At six, a light dusting of snow starts to fall. I was going to give it another hour, but my mind isn’t on work. Shutting the laptop with a sigh, I scrub a hand over my face. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. It would be wise to get some rest, but the agitation and gnawing worry won’t let me. The vodka hasn’t taken off the edge as I hoped it would.
Pushing to my feet, I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at the lights of St. Petersburg shining through a veil of snow. Dinner isn’t until seven. The thought of a warm house, a long shower, and Tima’s food is inviting, but not as much as the idea of seeing my kiska, of touching her—when she lets me again—and reassuring myself that she’s here and safe. It’s that last notion that makes me decide against heading straight home. I should give her another hour like I promised myself. She’ll come around.
Igor stands when I exit the office.
Grigori lifts his head. “Good night, sir.” For a moment, his formal mask slips as he says to my guard by way of greeting, “Igor.”
Well, hell. I would’ve never guessed. Who knew Grigori had a soft spot for my bodyguard?
If Igor picks up on anything, he doesn’t show it.
At the reception area downstairs, Igor gets our coats where the clerk had checked them into the coat room. The clerk is gathering his satchel and umbrella, heading out for the day. The night guard is already there to take his place.
Yuri sits on a sofa near the exit, reading a book. After we go through the security scanners, he shuts the book and gets up to open the door.
Once we’re seated in the car and the engine is idling for the heater to run warm, Yuri asks, “Home, Mr. Volkov?”
Rubbing a thumb over my lip, I consider my answer as I look through the window. It takes me a second to make up my mind. “To the graveyard. The Orthodox one on the hill.”
Igor shoots me a look from the front passenger seat, but he doesn’t ask questions.
I’ve only been there once in recent years, not long ago. In fact, it was right before I left for New York City.
The traffic is heavy. We make it around the city and to the hilly part in just under an hour.
“Wait here,” I tell Yuri, getting out of the car and unfolding my umbrella.
Igor exits, pulling a beanie over his shaved head. He follows a few steps behind as I make my way to the graveyard entrance. The pedestrian gate is locked. A sign on the driveway gates says the graveyard closes at six. An iron chain dangles from one gate, the attached metal lock hanging open.
Igor pulls out his gun as I slip through the opening between the gates. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking the same thing. Maybe some kids broke in to vandalize the graves and paint the walls with graffiti. Street gangs steal the fresh flowers and sell them on the sidewalks. The graveyard is also a popular place for drug dealing. The police are clamping down on the unlawful nocturnal activities, but cleaning the city of criminal elements is like trying to get rid of a cockroach infestation.
The graveyard is well lit. Spray lights cast a yellow glow over the family tombs in the back and the humbler tombstones near the gate.
Our shoes crunch on the gravel road as Igor and I make our way along the simple crosses and marble slabs. Keeping vigilant, I check in the dark corners of the shadows and prick up my ears. Below, the river flows strongly. The gush of the water reaches all the way up here. Except for the river and the noise from the traffic on the nearby highway, nothing else makes a sound.
When we get to a sheltered corner under a big tree in the back, we stop. Sadly, the yard seems to be empty of thieves and drug dealers tonight. I need a fight to vent my frustration and anger, and I was looking forward to one.
Igor hangs back on the road while I take the path to the double gravestone. The angel guarding it is a work of art. She kneels on the steps, one arm resting gently over the tops of the graves. The hem of her long dress drags on the grass. It’s so well-crafted that the marble is almost see-through where the fabric gathers in soft folds around her hips. To have given her no grief in such a setting would’ve been a lie, and a lie would’ve distorted the beauty of the artist’s work. She wears the signs of suffering and pain that I can’t show the world. What I’ve locked in my heart, she displays in the quiet of the graveyard, her only audience the ghosts. She’s perfect, down to the broken wing and the teardrop that runs down her cheek. The sculpture in the garden of my New York home is a copy of her. I had it made so I could look at it because the pain wouldn’t let me come here.
While the artist was at work with the original, I visited his workshop every day. I oversaw the project in its finest detail. I knew once she was brought here, I wouldn’t see her again. And I didn’t for many years. Yet before I left for New York, something compelled me to visit. I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe in premonitions. However, that day, as I stood on the same spot I’m standing on now, I knew in my gut something was going to happen in New York City. And it did. Someone tried to kill me, but Igor took the bullet.
Maybe that gut feeling was my parents trying to warn me.
I stare at the names engraved in marble.
Viktor Volkov.
Anastasia Volkova.
A shrill chirp cuts through the air. The leaves above me rustle as a bird lifts into the sky with a loud flapping of wings.
I turn. Igor is searching the area, his gun pointed in front of him. When a black cat saunters from behind the tree and crosses the road, he lowers his arms and blows out a long breath.
Shaking the snow from my umbrella, I say, “Let’s go.”
Since it wasn’t my plan to come here, I didn’t bring flowers. Just like it wasn’t my plan to drag Katerina across the ocean and lock her up in my house. But it is what it is now.
I’ll come back with roses.
My kiska will adapt.
She has to, because I won’t let her refuse my advances for long. She’s mine. We both know it. The world knows it. I’m carrying the proof in my pocket in the form of her access card.
Movement near the gates makes me stop in my tracks. A bent figure trudges over the snow-covered lawn. Igor draws his gun again, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. I recognize the drab black garb and thin gray hair that’s plaited down the woman’s back, sticking out from underneath a wooly hat.
I saw her here on my last visit. She’s the grave keeper who lives in a small house inside the cemetery, not far from the gate. She asked my name and whose grave I was looking for, claiming to know every grave in the yard by name and date. The woman is as old as some of the graves themselves, practically part of the so-called furniture here. I didn’t need her directions. Even though I hadn’t been to the graveyard since my parents’ funeral twenty-one years ago, I remembered exactly where to find them. But to appease her, I played her game. I gave her the names, and she pointed out the high spot with the weeping angel.
“Why have you never visited?” she asked in her croaky voice.
Not wanting to spew some bullshit, I didn’t answer.
Now, she looks up at the sound of our footsteps, not seeming the least bit alarmed at our presence.
“Ah,” she says, looking me up and down. “It’s you.”
I take in her worn shoes, shabby coat, and the holes in her mittens. “What are you doing out in the snow?”
“Came to lock up,” she says, motioning at the gate. “We close at six. You should come back during the day.”