There’s nothing sinister about it—it’s just that every day they spend together, they draw closer. I see them communicating without speaking, glances that pass between them, and gestures that obviously mean much more than I can tell.
When I enter the dining room and see them sitting close together, heads almost touching as they discuss something in low, eager tones, I feel that pang again. That thing that isn’t quite envy. It’s more . . . wistfulness.
Ivan sits up straight when he sees me—once more the stern commander.
“Did you find him?” he says.
“Yes.”
I recite every piece of information Gregor dropped, not forgetting anything. That’s another thing the Spetsnaz trained us on—relaying tactical information quickly and clearly.
Ivan nods at each point. I know he’s filing it all away in that well-organized brain of his. Sloane is doing the same. They’ll talk it over together, later.
“Anything else?” Ivan says when I’m done.
Here’s the tricky part.
I don’t keep secrets from my brother.
Now’s the time when I should tell him what else I did today. How I followed Lara Erdeli. How I made contact and spoke to her. I should relay the personal information she let slip, about her brother in Moscow, and her shit relationship with her father.
All of this is on the tip of my tongue.
Instead, I find myself shaking my head.
“No,” I say. “That’s all.”
I can feel Sloane watching me with her sly dark eyes.
She’s perceptive, even more than Ivan. She probably knows I’m holding something back.
If I look at her, I’ll crack. So I keep my eyes firmly fixed on my brother.
“Good.” He nods. “Good work, brother.”
“Enjoy your dinner,” I say to both of them.
I give a quick nod to Sloane before I turn to leave.
“We on for chess tonight?” she asks me playfully.
Most nights we play a game together before she heads upstairs with Ivan. I was the best in the house until she showed up. Now I like to think we’re pretty equal, though we haven’t actually kept track of who’s ahead in wins. Or at least, I haven’t. Sloane has probably been counting, secretly.
There’s no way I can sit across a board from her for an hour, without her using all her sneaky little interrogation techniques she learned from her father. He was in the CIA, and he basically treated Sloane as his own tiny super-soldier.
“Let’s do it tomorrow,” I say with a big fake yawn. “I’m beat. I don’t want to give you an easy win.”
“Sure,” Sloane says, grinning at me.
There’s a gleam in her eye that makes me sure she can see right through me. But I don’t think she’ll do anything about it, not just yet.
After all, there’s nothing going on, not really.
I just talked to a girl for a couple of hours.
That’s all. It doesn’t mean a thing.
10
Lara
I almost chicken out from going to see Dom again.
It would be hard to overstate how isolated I’ve been for most of my life. Other than my brother, I never even had anybody I’d call a friend. I’ve definitely never had a boyfriend.
So the more time that passes, the more I think I totally misread the situation. Dom couldn’t be interested in somebody like me—awkward and inexperienced.
Plus I really don’t want to piss off Pavel. He’s been at a simmering level-ten since the police station break-in. Working longer hours than ever. So distracted that he barely answers when I ask him a question.
That’s exactly what gives me the courage to do it in the end—Pavel isn’t watching me so closely, interrogating me every night about exactly what I did that day. And if I get home late, he probably won’t even be there to see it.
So the only thing standing in my way is forty-five minutes of obsessive clothing changes. I don’t know what’s taking me so long. I only own about six outfits total.
Pavel bought most of my clothes. While I’m . . . grateful . . . I also fucking hate what he picked out. It’s such prim and dowdy stuff.
I left most of my things back in Moscow. To be honest, I wasn’t too crazy about those clothes, either. The only shirt I really like is the one I was wearing the day I met Dom. Sem gave it to me once he grew out of it.
I can’t wear that again, though.
So I try on everything else in my little closet, in various combinations. It all looks like shit—not quite the right size, too formal, too plain—or just doesn’t feel like me.
In the end I put on Sem’s old shirt again. The soft, worn cotton is the only thing that feels right. It wraps around me like a hug. I pull on a pair of jeans and my favorite sneakers, and I’m ready to go.
I take the metro north, then walk toward the Hermitage Museum.
It’s not as pretty a day as yesterday, but it’s still a thousand times better than the inside of the flat. My heart is fluttering, the closer I get to the museum.
Is Dom actually going to be there?
Will he be as nice as he was yesterday?
He probably won’t come.
I can’t believe I’m going.
However, as I draw close to the front doors, I see his tall, broad-shouldered figure standing on the right-hand side, wearing that same battered leather jacket. He’s not alone, though. He’s talking to somebody, another guy of around the same age. I can’t see the other man’s face—only that he’s skinny with pale blond hair. Something about the two of them standing together gives me a cold, frightened feeling. Maybe it’s just nerves at meeting one of Dom’s friends.
Luckily, Dom ends the conversation and the other man walks off while I’m still fifty feet away. So I’m spared the discomfort of being introduced.
I’ve got to admit, I’m relieved for another reason as well. I don’t want to share Dom with anybody else. I loved having all his attention focused on me yesterday.
As I get closer, he turns and spots me. I wave nervously.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Dom says, grinning.
“I said I would.”
“A lot of people say a lot of things,” he laughs.
“Did your friend want to come in with us?” I ask him.
“What friend?” he says, quickly.
“Weren’t you talking to—I thought you were talking with a friend just now?”
Dom looks stiff and strangely uncomfortable. “Oh, him,” he says. “No, I barely know that guy. Let’s go inside.”
Dom pays my admission, though I try to protest. Honestly, I’m grateful. Pavel gives me money, but it isn’t much.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” Dom says to me.
I look down at my clothes, blushing.
“Oh—I’m wearing the same shirt,” I tell him. He probably already noticed that.
He shrugs. “I’m wearing the same jeans. You like band tees?”
“I—yeah, I think so.”
“You know there’s a shop on Nevsky Avenue that has hundreds of them?”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“We’ll go there after,” Dom says confidently. Confident that he’ll want to take me there in a few hours’ time, and confident that I’ll want to go with him.