Unfortunately, three of the five were in no state to travel until they’d recovered several days in the hospital.
In the meantime, my father had to travel to Moscow to clean up the disastrous mess made by Danyl Kuznetsov’s visit to St. Petersburg.
Dominik was hauled before the high table, after killing Danyl and five of his bratoks, and shooting Foma Kushnir.
Dom argued that Danyl attacked first, intending to kill Dom and his men, then frame them for murdering my father and siphoning off the earnings of his empire. Danyl was under the mistaken apprehension that my father was indeed dead. With Dom out of the way, Danyl and Foma hoped to take control of St. Petersburg, exiling my mother to our holdings in America.
It was clear that several members of the high table shared Danyl’s beliefs, because they were thoroughly shocked when my father strode into the Bolshoi Theater, very much alive and angrier than they had ever seen him.
Several tense and volatile hours followed while my father argued with the other Pakhans. They were furious that his imprisonment had been kept secret, and even angrier that Danyl had been killed. My father retorted that their treachery justified the secrecy, and that Danyl Kuznetsov got precisely what he deserved.
It was lucky that Bodashka Kushnir had not been killed, or his father Foma. The fact that they were still alive, and captive at the monastery, was a useful bargaining chip.
In the end it was decided that my family would pay a settlement to the Kuznetsovs, that the Kushnirs would take over Danyl’s old territory in Moscow, and Dominik would retain St. Petersburg.
“In fact,” my father tells Dominik, once we’re all back at the hospital in Almaty, “I think it’s time you considered it your own. You’ve been Pakhan in all but name for a long time.”
Dominik frowns, the scar on his right cheek crinkling where it runs past his eye.
“I don’t care about a title, brother. The monastery will always be your home.”
My father shakes his head. “It belongs to you, Dom. St. Petersburg belongs to you. I raised my children in America. I made that their home.”
He turns to face Dean Yenin, who’s sitting next to Leo’s bed, a book open on his lap, trying not to listen in though of course he can understand everything being said in Russian.
“You owed two years to Danyl Kuznetsov?” my father asks.
“I did,” Dean says.
“I’ve agreed to pay a stipend to Danyl’s widow to compensate for the loss of her husband. Your service transfers to me,” my father explains.
Dean nods slowly.
“You helped my son to find me,” my father says. “I consider your service completed in full. If you want to join us in Oregon, we’d be glad to have you. But you’re free to choose.”
A look of stunned relief spreads across Dean’s face. I know those two years weighed heavily on his shoulders—especially once he fell in love with Cat. He wanted to be free to start his life with her, and he hated the anvil around his neck, impossible to shake off.
“Thank you,” Dean says. “I’m honored by your offer. I’ll consider it carefully.”
My father nods, then turns to Hedeon.
“I offer the same to you, if you want it—a place with the Petrovs. My son has told me that you may not wish to inherit from the Grays.”
Hedeon gives a rough shake of his head. “I don’t want anything from them,” he says.
“I apologize if our arrangement with Luther Hugo caused you pain,” my father says. “If you still want to know Evalina Markov, I could facilitate that meeting . . .”
“No,” Hedeon says. “No, thank you.”
I can’t tell if he’s trying to protect Evalina from the backlash that might ensue, or if his confrontation with Luther Hugo was so deeply disappointing that he no longer wants to meet his mother.
Hedeon and Leo are both cleaned up, bandaged, and recovering, but while Leo has regained all his usual boisterousness, Hedeon is as withdrawn as I’ve ever seen him. He barely joins in the cheerful conversation that bounces from bed to bed in this wing of the hospital that we’ve completely taken over.
I corner him when the nurses bring everyone dinner.
“Are you going back to Kingmakers?” I ask him.
He shrugs, picking at his food. “I suppose.”
“Hugo will only let you all back on campus if he thinks his secret is safe.”
Hedeon makes an irritated sound. “I don’t want anyone to know he’s my father any more than he does.” Then he stops, registering what I said. “Aren’t you going back?”
I shake my head. “Only to drop you all off. Then I’m going home with my parents and Nix. You could come with us.”
Hedeon considers. I can guess what’s really pulling him back in the direction of the school—and it sure as hell isn’t Hugo.
He asks me, “Do you feel happy now that you got what you wanted?”
I look at my parents who are eating and talking with Freya and Dom, my father’s arm around my mother’s waist.
“I’m at peace because we have my father back,” I say. “But I’m happy because of her.”
Hedeon follows my gaze away from my parents towards Nix, who’s crowded on the empty bed next to Leo’s with Anna and Sabrina on either side of her, smiling faintly for the first time in several days.
Hedeon’s eyes linger on Anna’s face. I’m sure he’s thinking of features very like hers, only a little different in color . . .
“I’m going back to Kingmakers,” he says. “Might as well finish. Only a few months left.”
“I think that’s the right choice,” I say, trying not to smile.
Once everyone is done eating, I ask Nix, “Do you want to come for a walk with me?”.
“Yes,” she says. “Only it looks freezing out there . . .”
“It is,” I assure her. “But I got you this.”
I hand her the coat I bought in the Zeliony Bazaar that morning. It’s a deep rust color, covered in black and cream embroidery, with soft strips of sable around the hem, cuffs, and hood.
When Nix pulls up the hood, covering her brilliant hair, she could almost be Kazakh herself. She has the narrow eyes and high cheekbones you often see in Eastern Europeans, especially those with Mongolian or Tartar ancestry.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her. “Like a fox.”
That’s what my father always calls my mother—moya malen’kaya lisa. My little fox.
The gold family ring glints on Nix’s finger. It gives me a possessive rush, reminding me that she belongs to me now. I want to get her another ring, a necklace, earrings, bracelets . . . I want her draped in golden chains, naked otherwise, tied up on my bed . . .
As we step out onto the street, Nix takes a deep breath of the frigid air, her face relaxing, her exhale streaming out of her lungs in silvery plumes.
“I don’t like hospitals,” she says.
“Neither do I. Even when we’ve taken over the whole wing.”
“When do we leave?” she asks me.
“I think tomorrow.”
She sighs, creating another frosty cloud that swirls around her face.
“How are you doing?” I ask her.