Ricky holds up a finger. “I’m going to give the sauce a stir, but I’m listening.”
While he goes back to cooking, I tell them about the clinic and my mom’s progress, but I refrain from mentioning William for now. There’s no point in bringing him into the conversation unless their relationship, which is still in an early stage, lasts beyond the treatment center. I’ve learned my lesson with getting my hopes up too soon. My mom is a butterfly. Not many men hold her attention for long, and then there’s her illness. Like her ex-boyfriend Martin, most men bail when times get tough.
Too soon, Alex checks his watch. “I’m afraid we have to leave you. We’re about to have dinner, and we don’t want your lunch to get cold.”
More accurately, he wants to make sure we don’t stay on the call for too long. It’s one of his security rules.
“It was good to see you,” Joanne says, unfolding her leg from under her. “We’ll call you again soon.”
“I’d like that,” I say. “I want to know everything about your plans for the wedding.”
After saying our goodbyes, Alex ends the call.
He regards me solemnly for a heartbeat before saying, “I’m sorry you can’t be there for Joanne. I know you would’ve liked to help with the wedding arrangements.”
I sit with a stiff back, waiting for the real blow.
His tone is regretful. “It pains me to say this, Katyusha, but we may not be back in time for the wedding, not if they tie the knot soon.”
I turn my face to look at him. “You took me to see my mom for Christmas. I’m not asking to be there to help my best friend with her wedding preparations, but why can’t we attend her wedding?”
“If they decide to have a ceremony.”
“Hypothetically speaking then.”
He blows out a sigh. “I’m sure they’ll postpone the big day if you ask them to.”
I stare at him with parted lips. “Are you for real? I’m not going to ask Joanne and Ricky to postpone one of the most important days of their lives to accommodate me. How selfish do you think I am?”
A moment of silence passes as he studies me quietly before saying, “Suit yourself, but there will be no more traveling until the end of January.”
I jump to my feet. “The end of January? That’s more than a month away.”
He regards me with an expressionless face. “I’m aware of the timeline.”
“And when we get to the end of January, will it become the end of February?”
A muscle ticks in his temple. “It will be as long as it takes.”
I utter a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
He gets up. “This is a difficult time for both of us. Don’t make it harder than it already is.”
Tears burn at the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away.
“If at all possible, you will be there.” He takes my hand. “There are things that need to happen first, things that will compromise our safety if I don’t deal with them first, and when I’ve taken care of them, we may have to lay low for a while.”
“That’s what you keep saying.”
Wrapping an arm around my waist, he pulls my body flush against his. I lean back, but not far enough to escape his lips. He slants them over mine in a searing kiss, sending an instant fire to my lower body.
I push on his shoulders, fighting for distance until he loosens his hold.
“Katerina,” he says, fixing me with a predatory stare.
“No, Alex.” I grip his wrist and remove his arm from around me. “This time, you don’t get to kiss yourself out of a fight.”
Not sparing him another glance, I walk out of the room, my heart aching—and not just because I might not be able to attend my best friend’s wedding.
30
Alex
I’m up early the following morning. I had trouble sleeping because my kiska is angry. She told me goodnight and let me kiss her, but the message came through clearly when she turned her back on me and went to sleep.
After blowing off some steam in the gym, I have a shower and inform Tima that I’m staying home and will be around for lunch. I instruct him to prepare something special for Katyusha, one of her favorite dishes, and then I go to my study to get some work done.
I’ve barely settled behind my desk when Igor raps on the open door.
“Enter,” I say, waving him inside.
“There’s been a development you should know about,” he says as he approaches my desk.
I give him my full attention.
He stops behind the visitor’s chair. “Stefanov has put a price on Besov’s head. Word has just been put out. The news is circulating in the bratva circles.”
“Interesting.” I rub a thumb over my lips. “What’s his reason?”
“Stefanov claims Pavlov sold him out to Besov. According to him, Pavlov is a traitor and Besov a blackmailer.”
“This drama is getting more intriguing by the minute.”
It doesn’t take much to connect the dots. Stefanov and Pavlov were in cahoots. One or both of them ordered the hit on my life, hiring Besov for the job. Stefanov has already killed Pavlov. Now he’s putting a target on the assassin’s back. If the price is high enough, someone will eventually find Besov and deliver his head on a platter. Stefanov is silencing everyone who was involved in his scheme to get rid of me. The only loose end left is me, which can only mean one thing. He’s getting ready to come after me.
“Tell the men to be extra vigilant. I have a feeling it won’t be long before Stefanov strikes.”
Igor nods and leaves briskly.
I unlock my laptop screen with my thumbprint and pull up my emails. A call comes in from Nelsky. Since I’m back from the States, he reports to me on a daily basis.
I take the call from my laptop, which is connected to my phone. “You’d better have something for me.”
“As a matter of fact, I do, sir.”
I freeze with my fingers over the keyboard. “Did you crack the code?”
“Ten seconds ago, sir.”
My body tenses with anticipation. “Did you have a look at the contents?”
“No, sir. I’m sending an encrypted file to you now.”
A message from Nelsky pops up in my inbox. “Got it. I’ll call you back if I have further instructions.”
I end the call and download the message in the encryption application that descrambles the code. It’s a security tape recording of a man tied up in a chair, his face beaten to a bloody pulp. I barely recognize the symmetrical features and square chin, but I do recognize the round table with the checkered tablecloth and the wooden bowl with fruit.
Our kitchen.
My father.
An untimely flashback hits me in the gut, a memory of coming home from school to the smell of my mother frying blini. I can see her smile as she told me to wash my hands.
“An orange first,” she said, ruffling my hair as I stuffed a blin with honey into my mouth after washing my hands at the sink. “What are oranges for, malysh?”
“For not catching a cold,” I replied dutifully with a full mouth, taking a seat at the table.