava building beneath my rib cage: the urge to ask questions. I’d been good up to this point. I’d swallowed the questions every time they came up. I’d turned my attention to the other things that we were doing,but now.. . .
I stood and smoothed down the sides of my pencil skirt, trying to refocus my attention from Dmitry and his hushed conversation to the line of artwork on the wall of the entrance. There were pieces there that I knew wouldn’t have been hung up when I was a child; artwork that had been forbidden by the government or at least frowned upon by it.
The further down the line I went, the more obvious it was that those were where these came from, and it was starting to work. The more I looked, the more drawn to the artwork I was getting, the mix of colors and lines all so intrigued that I found myself idly walking around the room until my gaze skittered.
Walking along the wall had led me closer to Dmitry. Though his back was partially turned to me, I could still make out his overly serious expression.
He hadn’t told me that I wasn’t allowed over here. It was the only justification that I had for following my instinct to wander over, although I knew it didn’t excuse the stealth with which I did so. I knew that sneaking up on him was a bad idea, just like I knew that Dmitry wouldn’t like it . . .and yet. . .
“Nyet,ya nee paneemayoo, Dmitry.” The curator’s voice carried to me as I edged along the side of the wall, daring to come closer to the two of them. “You make a good offer, but . . . pah.” He spat off to the side, rubbing his hand jerkily along the top of his bald head.
“Da, I know it is asking a lot, Fedorov. I know that it might even be asking too much, in your opinion,” Dmitry answered with the calm charm that always seemed to win out. “But when have I ever reneged on a promise? When have I ever done anything but offer you a better deal than what you’ve been given before?” That silky promise pushed beneath his words, the same one that had talked me into so very many things in the past week alone. . . .
He was here to work business.
The knowledge was sudden and uninvited, and I could feel the annoyance build in my stomach along with it. I had liked the idea that we had just been stumbling upon places; that had a kind of faraway romantic vibe to it. But this . . . Well, what we had been doing wasn’t any less romantic because of it, but I wished he had trusted me enough to tell me.
The curator scratched the back of his neck, shaking his head and exhaling roughly. “Da . . . Da, da, da. Fine, Dmitry! You win again.” He sounded hesitant but resigned, reaching out to shake Dmitry’s hand before disappearing through a nearby side door.
I wasn’t even bothering to pretend to look at art anymore, standing by the corner where the wall ended and watching as Dmitry’s shoulders sagged. He turned from that alcove, his face flashing from overly professional to a genial smile so fast that it almost gave me whiplash, his gaze landing on where I had been seated before, to discover it empty.
His eyes flicked almost instantly to me, now standing but a few feet away. His expression shifted only slightly. He closed the distance, staring at me in silent questioning.
“You didn’t tell me we were here for a reason,” I said before I could stop myself, my voice almost petulant.
“I didn’t know that I had to. . .” he answered slowly, his face shifting into that careful neutrality that set my teeth on edge. “I also didn’t know that you felt the need to spy on my business. . .” His voice was even more careful, his eyes moving over my features as if to dissect whatever thoughts might be revealed there.
“You don’t,” I said with a heavy exhale, breaking my gaze from his and rubbing my eyes. “You don’t. Eezveeneete . . . I was curious. This is all new, da? You, me, this side of the world, this business. I don’t want to be one of those mafia wives. The ones who sit at home and pretend their husband is just a car salesman or be so blind to everything that they never have any idea what’s going on.”
I exhaled again, rubbing my fingers down my face and looking back up at Dmitry with an apologetic shrug. “Don’t leave me in the dark,” I whispered, the vulnerability creeping into my tone despite my best efforts to swallow it down. The dark was dangerous and scary, whereas Dmitry had become …well, at least somewhat less scary.
Dmitry looked at me oddly, a crack appearing in his neutral facade, showing his curiosity and contemplation. He lifted his hand to brush his thumb down the side of my cheek. His fingers curled around the side of my jaw, almost cradling my face.
“This . . . is new to me too,” he said after a moment. “My mother. . .” he trailed off, the stilted phrasing so very opposite from what I was used to hearing from him. “My mother,” he recovered, clearing his throat around the words, “was gone long before I can remember her involvement in anything. I know where other men have their wives fit. I know where I would fit a whore or a temporary companion. . . . You are going to have to give me time to learn where to fit you, as my wife.”
“By your side.” The words came more quickly than I should have let them, surprising me as much as I was sure they surprised him. It wasn’t a role that I had expected to play, but it was the way that things were now. I savored the way his fingers pressed further into my cheek.
“For what—everything?” His confusion was evident, eyes searching my face as if looking for some hint of what all that would mean. “You want to be with me when I go out on a kill? When I go to pick up merchandise? Every meeting and business arrangement that I have? Or just the safe ones? You have to be more specific here, tigrenok.”
I could hear the warning in his voice, as well as the disbelief, but my whole body still softened at the way that he added my pet name. “I was with you when you were being shot at,” I reminded him. “I started the car for you. . .”
“Not every time is going to be like that,” he muttered, his thumb rolling against my cheek again. “But . . . da. You want to come, while in Russia, you come.” He stressed the location as if it meant anything, but when I smiled up at him, I could feel the seriousness bleed from him, his own lips tilting before he lowered his face to mine.
