He motioned with his head toward the bathroom. “Let’s hustle.”
Viktor took me to the Chinatown Street Market, one of the best night markets in Singapore.
I looked around at the vibrant maze of lights, shops, and food options.
I stood and lifted my nose to the air, inhaling deeply. “I love Asian night markets.”
He put a big hand on the back of my neck, and we moved forward into the crowded eating area. “Stay close.”
People milled around everywhere. Parents carried their children or pushed them in strollers. Hawkers called out to each other, and the occasional shop blasted music from small speakers.
My stomach growled as I eagerly looked at all the food boards. “What do you feel like eating?”
“Pick a place and order. I’ll eat whatever.”
I twisted around to look at him.
He was scanning the crowd like my bodyguards used to scan. He was on high alert, working to read everyone. I had lived a life with enough security to know there were ways I could make his night easier.
I picked a busy outdoor food place that was tucked near the end of the street with tables against a long brick wall. I walked to a table near the back that had the best vantage point of the street but was mostly obscured from the bustle of people.
A man with a long apron handed us a picture menu and put down a small dish of pickled ginger. “Two Tiger beers, please, and two bottles of water.”
We sat down at the small metal table, and I watched as Viktor slowly assessed the crowd behind me.
I leaned forward. “Are we safe?”
“Enough.”
I looked at the menu. “What do you want to eat?”
“You order. I’m not fussy.”
The waiter came over and, just by looking at the pictures, I pointed and ordered multiple small dishes for us.
When the staff walked away, I said, “My grandparents would love this place. They love to support quaint, out-of-the-way mom-and-pop shops.”
Viktor leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Tell me about your grandparents. Have you always lived with them?”
“For most of my life.”
“Your parents?”
“Somewhere living the high life in the Mediterranean. We parted ways when I was four.”
He didn’t break eye contact. “You said your night terrors were about them.”
“You really like to jump into it, don’t you?”
He leaned back. “Too much for you?”
It was a subject I rarely talked about with anyone, but I was acutely aware that if I answered his tough questions, I could ask my own. “My parents lived a very posh bohemian lifestyle in the Mediterranean, with a party crowd. They used me as a bit of a pawn to get my grandparents to fund their lifestyle.”
“What happened?”
“They got particularly wasted one weekend, and they forgot me at a resort with hotel babysitting while they sailed to another country on someone’s yacht. The hotel reached out to my grandparents. They were there within a day. I haven’t seen my parents since. My dad calls my grandmother, but I don’t talk to him.”
“Sorry I asked.”
I wanted to turn the conversation away from me. “What was your childhood like?”
“You really want to talk about my childhood?”
“You started it.”
“My parents were simple and hardworking. They just wanted to live safely in their corner of their world.”
“Was this corner in Russia?”
“Yeah, I grew up in a small northern farming community in Russia.” He let out a long breath. “I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I was young and dumb and so ready to see the world.”
“You joined the military?”
“I was part of a mandatory conscription.”
“And?”
“And after two years, I signed up for more.”
“Tonko said you were special forces.”
“Tonko talked too much.”
“He also told me what Pushka meant. He said you were feared.”
We made eye contact briefly before he went back to scanning the crowd past my shoulder. “That was a long time ago. My military days are behind me.”
And yet he had a presence that could still invoke fear. He also exuded a strength and resilience that I hadn’t encountered before. “Have you ever been married?”
He gave me a frank look. “No.”
“Not even close?”
“My jobs have always been hard on relationships.”
“Do you see your parents a lot?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He took another sip of his beer. “My older sister lives on the same farm as they do, and my older brother’s farm is close by. They have their grandkids and their garden. That’s all they want.”
“You have two siblings?”
“I also have a younger brother.”
“Where is he?”
His eyes went a bit frosty. “No clue.”
I got the sense that subject was completely off-limits. “I bet your family misses you.”
“Maybe.” His eyes went back to scanning behind me. “I don’t really fit there anymore.”
His admission surprised me. “That… that must be hard.”
“I think everyone in my family came to terms with it a while back.”
I leaned forward on the table, feeling hungry for more details about him and his life. “Where do you fit now?”
“My turn to interrogate.”
I smiled as I leaned back and crossed my arms. “Take your best shot. I’m an open book.”
“Why do small spaces scare you?”
I swallowed hard. “Except about that.”
“You don’t get off the hook that easy.”
I hesitated. This was something I didn’t talk about with anyone except my therapist.
He waited and then, as if he could sense my inner conflict, he spoke with a surprising gentleness. “It’s okay. I was just teasing you.”
The truth blurted out of me. “They used to lock me up.”
“Who did?”
“My parents.”
His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Keep going.”
I choose my words carefully. “They were into some hardcore partying and I was a toddler, and half the time we were on a yacht. I think they were trying to keep me alive—you know, like trying to prevent me from stumbling over the edge of the boat when they were all out of their minds.”
“They sound like parents of the year.”
“I just remember it being so dark and hot in these tight closets and benches. I would scream and cry, but no one would come. They would lock me up for hours, and I would scream until I lost my voice. Now I can’t do anything small. Closets, tight spaces, anything that resembles getting locked up completely triggers me, and I get these panic attacks. There was a time when I couldn’t even do a plane, but I managed to get past that—thank god.”
His tone was measured. “Where did you say they live?”
Pure rage—a promise to hurt on my behalf—flickered in his gaze like a white-hot light.
The thought of what he might do to my father maybe didn’t horrify me as much as it should have. Instead, the sentiment made me feel a bit wobbly inside. “Thank you, but it was a long time ago, Viktor.”