Another pause. “Savchenko.”
I look back at Bay Fourteen.
One of those men who retired three times and never really left. If he’s doing favors again, it means someone made him useful again.
I look out over the yard one last time and know, with a certainty that leaves no room for hope, that whatever has been circling in the dark all these years has finally decided to step into the light.
And once my father does that, peace is over.
War is only a matter of timing.
17
KATERINA
By the time Roman leaves,I’m still shaking.
Not visibly, I hope. I have years of practice at making my face behave while the rest of me falls apart. But inside, everything is a mess. My pulse is still too fast. My mouth still remembers his. My thoughts keep circling the same impossible facts and refusing to settle anywhere useful.
I’ve seen this man in my dreams, in every possible scenario, but even my stupid mind couldn’t conjure this scene.
So naturally, this is the exact moment my father decides to parade me toward a man who looks like he moisturizes with debt.
“Katya,” Papa says, appearing at my elbow as if summoned by my worst instincts. “Come. There is someone you should meet.”
There is no good version of that sentence in my family.
I glance toward Mama, but she’s trapped with Sofia, who is explaining some grave injustice involving cake, while Nikolai stands beside them looking tired and over-dressed and alreadytoo aware of the room. Vika is nowhere in sight, which means she’s either preening in a mirror or spreading poison in small, elegant doses.
“I was just going to sit down,” I say.
Papa does not even look at me. “You can sit later.”
Wonderful.
He leads me across the ballroom to a man standing near one of the columns with a drink in one hand and the expression of someone who has been waiting too long to be flattered properly. He’s older than Papa by a few years, though less disciplined about it. His face has the damp, expensive look of a man who believes facials can beat time if he throws enough money at the problem. His suit is glossy. His hair is too dark to be honest. His smile arrives before we do and dies the moment he realizes Roman is not coming back.
Ah. This is not a social moment.
This is a livestock inspection.
“Katerina,” Papa says, “this is Arkady Belov.”
Arkady takes my hand before I offer it.
“Beautiful,” he says, smiling at my father rather than me, “and more striking in person.”
“Lucky me,” I say.
Papa’s fingers press briefly into my elbow.
A warning.
I smile anyway.
Arkady does not seem to notice the tone. Or worse, he notices and thinks it’s flirtation. “Sergei has told me so much about you.”
I look at my father. “That seems unlike him. He usually prefers mystery and emotional repression.”