him. He’d made himself at home as she’d directed, splayed out in the chair near the bed, the bottle and glasses on the bedside table.
He’d even unbuttoned the top two shirt buttons, exposing his throat. Sending her heartbeat into a few salsa thumps.
Finally. After years of playing this scenario over in her head, he was actually in her room. In. Her. Room.
She kicked off her slippers and got onto her bed so she sat across from him. He handed her a glass filled with vodka and they clinked before taking the shot.
“I know it’s sort of stereotypical to hand a Russian vodka for shots and all.”
He sighed, as he often did when she just blurted out whatever.
“Some stereotypes are based on things that are true often enough to be a stereotype.”
“I really love your accent.”
He paused and then shook his head slowly. With a smile. “I like vodka. So thank you. Why are there so many locks on your door? Are you afraid?”
She frowned, not expecting this direction in the conversation. It wasn’t as if what happened to Rachel had been a secret. FBI agent tracking a serial killer gets kidnapped and barely survives that same serial killer. It was gangbusters for all the news cycles. Grist for click bait and the subject of a true crime book written by a woman who cashed in on the misery of others as a living.
But it was Rachel’s story. Her life and Maybe tried to respect that without making what she’d gone through seem like a shameful secret.
“We take home security very seriously around here. Rachel was an FBI agent so this is sort of her thing.”
“She killed the man who harmed her, didn’t she? Is there still a threat?”
He wasn’t being deliberately provocative or anything. She’d noticed over the years she’d known him that he was just blunt. Like the rest of his family, she supposed.
“I’m the one who wants a drink now,” she mumbled.
It was a joke. Sort of. He didn’t take it as such, however, handing her a refilled glass with a serious expression.
She raised it before drinking, the burn helping overcome the unreality of all these things in her life intersecting at once.
“It’s really odd having you here in my room. I mean, I’ve thought about it before and you’ve been in the house a few times. Thanks for helping us move the new couch in, by the way.”
He appeared mildly stunned but not offended or scared. Amused probably because she was prone to these little spells as Vic referred to them.
“So yeah, the locks. When we have a safe house, it’s easier.”
“It makes Rachel more comfortable to feel safe after what she endured. This makes sense to me.”
He nodded and she realized—not for the first time—how nice it was that he was so plainspoken. He didn’t try to shield her or take over for her. He just listened and reacted to what she’d said without artifice.
“So now it’s your turn to talk about your night,” she urged.
“Family.” The way he said it pretty much explained the situation. But she waited and finally he sighed long and spoke again. “Cristian wants our mother’s approval. Seth insulted her, and though not on purpose it still causes problems.” He shrugged.
“She doesn’t visit very often. Does she, I mean, is she still involved in your life enough to have that matter? Or, I guess it’s not really about that when it comes to family. Sometimes we want things that will never happen.”
“She’s our mother. Cristian was younger than me when we came here. He feels her absence differently, I suppose.”
“Is it the gay thing? I know there are some problems in Russia with how LGBTQA folks are treated.”
“It might be if we lived there. But we don’t. As far as I can tell she doesn’t care about that. Never has that I’ve seen. But her community most likely would. And they’d most likely care about the cop thing way more than the gay thing. Seth is a cop. I’m not sure if you knew that.”
She had, and given the number of cops in her family, she’d accepted it with a shrug. He seemed to make Alexsei’s sweet brother very happy, so that was the biggest deal anyway.
“Her community?”
He gave her a look and then shrugged. “Her husband is involved in organized crime. From all my exposure to him and his compatriots, they are small-minded except when it comes to money.”
“Oh.” What the hell did you say to that? Well, Maybe knew what she would say probably wouldn’t be what anyone else would. So what would a normal person say to this?
He laughed though. A big, booming laugh that made her want to rub all over him.
“Oh? Zajka, you must be biting your tongue so hard not to comment more.” His mouth did some stuff and she might have gone away for a few long moments as she struggled not to lean in and lick it.
“Zajka?” She sounded slightly intoxicated. Or probably she was slightly intoxicated and also really turned on.
“Yes, an endearment. Ah, like bunny or rabbit?”
He’d used an endearment on her?
“Do you want to hear what I thought then?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. Or I’d tell you.”
He probably would. Which was nice too. Also his underlining that he was there on purpose.
“I just wondered what the heck one was supposed to say when told someone was married to the mob. I mean, are you part of that?”
“I’m not. It’s one of the reasons my brother and I were sent here. To her credit, my mother saw that I was interested in the street life her husband lived and she sent us far away.”
“But your sisters are there?” That sounded so judgy, but what the fuck? Who did that? Then again, she remembered her own parents and that humbled her quite a bit.
“They’re his. Her husband’s. He didn’t care that she sent us here. In fact I think he preferred it that way. My sisters are in boarding school in Switzerland. I’d normally frown upon that, but it keeps them out of that mess for most of the year so I accept the rest.”
Maybe nodded. Understanding. “So it was one of those family dinners where everyone had super high expectations of everyone else and no one met them and everyone left unsettled and slightly dissatisfied?”
“Exactly so.”
She wanted to dig deeper. Wanting to understand him better. But she also could tell from his body language that he’d shared all he was going to for that moment.
Over the years, he’d given her bits and pieces of his story and each time had felt like a gift. And now she wanted
