But I guess I ought to thank those Bratva bastards, because at least it showed him that our situation was untenable. What we’re trying to accomplish could drag on for months or even years. Justice is anything but swift in Russia. I knew that from the start, but initially I was propelled by my fury and devastation.
It’s not that I don’t feel those things anymore. It’s just that rage is so exhausting. I’ve lived so much of my life in bitterness and fear. I want to experience other things. I want to see things that are beautiful and inspiring. I want to develop friendships. Maybe even feel something romantic.
I mean, I know I can’t be in a relationship right now. But maybe I could catch a boy’s eye. Talk to him. Flirt a little. I’ve never even kissed anyone.
God, that’s so pathetic. It makes me embarrassed just to think about it.
You always think things will happen for you eventually. But they don’t. Not unless you make them happen.
Anyway, seeing the Hermitage Museum is the first thing I’m making happen. And it’s even more gorgeous than I imagined.
There’s no way I’ll be able to go through it all today—there’s six different buildings along the Palace Embankment. I could spend a whole day in the Winter Palace alone. Then there’s the Museum of Porcelain, and the Menshikov Palace . . . I’ll have to come back here a dozen more times, if Pavel doesn’t lose his mind about it.
First, I head to the eastern end of the Winter Palace to see the Egyptian collection.
My mother loved ancient Egypt. She said we had Egyptian blood, far, far back in our family tree. She used to read all their religion and mythology to me, and the histories of the most famous pharaohs: Tutankhamun. Akhenaten. Nefertiti.
“You’ll be as beautiful as Nefertiti,” she promised me when she brushed my hair. “Beauty is a weapon. And a curse.”
My mother was beautiful. More than Nefertiti, maybe.
I’m so lost in thought thinking about her that I don’t realize I’ve been standing in front of the same ancient scroll for at least half an hour, not actually seeing any of it.
My dazedness makes me the perfect target for the skinny kid in the hoodie who’s been lurking around. He snaps me back to reality by grabbing hold of my satchel and yanking it off my shoulder. He sprints off down the gallery, running for the exit.
Pickpockets are as common as pigeons in St. Petersburg. They target the tourist areas. I probably looked like a stupid tourist, not slinging my bag cross-body like I usually would, with my hand clamped tight over the top.
Pavel is going to be furious with me—just more proof of my carelessness. He’ll have to replace my cellphone. But for me, the worst part is the loss of my sketchbook. I had almost filled it. It’s like a diary for me, showing all the things I’ve seen in St. Petersburg so far, as well as anything I’ve thought or imagined or dreamed in recent months.
That’s why I chase after the thief, without any real hope of catching him. He’s young and fast, while I’ve never been much of an athlete. Also, he knows the museum, and how to get to the exit quickly. He dashes through the exhibits, not caring if he knocks a priceless bust to the floor.
I tear after him, panting and sweating, too out of breath to even shout for a guard.
As the thief sprints out of the Egypt exhibit, I expect him to turn the corner and disappear. Instead, he trips and goes sprawling across the floor, arms flung out in front of him. He loses his grip on my satchel, which skitters into a glass display case bearing four-thousand-year-old leather sandals with golden inlays.
A young man gathers up the satchel, as well as my notebook, which has spilled out of the top. He hoists up the thief by his hood, roughly shoving him away with a curt, “Get the fuck out of here.”
I realize the man must have been standing on the other side of the doorway. He tripped the thief as he came running through. I’m surprised he took the trouble to do it—Russians aren’t much for interfering in other people’s business.
This man doesn’t look like your average Russian, though. There’s something different about him—I’m not sure what it is. He’s sort of a paradox in appearance. On the one hand, he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built. He easily picked up the thief and shoved him on his way. It’s the sort of frame that would usually be extremely intimidating.
Especially since he’s not exactly dressed like a polished professional—he’s got on ancient-looking jeans that might be dark denim or might be gray, the worn-thin material clinging to his hips and thighs in a highly distracting manner. Over that he’s wearing a white t-shirt—also far from new—a hoodie, and a battered leather jacket.
However, as he turns to look at me, holding out the satchel, I see that his hair is shaggy and light brown—more the cut of a California surfer than an Eastern-European. Several day’s stubble obscures the broad lines of his jaw and a wide, expressive mouth, currently quirked up in a smile. His eyes are nearly the same shade of golden-brown as his skin and hair. They crinkle nicely at the corners when he smiles.
That smile sends a shiver down my body. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a man this handsome outside of a magazine. Probably not even there.
I haven’t been allowed around many men at all. And if I’d ever seen one as good-looking as this guy, I’d probably run away because I’d be way too intimidated to even say hello.
But I need my satchel.
Plus, there’s something just the slightest bit familiar about him. Like maybe he’s an actor or model or something.
“Is this yours?” he asks me.
He has a deep, gentle . . . almost soulful voice. It’s soft, and yet it has just enough rasp to be really fucking sexy. It makes the little hairs stand up on my arms. My heart rate, already fast from chasing after that kid, doubles again.
“I . . . I . . .”
“It’s your bag, isn’t it?” he says, looking at me with those warm brown eyes.
I gulp and nod my head.
Good god, he’s going to think I’m mute.
Or an idiot.
I will speak.
Right now.
“T—thank you,” I manage.
“You’re welcome,” he says, passing me the bag and smiling wider.
His teeth are very white. But not in that flashy, over-groomed kind of way. They just look healthy and strong. His smile is the kind that makes you smile in return before you even know you’re doing it.
“There’s thieves like that all over, unfortunately,” he says. “Are you new to St. Petersburg?”
“Yes,” I say, hugging my bag tight against my chest. “I came here a few months ago with my father. He had a new job, so we moved from Moscow.”
“Just the two of you?” he asks.
I nod.
“I really appreciate you stopping that guy,” I say, carefully hanging the leather strap across my chest this time, instead of just over my shoulder. “I’ve got a lot of things in here I’d hate to lose.”
“It pisses me off when they pick on girls,” he says. “I mean, snatch some yappi’s Rolex if you have to, but don’t steal from a student.”
“Well I— I’m not actually a student,” I say, blushing.
“You’re not?” he raises an eyebrow. “I thought you must be in art school.”